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THE IVilt be published every S.l Tt'RD.l Y Morning, .11 the Corner of U'olnut and Fifth Streets, in the city of macox, oa, by IIAKHISON & HYEKS. •T ERM S : For tho Paper, in advance, per annum, #2. Jf not paid in advance, $2 50, per annum. If not paid until the end of the Year $3 00. [Tj* Advertisements will be inserted at the usual ratcs —and when the number of insertions de sired is not specified, they will be continued un til forbid and charged accordingly, [jy Advertisers by the Year will be contracted wit!) upon the most favorable terms. gySalesof Land by Administrators, Executors nr Guardians, are required by Law, to be held on the first Tuesday in the month, between the hours nf ten o'clock in the Forenoon and three in the Af ernoon, at the Court House of the county in which :he Property is situate. Notice ofthese Sales must |>c given in a public gazette sixty days previous to the day of sale (prSales of Negroes by Administatora, Execu tors or Guardians, must be at Public Auction on, the first Tuesday in the month, between the legal hours of sale, before the Court House of the county where the Letters Testamentary, or Administration or Guardianship may have been granted, first giv ng notice thereoffor sixty days, in one ofthe pub lic gazettes of this State, and at the door of the Court House where tp be held. (PJ*Notice for the sale of Personal Property must begiven in like manner forty days previous to (the day of sale. Tj'Notice to the Debtors and Creditors ofan Es tate must be published for forty days. £j».\otice 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 fhate for four months, before any order absolute can be given by the Court. qj'Citations for Letters of Administration on an Estate, granted by the Court of Ordinary, must be published thirty days— for Letters of Dismis-1 sion from the administration of an Estate, monthly ! for six months —for Dismission from Guardian- I ehip forty days. (£j*Rules for the foreclosure of a Mortgage, must be puolished monthly for four months — for establishing lost Papers, for the full space of three months —for compelling Titles from Ex ecutors, Administrators or others, where a Bond hasbeen given by the deceased, the fuii space of THREE MONTHS. N. B. All Business of this kind shall rece’v prompt attentionat the SOUTHERN MUSEUM Office, and strict care will be taken that all legal Advertisements are published according to Law, HyAII Letters directed to this Office or the Editor on business, must be post-paid, to in sure attention..Pl 43 011 rg. Tlie Rose that all arc Praising. The rose that all are praising Is not the rose for me ; Too many eyes are gazing Upon that costty tree ; But there's a rose in yonderglen, That shuns tho sight of other men, For me its blossoms raising— Oh ! that’s the rose for me. The gem a king might covet Is not the gem for me ; From darkness who would move it, Save that the world might see? But I’ve a geni that shuns display, And next my heart worn every day, So dearly' do I love it— Oh ! that’s the gem for me. Gay birds In cages pining Are not the birds for inc ; Their plumes so highly shining I do not care to see ; But I’ve a bird that gaily sings, Tho’ free to rove she folds her wings, For mo her flight resigning— Oh ! that’s the bird for me. From the Florida Sentinel. “ I would not live alway.” “Who, who would live alway?” Oh, ask not of man, Tho’ he knows his existence will prove but a span— Ask, ask not of him this life to forego, Tho' naught but its sorrows his pathway be strew I Tho’ its smiles provo delusions, and shadows its mirth, Yet, yet will he cling in his madness to Earth Tho’ fast on the current of Time’s rapid tide Tho brightest of hopes far away from him glide; Tho’ the objects he dotes on—the lovely and true— As mists of the morning, recede from his view- In the wreck of his fortunes, the heat of his strife, He'll weep o’er his sorrows but cling yet to life I He heeds not the pang of a friendship betray’d ; He heeds not the curse of a passion decay’d ; lie heeds not the torture that treachery brings, Nor heeds he the sharpness of Jealousy's stings— Al, -u'd he’ii endure, and be ready to try ; Yet never—ah, never, bo ready to die I Uio the summer of youth may have far pass'd away, And tho winter jf ljf 0 have brought on its de cay— lho the stream of affection be chill’d by the frost, And tlie fervor of passion forever be lost, — Yet, yet will poor man covet life while there’s breath; And iio\er no, never, seek solace in death ! Tho shatter and and frail be the hark that ho steers, 5 tio tempests of youth or tho weight of sad years— sinking and helinlcss—be above but the prow, Hope's last chainless- anchor lie’ll vainly o'er throw ; And still struggle on with mis’ry’s dark wave, A seek any end-any fate, but the grave ! THE SOUTHERN MUSEUM. BY HARRISON & MYERS. FLORENCE WILI.ESDKN: A TILE OF REAL LIFE. “ ’Tis a common tale, An ordinary sorrow of man’s life ; A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed In bodily form.”