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acute student of the more sordid qualities of human nature —in a word, he had devot ed his fine energies to the acquisition of wealth, and as his father predicted, he had so well availed himself of his opportunities that he was both an enlighteneJ and rich merchant. But the romance of his early days had long since passed away. ’1 lie imaginative student was concealed or rather lost in the man of the world. Thrown up on his own resources, in a foreign land, and surrounded by strangers he had learned to think an act for himself. He had acquired the worldly wisdom which enabled him to study his own interests, and it is not strange that selfishness should have mingled its al loy with his naturally amiable character. During his long sojourn abroad no claims have been made upon his affections, he had lived unloving and unloved, and the warm current of his feelings seemed gradually to have become chilled. When seen through the mist of absence, or viewed through the long vista of time, the familiar faces of his distg,ot home, faded into vague-and indis tinct images. He returned to the scenes of his youth with a feeling of strangeness and the remembrances at every step of his ap proach were rather mournful than pleasant to his soul. Edward Ellis had been several days at home,he had fully answered all theclaims of filial and paternal duty, and received the con gratulations of the friends who are always found ready to note one’s good fortune, ere he bent, his stops towards tne dwelling of Edith Pemberton. His feelings in this as in most other things were materially altered. His early passion, like his aspirations after fame, had become but as a dream of the past, a shadow of some unattainable felicity. The hope which once made his love a source of anticipated happiness, had long since faded from his sight, and as time pass ed on, a tender and melancholy interest, such as one feels when regarding the youth ful dead, was the only emotion which the recollection of Edith could insniru. He had outlived the affection which he had design ed to be the measure of their existence. The flower had been blighted by the cold breath of worldliness, and so many sordid interests had occupied his heart since, with a wish to revive old feelings, hut from a morbid restless unsatisfied yearning towards the past, Eliis betook himself to the abode of his once loved Edith. As he entered the hall, and ere the ser vant could announce his name, a young la dy emerged fro is the drawing-ioom, and inet him face to face. He started in un feigned surprise, as he exclaimed : “ Miss Pemberton! —Edith—can it be possible ?” * The lady looked a little alarmed, and opening the door through which she had just passed said : “My name is Margaret, sir; did you wish to see sister Edith ?” He answered in the affirmative, and as he took his seat while the sylph-like figure of the beautiful girl disappeared, he could not help glancing at the mirror, where a moment’s reflection soon convinced him that the years which had so changed him could scarcely have left Edith untouched. The thought'that Margaret whom he had left al most an infant should have thus expanded into the lovely image of her sister, prepared him in some measure for other changes. Edith had expected his visit with aflutter of spirits most unusual and distressing. She was conscious that lie would find her sadly altered in person, and she had been trying to school herself for the interview, which she well knew must be fraught with pain even if it brought happiness. But when her young sister came to her with a ludic rous account*of the strange gentleman’s droll mistake, Tier prophetic soul, which had acquired the gift of prescience from sorrow, saw but too plainly the cloud upon her fu ture. She descended to the drawing-room with a determination to control her emotions, and, to one so accustomed to self-command, the task though difficult was not impossible. The meeting between the long parted lovers was painful and full of constraint. In the emaciated figure, and hollow cheek ot her who had long passed the spring of life, El lis saw little to awaken the association of early affection, for the being who now ap peared before him scarcely retained a trace of her former self. Time, and care, and the wearing anxiety of hope deferred had blight ed the beauty which under happier circum stances might have outlived her youthful ness. Edith was now only a placid plea sant looking