— Wodstcorth. A village in the south of England is one of the loveliest sights in nature; and it is what it seems, the very nestling-place of poetry, love and happiness. It glitters, with the white-washed cottages in which it is now embowered, like tlie golden fruits of Spain, peeping from beneath the rich foliage that does but partially conceal them. Its meadows, its streams, its taper ing church-spire; its hedge-rows, its lanes of sweet briar and wild roses; its lattices, with their clustering jessamine and honey suckle ; its gardens, with their bee-hives ; its orchards, with their odoriferous blos soms ; and above all, its simple, yet cheer ful inhabitants, ignorant of the great world, and umvill ng to have their ignorance eti lightened, all combine to render a villagt in the south of England the most delightfu spot in the universe. How sweet to re tire from the world to such a haven of re pose, and there to cultivate only the purer affections of one's nature, and keep the soul divided, by a rainbow zone, from the grosser atmosphere of common existence. There are many little paradises ofthe kind I speak of, and I should be contented vvitli any one of them; although if I bad my choice, I should perhaps fix upon Wood burn, in preference to all the rest. My predilection is the more singular, as all my associations connected with the recollec tion of that village are of peculiarly a mel ancholy caste. Even there the spoiler, sorrow, had found an entrance; and his victims were not unknown to me. I will endeavor to recall their story—it is a sim ple one; but it suits the mournful temper of my mind, and I shall therefore avail myself of this opportunity to narrate it. Let mo paint her as 1 first saw her. It was in her cottage garden, on a bright summer morning, when the dew was still sparkling on the flowers. She held a book in her hand, but she was not reading She stood wrapped in a delightful reverie, with her eyes fixed on two young rose bushes. I knew not then that she was my old friend’s only child, yet 1 stopped almost involuntarily to gaze upon her. I had never before seen aught so beautiful; and that, too, without a shadow of pretence. 1 cannot describe her features, but their combined effect was irresistible. There was a world of expression—an unfathom able depth of feeling, in her dark blue eye. 1 saw tears start into it; but the thought that called it up was transient, for a smile gathered upon her lips immediately after wards, and chased away with its light the little harbinger of sorrow. At that mo ment the gate was thrown open, and a youth entered. He was her lover—l knew it at a glance. A deeper crimson spread over her cheek, and her smile kindled into one of most intense delight. They stood together; England could not have pro duced a nobler pair. They seated them selves in the sunshine; the youth took the book, and read aloud. It was a poetic page over which they hung. She leaned her white arm on her lover’s shoulder, and gazed upon him with delighted and breath less attention. Who is it that has said there is no happiness on earth 1 lluu ho seen Edmund and Florence on that calm blue morning, he would have confessed the absurdity ofhis creed. Edmund was the eldest son of the vil lage rector —a man “lo all the country dear.” Florence was the daughter of an old, respected soldier, who had served in many a campaign, and who now lived in retirement upon the small pension which was given him by government, as the re ward of his long and valuable services.— filie had lost her mother almost before she knew her, and all her filial affection was centred upon her only surviving parent. Her heart she had bestowed on Edmund, and he was by no means insensible of the gift. 1 hey had been companions from their infancy. All their recollections of the past were the same, for their amuse ments and studies had been similar. But Edmund had made considerable more pro gress than Florence. Nature had heaped upon him all those mental endowments that constitute genius. She had given him a mind capab e of the profoundest aspirations; a heart that could feel more deeply, a fancy that could wing a bolder flight than those of most other youths of his age He, as yet, knew nothing of the state of society beyond Woodburn. He had never been more than twenty miles from home during his whole life. But he was now eighteen, and Florence was only a year younger. They had ceased to be boy aud girl. She, indeed, would have been contented to have con tinued as she was forever, blest with her father’s and her lover’s affection, more than happy in the discharge of her domes tic duties, in her summer evening rambles, in her books, her bees, her fruits, her flow ers. But Edmund, although he loved her with all the enthusiasm of a first love, had more ambition in his nature. He wished to mingle in the crowd, in the pursuits of glory, and he had hopes that he might out strip at least some of his compeiitors.— Besides, he was not possessed of an inde pendent fortune; and exertion, therefore, became a duty. II is resolution was at once formed—he determined to fix his residence in London, for at least a couple of years, and ascer tain whether, in truth, ability was there its own reward. It waS sad news to Flor ence ; hut on reflection on the advantages which Edmund might derive from the ex ecution of the scheme, she looked upon her grief as selfish, and endeavored to re strain it. The evening before he left Woodburn they took a farewell walk to gether, in her father’s garden. Florence had succeeded in keeping up a show of cheerfulness during the day; but as the beams of the setting sun came streaming in through the poplars and elms that lined the wall, and as she thought how often they had seen the sun set before, and how long it would be ere they should sec it set again, a chord was touched which vibra ted through her heart, and she could no longer restrain her teais. Edmund be sought her, with the utmost tenderness of manner, not to give way to emotions so violent; but she only locked his hand more firmly within her own, and amid the convulsive sobs, repeated again and again, “ Edmund, we shall never meet more ! l am not superstitious, hut 1 know I am right; we shall never meet more !” Her lover had recourse to every soothing argu ment he could think of; but though she at length became calm, a gloomy presenti ment of future evil seemed to have taken possession of her mind. A year had elapsed, and Edmund’s early dream had been more than realized. He had risen into fame at once—his reputa tion as a man of genius was acknowledged throughout his native land. His fortune was secured, and his name had already become illustrious. Every where was his society courted, and his opinions listened to with deference and admiration. There seemed to be no honors to which he might not hope to attain. His ardent spirit, and his growing ambition, became insatiable. Every difficulty had yielded before him; he had flown upon the wings of success; his life had hitherto been a brilliant dream; a dream from which he saw no prospect of immediate awaking. It was evening, and he was alone in her splendid drawing-room, with the loveliest woman in London—the daughter of a vis count. A hundred lamps, reflected by a hundred mirrors, shone around them. • There was to be a magnificent entertain ment, but the company had not yet arrived. Edmund and the lady Matilda would not have cared had they never arrived at all. They sat near to each other, and talked in low, soft tones, of all that youth and beau'y love best to talk about. Edmund had never felt so vain in his life before; for there were hundreds in the metropolis, blest with all the advantages of rank and birth, who would have given both their tit les and their fortunes to have secured one of those smiles which the proud maid en now lavished upon him. And she— she had read his works, she thought of his fame, she looked upon his elegant form and handsome features, and forgot the hundred scions of nobility who had offered their incense at her shrine. A carriage was heard to slop, and they were soon to he interrupted. “I have taken a fancy to that emerald ring of yours,” said the lady Matilda; “ will you exchange it for one of mine !” She took a glittering diamond from her finger, and put it on Edmund’s ; and at the same time his emerald became one ofthe ornaments ofthe prettiest hand in the world. It was a ring which Flor ence had given him the very morning he left Woodburn. * * 1 he two years he was to be away had expired. “Florence,” said her father to her one morning. “ I never saw you look ing so well; your cheeks are all roses, my sweet girl—have you been watching the sun rise?” Florence turned away her head for a moment, to brush a burning tear from her eye, and then answered cheerfully to her unsuspeciing father that she had seen the sun rise. There was not a person in Woodburn, except her father, who had not observed how dreadfully Florence was altered—not in her man ners, nor habits, nor conversation; but in her looks. Her cheek, it is true, was red ; but it was the hot flush of fever—her eye was blight, but it was the clearness of an insidious malady. tshe had heard of Edmund’s success, and there was not a heart in the world that beat so proudly at the intelligence ; but she soon heard of more than his suc cess, and his letters came fewer, shorter and colder. \\ hen her father was from home, she would sit for hours in her gar den, by herself, listening, as she said, to the chirping of the birds, but weeping bitterly all the while. “ I have not heard you speak of Ed mund lately,” said her father to her one day, about the beginning of June. “I do not think of him the less,” answered Flor ence, with a faint smile. The old man knew nothing of his apostacy. “ I have good news for you,” said he ; “ I saw the rector to-day, and Edmund will be in Woodburn by the end of the week.”