woman with that indescribable air of mannerism which always characterises the single lady of a certain age, and as Ellis compared her present appearances with that of her blooming sister, who bore a most singular resemblance to her, he was tempt ed to feel a secret satisfaction in the belief that her heart was as much changed as her person. And what felt Edith at this meeting 1 She had lived on one sweet hope, and had borne absence, and sorrow, and the wasting of weary expectancy with the patience of a loving and trusting heart. It is true that, as years sped on, she lost much of the san guine temper which once seem to abbrevi ate time and diminish space. It is true that as time stole the bloom from her cheek and the brightness from her eye, many a mis givings troubled her gentle bosom, and the shadow of the settled grief seemed gradual ly extending its gloom over her feeling. But still hope existed—no longer as the bril liant sunshine of existence—no longer as the only hope which the future could afford —but faded and dim—its radiance lost in the mist of years, yet still retaining a spark of its early warmth. She had many doubts and fears hut she still had pleasant fancies of the future, which, cherished in her secret heart, were the only fountains of delight in the dreary desert of her wasted feelings. But now all was at an end. They had met, not as strangers, but, far worse, as estranged friends. The dream of her life was rudely broken—the veil was lifted from her eyes— the illusion which had given all she know of happiness, was destroyed forever* In the words of him who has sounded every string of love’s sweet lyre, she might have ex claimed in the bitterness of her heart: “ Had we but known, since first we mc-t, Some few short hours of bliss, We might in numbering them,forget The deep deep pain of ‘bia; But no ! our hope was borne in fears And nursed ’mid vain regrets ! Like winter suns, it rose in tears, Like them, in tears it sets.” Mrs. Pemberton at first formed some schemes, founded on the remembrance of Edward’s former liking for Edith, but when she learned his error respecting Margaret she began to fancy that if her eldest daugh ter was a little too old, the younger was none too young to make a good wife of the rich merchant. She expressed her admiration of his expanded figure, extolled his fine hair, which happened to be made wig, was in raptures with his beautiful teeth which owed their brilliancy to the skill of a French dentist, and, in short, left no means untried to accomplish her end. But she was doomed to disappointment. It is not easy to kindle anew flame from the ashe3 of an extinguished passion. There wa a secret consciousness, a sense of dis satisfaction with himself, that made Ellis rather shrink from Edith's society, and throw an air of constraint over his manner towards the whole family. He was not hap py in the presence of her who appeared be fore him as a sceptre of the past, hearing reproaches in its melancholy countenance, and after a few embarrassed attempts at care lessness in his intercourse with her, he ceas ed entirely to visit the family. No one ever knew that Edith ever suf fered, for no one suspected her long-cherish ed attachment. Her step became languid, her cheek sunken, her eye unnaturally bright, and when at length, a hacking cough fas tened itgelf upon her lungs, every body said that Edith Pemberton was falling into a con sumption. Some attributed it to a cold tak en when nursing her sister through a dan gerous illness—others thought she had worn out her health among her numerous nephews and nieces. But the worm lay at the root of the tree and though the storm and the wind might work its final overthrow, the true cause cf its fall was the knawing of the se- ’ cret destroyer. Gradually and quietly and , silently she faded from among the living. | Friends gathered round her couch of suffer ing and the consolations of the Bonk of all truth smoothed her passage to the tomb. With a world of sorrow and care sinking from her view, and an eternal life of happi ness openin<i upon her ‘lying eyes, she clos ed her useful and blameless life. On the very day fixed upon for his mar riage with a voung and fashionable bcite-s, Edward Ellis received a summons to attend, as pall bearer, the funeral of Edith Pember ton, Os course he could not decline, and as he beheld the earth flung upon the coffin which concealed the faded form of l'.er whom he had once loved, the heart of the selfish and worldly man was touched with pitty and remorse. But he turned from Edith’s grave to his own bridal and in the festivities of that gny scene soon forgot her who, after a life spent in the set vice of oth ers, had fallen a victim to that chronic heart- ‘ break which destroys many a victim never j numbered in the records of mortality. Gentlo reader, l have told you a simple i story, but one so like the truth, that you will j be tempted to conjecture that the real lie- ‘ mine has been actually known to you. Will not the circle of your own acquaintances furnish an Edith Pemberton 1 ? a gentle, love ly and loveable woman, who leads a fife of quiet benevolence, ami whose obscure and peaceful existence is marked by deeds of, kindness, even as the windings of a summer brook are traced by the freshness of the ver dure and flowers that adorn its banks ? Have you never met with one of those persons on whose gravestone might be inscribed the beautiful and touching lines of the poet Delille : “ Joyless I lived yet joy to'others gave !” And when you have listened to the hitter jest, the keen sarcasm and the thoughtless j ridicule which the young and gay are apt. to ; utter against ‘ the old maid,’ has it never oc- j curved to you that each of these solitary j and usefid beings may have her own true j tale of young and disappointed affection ? i Important Change in the Southern Mail. —The New York Express of the loth says: “ We learn that hereafter there are to be despatched two mails a day for the South, one closing at A. M., and the other at the same hour as at present, viz : 3.V P. M. The present mail from the South will arrive here about half past one in the afternoon, instead of 11 or 12 at night, as heretofore. This arrangement we unders*: id commences to day.” (t'r’Three men, Henry G. Jones. Henry Dillard and Joseph Dillard, of Monroe County, in this State, have been arrested in Wetumpka, Alabama, for negro stealing. On examination before a magistrate they confessed that the negroes (threein number) in their possession were the property of Pe ter Randall, of Monroe. They were all committed—the thieves to take their trial, and the negroes to await the demand of their owner. Sued. —The Editor of the Macon Mes senger has had three different writs, each as long as the “ moral law,” served upon him, which modestly requests him to “ fork over” $15,000, for injury done to the good name and fame of three citizens of that city, by publishing an advertisement signed by a re sponsible name. Ati Editor sued for $15,000. and in these hard times too ! The plaintiffs are certainly crazy. The Editor of the Messenger, in noticing the above proceedings, remarks: “Our friends need not be alarmed —our good na ture and buoyancy ot spirit remain unim paired ; and if we are not again way-laid in the streets, and knocked ori the head, we shall continue to attend to our business as usual.”— Savannah Republican. fly And, in his paper of Thursday last, the “ Major” thus waggishly “continues the subject “ We said last week we were in good hu njor—so we still are—also in good health : only a little wearied with our exertions in collecting the $15,000, that we may be rea dy to respond to tbe prayers of the three petitioners for that trifling sum of our mo ney. We shall attend Court in Houston County next week, where we expect our customers to pay us over about one thou sand of it.” ©G^ONM.. Written for the “Southern Miscellany.” A POLITICIAN IN PETTICOATS. Mr. Editor: I would not have you lie live from the above title, that I would vio late, even by an attempt, the political neu trality of your ‘Miscellany.’ I have cut politics myself, and am a neutral; swearing allegiance, neither to the house of York or Lancaster. My only purpose is to present to your readers the incidents of an evening spent in the country a short time since. I was on my homeward journey, and had travelled rapidly and far. 1 was alone, and the entire day nearly gone by, and I had hardly passed a word with a living soul.— Just as the sun was setting, 1 approached by a lane, a long low house near the road side. The entrance to the yard was by two large gates, through either of which a carriage could have passed. A little negro was near, who having opened one of these gates, I passed through to a small one, which led immediately to the house by a walk, on either side of which were an abundance of flowers, the rose being tbe most prominent. My horse being provided for, with whip and overcoat in hand, I walked to the door and entered. The room was dimly lighted, and I but indistinct!