— Florence grew pale—she tried to speak, but could not; a mist swam before her eyes; she held out her hand, and threw herself into Iter father’s arms. It was Saturday evening, and she knew that Edmund had arrived early on the previous day, but she had not yet seen him. She was sitting in the summer house of her father’s garden, when she heard a step on the gravel-walk—she look ed through the willows and honey-suckle ; it was he ! he himself—in all the bloom MACON, JANUARY JO, 1849. and beauty of dawning manhood. A strange shivering passed over her whole fiaine, and her color went atid came with a fearful rapidity. Yet she retained her self-possession, and with apparent calm ness, rose to receive him when ho enter eilv Ihe change in her appearance, how ever, struck him immediately. “ Good Heavens ! have you been ill l you are al tered, sadly altered since I saw you last.” i Does that strike you as so verv wonder ful, Edmund ?” said Florence, gravely ; “ al 'C you not altered, too ?” “ Oh, Flor ence ! I have behaved to you like a vil lain ! I see it now ; cruelly, fatally do I see it.” “ Edmund, that I did love you, you setting sun, which shone upon us when last she parted, can still attest, for it was the witness of my grief. It has been the witness, too, of the tears I have shed in my solitude, tears which have been reveal ed to no earthly eye ; and it shall be the witness even yet,” she con’inued, an al most heavenly smile illuminating her pale countenance, “ of our reconciliation, for the wanderer has returned, and his errors are forgiven.” She held out her hand to him as she spoke, but ho shrunk back.— “ 1 dare not—l dare not take it! It is too late ! —Florence, I am mairied !” There was not a sound escaped her Ups, but her cheeks grew deadly pale; her eyes became fixed as stone, and she fell on the ground like a marble statue. Her grave is in the church-yard of Woodbu n ; she lies beside her father. There is no urn nor monumental tablet to mark the spot, but I should among a thousand. Edmund’s fame has travelled into other countries, and men have looked up to him as a demi-god. Florence Wil lesden was never heard of beyond the lim its of Woodburn till now. A SAD NARRATIVE. The following narrative from the New Orleans Delta is a good lesson for the times. The Delta says it is literally true : Happening in Recorder Baldwin’s court a few days ago, just as his Honor was gettiug through his usual list of va grants, peace breakers and petty larcen ers, our notice was attracted by the pite ous entreaty of an elderly individual who stood in the dock and earnestly begging his honor to let him off this time, promis ing that the “old man would never trouble him again.” “And who are you, pray V’ inquired his honor, with his customary phlegm. J udging by the looks of the prisoner, it was not an impertinent inquiry. His ap pearance wasquitethat of an “old sinner.” His lace, though not devoid of intelligence and a certain expression of gentility, was bloated and seasoned with all the marks of a long course of dissipation and desti tution. His eye did not altogether lack the lustre that betokened the spirit of a man, and he still possessed tlie ease of manner, tinged with maudlinism, and the bearing of a broken down gent eman. An old seedy blue cloth coat covered a shirt less body, whilst a breechless pw of black pants, tliat had seen better days, scarcely protec ed his nether limbs from tho piti less peltings ofthe storm. “Who am I, honey?” responded this forlorn individual, “don’t you'know the old man, are you ashamed to recognize him in his present plight l I’ve been a greater man in my day than you, honev, ever will be in yours. I was in the Legis lature of Nyi-th Carolina when Nat Macon was a member of it, and I have been Pres ident of the Senate of that old State ; and I reckon it 1 had ever tried, 1 could have been Governor or Congressman. I used to drive my carriage, had my race horses, and never went to court without my man Bob riding behind me with a gold band around his hat.” “And what has brought you down so low ?” inquired his honor. “Politics, sir. Some people says if was whiskey, but whiskey was only one of the effects not the cause of my downfall. When I entered upon the estate my father left me, which was quite a snug property, 1 was a moral and industrious young man ; but unfortunately I had a lawsuit that car ried me frequently to Court, and there 1 met some jolly fellows, who invited me to drink with them, and there too I got to talking politics and hearing speeches, and finally the boys persuaded me that 1 had a gift for speaking, and made me mount the stump. And so when i once got on the political track, you couldn’t any more stop me than you could stop a locomo ive with your big toe. I became very popu lar, that cost me my fortune; I became a provincial Legislator, that cost me my morality and good liabi s ; and finally, from a great politician 1 became a gambler—a drunkard—and now I am here, a house less vagrant in the dock with the very vilest of this great wicked city.” “It is all true ; alas ! too true,” remark ed a lawyer in court “1 knew Col. B— when he still occupied a high position in North Carolina ; he was one of the most prominent men of his time.” “You can go,” remarked the Recorder; and the old man hobbled out of the dock and went off, not knowing, as he said, whither to direct his tottering steps—a melancholy example of the dangers which beset the path of those who abandon the peaceful pursuits of private, to engage in the corrupting scenes of political life. Let us never speak to