}’ discerned two persons sitting to my left —very close together. There was daylight enough however to per ceive, that one was a man quite small—the other, a woman, very large. They were very close together, indeed so close , that I was at first apprehensive that I had ap proached the house too silently, and had “fallen upon them unawares. I was sqon relieved from iny fears by discovering the age of the parties, and by perceiving that ibc lady was exceedingly der.f. I was kind ly invited to a seat, and asked if I would have I supper. Replying affirmatively—the old I lady rose with difficulty fiom her chair, and j left the room, to give, as I supposed, the ne cessary instructions to the servants. She returned in a few moments, and a light hav ing been kindled on the hearth, as is my usual custom, 1 proceeded to examine the apartment with its inmates. The survey was unsatisfactory in its- results, and I was apprehensive 1 had fallen in at the wrong house. The floor was unswept. In one corner of the room was a bed, tumbled and unclean. On the mantle was one clock, and opposite it in a niche in the wall, was an other. One was going upon tick —the other I presume had adopted the cash system— and of course did not go at all. In another corner, was a sideboaid of ancient date, groaning beneath a burden of tumblers, vials, dust, etc. etc. On the opposite side of tbe room, all gray with dust, and bare, stood an old bureau, its only ornament, being an old swing glass, deeply concealed beneath a mantle of dust and cobwebs. A small table and a few chairs to match, completes the schedule of goods and chattels. The old man and woman, were the only visible occu pants. The man seemed in very bad health: and I ascertained that he was troubled with an enormous carbuncle, which bad grown upon the back of his neck, but which was yielding to the use of remedies, under tbe advice and practice of a skilful physician from the county village. Though greatly afflicted, he was good-natured and cheerful; but I very soon perceived that he ranked as second best on the premises—his station was No. 2. The old lady who was to all intents and purposes tbe head of the family, and ranked as No. 1, as I have remarked, was deaf—very deaf, and also dreadfully afflicted, as she subsequently informed me, with the Rheumuticks —which disease hav ing fixed itself permanently upon the Lum- I bar region, gave her much trouble in rising when seated, and caused her to lean forward ! greatly when walking. This affliction, to | gether with her enormous bulk and great ! weight, rendered walking with her a job, j much to be dreaded. The truth is, her gait I could scarcely he called a walk at all; it pul one very much in mind of the motion of a hogshead on end, travelling upon a pair of, ungreased Trucks. She showed off to much better advantage when seated, and in conversation her powers were certainly re markable. After she had reappeared from the other room, and effected a lodgment up on a cliair, I had a fine opportunity of ob serving her countenance. Her eyes were Certainly its most remaijuible feature, sur rounded as they were, by a profusion of fat, and covered from above by a pair of shaggy and depending brows. Bl ight and undimm ed by the lapse of fifty years, they burnt as brightly as in youth. But itss enough to observe, that they were small, sparkling and gray, ever bright and restless—to know that they gave evidence of much native intellect. But unfortunately for her comeliness, this ■feature was alone in its glory, unsustained ! by another. Her nose was a pug—her chin the segment of alunar circle—and her mouth —an exceeding large and ungainly gash. But enough as to her appearance. She had taken her seat near the old man, in a large old-fashioned chair, the pattern by which it was made, no doubt having been originally taken from herself by the chair maker, when the conversation which had been carried on between her husband and myself, was knocked up by mv lady—who wished to know if 1 was direct from Macon. • No, Madam.’ ‘ From Augusta or Charles ton or Savannah?’ ‘1 hail from none of these places.’ ‘Well, where are you from then?’ 1 politely answered, ‘that I came last from Columbus.’ She rose up, and came forward to where I sat, so close, that in her descent upon an adjoining chair, 1 apprehended a closer contact Ilian 1 would j have relished—tired as I was, from a lady 1 of her size and age; so that on the first im pression of the danger, I started aside, and would have cleared the way for her anchor age,‘hut was arrested in my purpose, by the (prick repetition of her previous question, ‘ Where are you from did you snv?’ ‘From Columbus, Madam,’ said I, raising my voice to a pitch suitable to the dullness of her healing. ‘From Columbus—then you can tell tne jf the old Columbus Bank is broke sure enough.’ ‘Broke all to atoms madam.’ ‘Youdontsay so. Well, bless my life and body—what is the country a-eoming to —I wish the whole batch of Banks would blow up, and then we should have the right sort of a currency I recon. These misera ble shaving shops are all rotten at the core, plague on ’em.’ • ‘A good many of them,’ 1 remarked, ‘have proven the truth of your remark, but still I trust there is honesty enough among those remaining, to redeem the State from the foul disgrace that has fallen on it.’ ‘Redeem a fiddlestick. You had better tell them to redeem their rotten rags, before you talk about their redeeming the State from disgrace.’ ‘That is just what I mean, madam. By continuing to redeem their ‘rotten rags,’ as you are pleased to call them, as nearly all are now doing who are doing any thing, they may take from us our reproach, and prove ] in the end valuable agents, in relieving the i country front its present distress.’ ‘ Well, it is very singular,’ said the old lady, ‘that the country is not in a better condition, when but little more than a year ago, we bad so many fine promises from the Harrison men. Ob, yes, they said, only elect Old Tip. He’ll get us out of all our troubles, and square us up with the world— just elect the old Hero, and we shall soon gel a better price for our cotton and truck. But how is it, just look at the fix we are in, and by the Lord, you can hardly give your good cotton away at any price, and throw the sorry cotton in—a pretty state of things truly—after all their fine speeches and pa rad ings, truly, ain’t it?’ ‘I have seen the country in a much better condition than it is at present, and I have read and been informed that it has likewise been in a worse.’ ‘How, when, where were they ever worse V ‘ They were much worse I am told in the revolutionary war, and I am inclined to the notion, that they were something worse about the time of the last war.’ ‘Yes, and 1 wish’ to gracious we could f have another war. Johnny Bull is getting quite too furious. England puts me in mind [ of a mean nigger —whom you thrash occa ; sionally to keep straight; and 1 think its about time we had given England another thrashing. She is getting altogether too saucy and insolent.’ And her little gray eyes flashed most bravely while she spoke, and you could clearly perceive, that she was game to the bottom and no mistake. My great love of mischief prompted me to the following re ply : ‘But, Madam, we are in had condition for war at present, and in the next bout 1 fear England would thrash us most awfully.’ ‘ Dont talk to me about fear—England thrash us!—l’ll be switched if there are men enough in all their Dominions, North, South, East, or West to do it. No, no. I wish I were a man. I would like to have a trial of it.’ ‘You forget,’said I, ‘in the warmth of your zeal that you are a Rheumatic, and unable to endure the fatigue of a march, and so deaf, that you could scarcely hear the word of command, if it were uttered even at the mouth of a cannon.’ ‘Well, you’ve got me now,’ said the old lady, trying to perpetrate a smile, ‘1 become excited on this subject, and hardly know when or where to stop. But the country is trampled upon by England, and it frets me to know how she is bamboozling the Gov ernment, if government it can be called, with such a man as Tyler at its head.’ •Mr. Tyler is a very good man,’ I dryly remarked, greatly disposed to urge the old lady on by apparent opposition to her; for I was really much amused at her originali ty, and astonished at the extent of her read ing. ‘Yes; he may he a very good man, but he is a very wishy-washy President; so small a concern, that he can’t rally to bis support more than a corporal’s guard even; who ever heard of a President before with out a party. 1 wish he would resign at once, and let us have another. For the tenure at best by which he holds his office, runs in the same language with the verdict of a coroner’s inquest.—Died by the visitation of God President by tlie visitation of God. I’ll lit dialled, if 1 wouldn’t give it up, any how. And the British Court has sent over Lord Ashburton too, to hold a palaver—a proper man surely—who is now lying under ini peachmet or something else, at the Court of the Old Daily—London —I’ll be blest if it ain’t a downright insult to the Government to send such a fellow here—a Lord truly —such a Lord—made such by Patent—as you make washing-machines, or cotton cards.’ ‘But,’said I, ‘Mr. Webster seems dis posed to stick up for our rights at all events, aud may be able to out-general the English man after all.’ ‘Dan Webster! who would trust him I wonder? If he is our only dependence, it’s a slim chance, God knows. lam afraid of Dan’s honesty.’ ‘You would not challenge the. Secretary’s patriotism, would you ?’ ‘ Well now, there are very few men, es pecially areat men, that I would trust any way you could fix ’em. They make poli tics a trade. They live by their trade, as the shoemaker by his last. And when one side don’t pay well, why they make no hones of turning tail, and trying ’tollier.’ ‘ But you do not really think all our great politicians dishonest, do you?’ ‘No, not all of them, a few of them I can trust. There is Tom Benton (hard money Tom I call him) for instance. I believe him honest —he goes in for a gold and silver currency, and I like that—though I was fooled not long since with a piece of money which 1 had tuken for a Ten Dollar gold piece, and laid it away for harder times, and j lo! and behold, when I examined it closely ! some months after, I found it to he a Harri , son modal, all of brass, with Tip and Tv on , one side—and Log Cabin and Hard Cider on the other. But if Tom’s views had been carried out we should not have had the whole country flooded with shin-plasters.’ ‘You would like Mr. Benton for a Presi dent then, I suppose?’ ‘Very much indeed, sir.’ ‘Well there is certainly a chance for him after a while.’ Just as our conversation reached this I point, supper was announced, the old lady rolled herself into the room—l following. There on a tolerably long tabic, were ar ranged three hint edged plates. One occu pied by fried bacon, another by eggs, the third by bread. The old lady, without doff ing her bonnet, seated herself, I also sat down. ‘ Bless the Lord for supper that’s grace enough,’ said she, turning sharply round to me, ‘ain’t it?’ ‘Enough,’ said I, ‘if it come from the heart.’ I was very hungry, and ate what I could of the food before me. The old lady kept up a sort of parenthetical confab during the periods of time when the food was —‘in transitu’—from herjplate tojlier mouth—her fork and sometimes her fingers being the mode of conveyance. But always being \ averse to doing two things at once—l did not engage in it with her—hut finished my meal in silence, and retired to the other room. I had resumed my seat but a little space, when the old one hobbled up to a vacant chair on my right, and sat down. ‘And you really think Tom Benton has a chance for the Presidency?’ ‘Certainly, Madam, he has a chance, as well as I or another, but as to his probabili ty of success I cannot speak.’ ‘ There are a good many looking forward to a campaign already,’ said she, ‘as 1 per ceive from my papers. Who do you think will be the Whig candidate?’ ‘Really, Madam, I have no opinion on the matter at all. It is a thing of perfect indif ference to me, who is, or who is not a can didate. I have long since cut politics.’ ‘And are you not a Tyler man?’ she asked. •Not I.’ ‘Nor a Whig?’ ■No.’ ‘Nor a Democrat?’ ‘I am neither.’ ’ Well, will you be pleased to tell me what you are?’ ‘Why, so far as politics are concerned, I am just nothing at all. I belong to no par ty —follow no man’s lead. I vote for no man for office, unless I believe him to be ca pable and honest, and these are the only qualifications I seek after?’ ‘And dont you believe Benton to be ca pable and honest ?’ ‘Excuse me if you please, Madam.’ ‘Well, you are a strange man, and I can hardly believe what you say. I rather think you are a Whig, who having become sick at the result of your late success, are now sitting upon the stool of repentance. If this be not the fact, why is it that you differ from all the world besides, in being neu tral V ‘Simply because I have learned wisdom from experience. I was once a politician as warm as any, it is true; and the reason why I have dropped politics is this—l never made one friend by being a politician, but a good many enemies,—l never held an argu ment with any one, in the course of which I was convinced myself, or in which I con vinced my antagonist. I never made one cent in fifteen years faithful survive; but have lost much in the time so foolishly wast ed : so that now I have learned to take care of my own business, and I let the country take care of itself.’ ‘Your reasons are tolerable, and may do for you to act upon; but, nevertheless, I think we should all he politicians, and know well what we are about. As for myself, I own 1 am quite a politician.’ *Yes,’ I replied, ‘you are the strongest .Benton man I have ever seen.’ ‘1 like Benton very much—he is so con sistent—and would rejoice to see him Presi dent. But the Whigs have got themselves in a nice box, liavn’t they? They had their conventions and log-rollings, and cebiti rais ings, and coon skins, and snake skins— their drums, speeches, jollifications, lings, banners and all that—and what did it amount to?’ ‘They elected their man,’ said I, ‘at all events.’ ‘Yes, but what good has it done them, or the country either. Every thing is brought up to a,stopping place. Cotton was to be 12 J cents a pound; corn 3 dollars a barrel; wheat 1 dollar and a quarter a bushel— every thing was to move on the high pres sure system —but lo! and behold, cotton is low, corn low, wheat low. Every thing on the low order— The Parmer loads his wagon with nice cotton bags, And sells them in Macon for lampblack and rags, And its hard times.’ ‘You are poet, Madam, as well as poli tician I perceive.’ ‘Yes, Sir, I do a little in that line occa sionlly.’ ‘By lampblack and rags I suppose you mean ‘shin pi asters.’ ‘Yes, shinplasters, or hills of broken Banks, or Banks about to break, or Banks that may break, for they are pretty much of a muchness— The Banks arc all breaking, the money’s all gone, And every where, with plenty of cotton and corn, The cry is hard times.’ ‘The times are hard it is certain,’ said I, ‘but I do not think that we ought to lay the blame on one party more than another. My own opinion is that the cause may be found in the fact, that so few people work to pro duce any thing, and so many consume with out labor what is produced. Or, in other words, too many have sought to live, rather by their wits, than by their industry.’ ‘1 cannot agree with you, sir,’ said the old lady—‘l think it is owing to the had man agement of the party in power. The public money has been wretchedly wasted, and we are about 90 millions in debt, and the Lord only knows when or where it will stop.’ ‘lt will stop I hope before we are 90 millions in debt. You are certainly mis taken. Some party paper has deceived you. The present administration have not had the opportunity of involving us to that extent.’ ‘ Well, I may have been deceived, but it is a large amount.’ ‘Yes, the amount is large, but Mr. Clay says, touch of the present indebtedness of the country occurred under the former ad ministration.’ ‘ Dont tell tne what Hal Clay says; I dont believe a word of it. But thank God he is gone from the Senate, and I am glad of it ; The greatest of all cuon skin Ilumbuggers, Hal Clay, Has resigned, and to Kanctuck is making his way, 1 And its hard times. To build him a great Bank he set down hard lo work, But Tyler knocked it all down, with a backhanded jerk And its hard times.’ ‘ You commend the President then, much as you dislike him, for his veto upon the Bank bill?’ ‘To he sure I do. What a dust he kick ed up in the Whig ranks; he played old Harry with the coon skin and log cabin par ty I tell you. And The watchword no longer is now Tip and Tyler For poor Ty himself has burst his own boiler, And its hard times. To bamboozle the people they halloo’d Tip and Ty But now the whole mulgus is blow’d up sky high, And its hard times.’ Struck as I was with the constant out. pouring of her politico-doggerel rhymes, I asked her ‘if she made them as she went along—upon the spur of the occasion?’ ‘Oh no,’ said she, ‘I have a large stock on hand, of which I have only given you a few samples. 1 write a good deal of poetry, and these verses are only a specimen of many which I have composed on the Whig folks for my own amusement. The poor whigs arc out at their elbows and knees, For they dont handle much of the Government’s fees Audits hard times.’ ‘I should like very much, Madam,if I could get a copy of your verses for publica tion. Such evidences of talent and genius ought not to lie buried up in obscurity. These verses would gain you great eclat in the literary and political world.’ ‘ Well, now, you dont think so really, do you?’ she asked, evidently much gratified at the broad and unblushing compliment I passed upon her; hut she swallowed it, and I repeated the dose. ‘Certainly I do, Madam, and I am sure the wot Id will feel upon their appearance, the very great loss it has sustained from the fact, that you kept these sparks of intellect so long hidden beneath the ashes of your extreme diffidence.’ This was more than the old lady could stand. She had swallowed the bait—hook and all—and 1 had her at the end of my line, in as line play, as you ever saw a trout in the hand of a skilful fisherman. The verses were produced, and dealt out in a never ceasing strain until 9 o’clock—my usual hour of retiring—and I was compell ed rather unceremoniously t~ cut her reci tations short, promising to hear more of them in the morning. 1 retired, and slept, and the reader too long, reserve the remainder of our chit chat, which occurred on political and medical subjects, on the following morning, with a full and certified copy of the old woman’s verses, for a future leisure moment. I have thus given you, Mr. Editor, as near as recollected, a true and faithful account of toy interview with old Mrs. P , of J County, Georgia. As I remarked in the outset, my object is not, in the slightest de gree, to infringe upon your reserved rights, as a neutral in politics; or to smuggle po litical topics into the columns of the ‘South ern Miscellany.’ 1 found the old lady truly an original, and I determined before I left her house, at some moment of leisure, to write out the substance of our talk. If it please you, Mr. Editor, publish it.for the amusement of your gentleman and lady readers, and especially as a lesson for your gentlemen politicians. JOSHUA SWIPES. Yamacraw, April 21,1542. Writicn for the “Southern Miscellany.” A CHAPTER OF SCRAPS. Nothing lovelier can be found In woman, than to study household good. And good works in her husband to promote. mvroy. The most interesting women in the world arc those whose home is at home —who seek enjoyment and Comfort in the daily avoca tions of family duties. The Countess of Blessington has wisely observed, that liter ary ladies never makegood wives; conse quently are poor mothers, and not fitted to rear up children for life’s turbulent journey. The purport of this paper is not to abuse literary accomplishments, or to say they are unnecessary. Science, knowledge and wis dom are the true elements of happiness — and these can only be attained by close stu dy and industrious application. So varied are the duties of social life which devolves upon a wife and a mother, (if she performs her duties,) that but little time is left to her for literary leisure and the culti vation of fanciful accomplishments ; at least, if much time is taken things soon “ get out of fix”—a homely phrase, but u true one. Men are often indolent, lazy and good for nothing. The very reverse is most gener ally found in the female character : an idle woman is scarcely ever seen. It is unnatu ral for them to be unemployed. The ques tion is, are they properly employed ? The happiness of this life is regulated very much by the most trifling incidents. We arc of ten made miserable by little occurrences which, in themselves, are too trifling to men tion. We are sometimes made to feel the most pleasurable emotions without being sensible of the cause—a sweet smile, the lovely, languishing, affectionate look of an amiable female fills the very breath we draw, , from the air around them, with bliss indes | cribable. I To be interesting, amiable and intelligent ; —to possess originality, and to form a dis j tinct character, young persons who are com : mencing life for themselves, ought very ear ly to be separated as much as possible from I their parents : 1 mean young married per j sons—particularly females. It may be well ! that a few months are spent under the su i pervision and direction of an experienced i mother—hut do not let it be longer. The mind must labor, and the body too, or rest assured there will be no distinction ; Old babies quit sucking, But never are weaned. — Old Sonu. Some whole families, through the whole gen eration have not an original idea amongst ! them ; their thoughts are a unit—the same | look—the same tone —the same words are ’ uttered by nil. The reason is, there is too much familiality—too much continued in tercourse ; they do not mix enough with the world—they are a world in themselves, and their connexiotis. They are great blank* upon earth. Females arc more respected, and receive