deceive, or listen to betray. VOLUME X—NUMBER 8. A MEMORY. Slowly fades the misty twilight O er the thronged and noisy town ; Storms are gathered in the distance, And tho clouds above it frown ; Y'et before her leaves swayed lightly In the hushed and drowsy air, And tlie trees rcclothcd in verdure, Had no murmur of despair. She had gazed into the darkness, Seeking through the busy crowd lor a form once pressing onward II *th a stop as firm and proud. I or a faro upturned in gladness lothe window where she leaned— Smiling with an eager welcome, Though a step but intervened. Even now her cheek is flushing With the rapture of that gaze ; And her hcuit ns then heats wildly Oh ! the memory of those days ! Asa dear, dear dream, it cometli, Swiftly as a dream it flies ! No one springeth now towards her, Smiling with such earnest eves. No one hastens home at twilight, Watching for her hand to wave; For the form she seeks so vainly, Sleeps within the silent grave ; And the eyes have smiled in dying, Blessing her with latest life, Smiled in closing o'er tlie discord Os the lust wild, earthly strife. EMINENT INVENTORS. Gutemberg, Fitch, Fulton, nml Morse. At a late anniversary of the Typograph ical Society of the District of Columbia, Mr. Sargent—formerly noted as a corres pondent of one of the Philadelphia papers over the signature of “ Oliver Oldschool,” and now sergeant-at-arms of the House of Representatives—being caiied our, men tioned several interesting facts in relation to inventions:— “Tho honorable gentleman,” he said, “ has spoken of the inventor of printing, John Gutemberg, of Mayence. The fate ofthisdis inguished benefactor of mankind reminds me of that of others, who, by their inventions and discoveries, have conferred incalculable benefits on the human family. It will be recollected by those who are fa miliar with his history, as I presume most of those who are here assembled are, that he was unfortunate in his connections in business; that he entered into co-partner ship with the celebrated Fust, or Faust, known to us as Dr. Faustus, with whom he had a law-suit which resulted in his ruin, and the transference of all his print ing materials, bibles on hand, &e., to the latter. The celebrated Doctor grew rich out of his invention and property, while Gutemberg pined and finally died in pov erty. Tlie Doctor, it is well known, be came suspected of being colleagued wiili the Devil, from the fact of his being able to produce Bibles with such astonishing rapidity, and all exactly resembling each other, as they necessarily must, being printed on the same type. I fear that the charge of his being colleagued with the evil one was not without some truth ; at least he seemed to have been instigated by him in his treatment of Gutemberg. :: out, sir, the Lite of the inventor of printing was not a singular one; it was such as other benefactors of mankind have met with. It was the fate of Fitch, of Philadelphia, the first man who ever ap plied tlie power of steam to the propulsion of vessels in America, and who construct ed a steamboat. Mr. Fitch, you are pro bably aware, sir, constructed a boat and steam engine, and succeeded in running his boat on the Delaware river from Phila delphia to Burlington, in 1787. His in vention and experiment were partially successful; that they were not entirely so was probably owing to the very imper fect manner in which the machinery was constructed. There were no mechanics in this country at that time competent to construct machinery perfect enough to hold steam. The consequence was, that it was constantly giving way and getting out of order, unable at best to bear any thing like the pressure now applied.— These difficulties were most disheartening; but superadded to them was the want of pecuniary means to enable him to perfect his machinery and experiments. Mr. Fitch expended all his own means, and was assisted to some extent by others; hut repeated failures and the incredulity of the public, as well as those who ren dered him assistance, soon cut off all re source, and he was obliged to abandon his invention, and Ite content to pine in penu ry the remainder of his days, though he died in the full belief that the day was at hand when all the principal waters of the United States would be navigated bv steamboats. “ It was my lot to become acquainted with an aged gentleman in Philadelphia, some years ago, who informed me that he was one of those who contributed means to aid Mr. Fitch in his enterprise. I in quired of him why more pecuniary means were not furnished to enable him to per fect his invention 1- His reply was, ‘ Be cause Fitch and all who assisted him were so laughed at and ridiculed that they wore ashamed to bo seen, or to have anything further to do with him.’ “ The old gentleman I have mentioned further said that Fitch was generally con- BOOK AND JOB PRINTING, 11 at be executed inthe most approved style, and on tho best ter ms, at the Office of the « ‘ SOUTHERN MUSEUM.” -BY— HARRISON & MYERS. sidered crazy, and all who had any faith in I his invention were looked upon as a par i cel of simpletons; that a proposition at this time to establish a line of balloons to England or China could not excite more ridicule than this plan of running boats by • steam power did then. “Twenty years after Fitch’s failure, Fulton succeeded in propelling a boat by steam from New York to Albany and back again. It was left to him, after Fitch had gone down to the grave poor and broken : hearted, to complete, amid the jeer oft ' thousands and the doubting hopes of a i few, what the latter had commenced, and to change, as it were, in an instant, laugh ter and ridicule into wonder and admira tion. But had Fulton depended upon American mechanics for his machinery, as Fitch was obliged to do, the probability is that he would have been scarcely more successful than the latter. His engine was manufactured in England, by Watt & Bolton. Fitch used paddles, eight upon each side, driven by a crank, to propel his boat, while Fulton more wisely adopted the paddle-wheel. What a change has been wrought, by this successful applica lion of steam power," in travel, in com merce, in manufacturing, and in the gen eral saving of time and labor! “ Mr. Fitch left a sealed paper, which he directed to be opened thirty years after his death, and n t sooner. At the expira tion of tlie time it was unsealed, and was found to contain nothing but a prediction that, when that paper should be opened, the wate:s of the United S:ates, and espe cially the Western livers, would be navi gated by steamboats. The prediction was fulfilled, for at the moment of opening the paper the navigable waters of this country were literally covered with steamboats.— Such was the fate, such the prediction, such the prescience of one who, when living, was so fur in advance of mankind as to be looked upon us a little less than stark mad ! “ But there is another eminent inventor of our ow n day, who, 1 am happy to say, is likely to share quite a different fate from those I have mentioned. 1 allude to tho distinguished author of the Magnetic Tel egraph, Mr. Morse—an invention which, literally annihilating time and space, out strips the sun in his rapid career, and by which we aie able to hold immediate con verse with our friends, though a thousand miles distant. “But, if Mr. Morse is not destined to illustrate the fate of the distinguished in ventors alluded to, he has not been entirely exempt from the ridicule usually thrown upon those in advance of the world. I cannot forget (said Mr. S.) the intense anxiety and sufferings he underwent in 1342, while asking of Congress an appro priation lo enab e him to establish an ex perimental line of telegraph from this city to Baltimore, and of which 1 was an eye witness. While the making this ap propriation was before the House in Com mittee of the Whole, as my honor-able friends now before me (Mr. Holmes of S. C. and Mr. Seaton of Washington) will doubtless recoi'ect, every possible exer tion was made to defeat it, and throw ridi cule upon the imention, by absurd and ridiculous amendments, such as authoriz ing an experiment to be mads of running a railroad to the moon, establishing a line j of balloons to the planet Saturn, or some thing t f the kind—amendments which 1 3m happy to say met no encouragement from, but were opposed in a proper spirit by the Hon. gentleman from S. C. (Mr. Holmes.) “ To a sensitive man like Mr. Morse, am) one who, like him, hud every thing at stake, these attempts to east ridicule upon his invention or discovery were excessively disheartening and painful. He felt them keenly, and was wrought up by them to a most intense state of excitement and suffering. But, fortunately, there was good sense and liberality enough in the House to re sist these ungenerous assaults, and to authorize the experimental lints of telegraph, which has now been extended by private enterprise thou sands of miles, and will soon connect every city in the Union.” Genuine Gravity.—l have usually found that those who make faults of foibles, and crimes of faults, have within them selves an impulse towards worse; and give ready way to such impulse whenever they can, secretly or safely. There is a gravity which is not austere or captious, which belongs not to melancholy, nor dwells in contraction of heart, but arises from tenderness and bangs upon reflec tion.—Landor. Friendship. —Friendship is a vase which, when it is flawed by heat or acci dent, may as well be broken at once ; it can never be trusted after. I’ho more graceful and ornamental it was, the more clearly do we discern the hopelessness of restoring it to its farmer state. Coarse stones if they are fractured, may be ce mented again ; precious ones never. Sli.visii AND UNJUST distribution op Fame. — Usually men, in distributing fame act as old maids and misers do ; they give everything to those who want nothing. In literature, frequently a man’s solitude, and his magnitude disincline us from helping him if we find him in adverse circumstan ces. Wo are fonder of warming our hands at a fire already in a blaze than of blowimr one. “ Tommy, my son, what is longitude >" “A clothes line, sir,’’ promptly responded Tommy. “ \\ by so, my son ‘ Uccatiso it stretches from pole to pole.”