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occasionally address a brief and muttered prayer to the jewelled figure of Mary-moth er, which stood forth in ostentatious relief upon a pedestal of porphyry taken from the ruins of the Alhambra. Bowing his head to the dust, and crossing repeatedly brow and breast, did Spain’s king thus bumble himself, as if to deprecate the anger of the Virgin, and to bid her bless his deed of blood. Neither bread nor meat was borne to the lip; but the stillness of the ‘great de sert of Zahara reigned over and upon the hour, even until the last grain of sand in the glass had run out its race, and the cruel measure of time was full. Philip was then satisfied. He threw himself upon a couch. “The traitor dies!” ejaculated the king. An audible murmurran around in response. The time lias expired some minutes!” continued the king ; “ and your enemy, Count of Biscay, has passed with it away, like the leaves of the olive before the blast of the sirocco!” “My enemy, sire!” replied Don Ramirez, with some affectation of surprise. “ Yes, man !” said Philip, almost mali ciously. “Why echo our words? Were you not liis rival in the affections of the Lady Estella: and can two claim the same bride, and be friends ? True, hitherto we have not spoken in council upon this mat ter; but our royal word is pledged, and the maid and her vast possessions are yours. Ob, count! men may talk of the ingratitude of kings, but never can we forget the ser vices of that real friend to Spain, who first discovered the treasonable correspondence with France in this our pampered minion, the ingrate Guzman !” It seemed that Biscay’s count could have spared this premature declaration of his de votedness. Shame is ever the informer’s portion, gild it as he may. “ With deep reluctance was my sad duty to your majesty performed,” was the answer of Don Ramirez; but he faltered in accent as he spoke, feelingthat although he looked not in the faces of the chiefs around, their general expression was aught but friendly. A pause ensued. Tarraxas coughed audi bly, while tlie hot blood of D’Ossuna re kindled in his veins atthe words just spoken. The sensation was unbearable. Alonzo struck his sheathed sword with his gauntlet, as he sought in vain to catch the eye of Don Ramirez. “Before tlie betrothed of my murdered friend shall be the bride of this proud man,” thought the youth, “ will I also lie in the Guzman tomb 1 To morrow he my day of reckoning.” The conversation was resumed by Spain: “Your zeal, Don Ramirez, shall not pass unrequitted. The savior of a throne, and it may be of our dynasty, must be rewarded in no vulgar manner. At early morn we bade you arrange with our heralds-in-ehief the patent of creation to tlie rank of Duke and Governor of fair Valencia. Is the parchment yet ready for signature ?” Trembling with the full tide of emotions consequent upon the complete success of long-cheri3lied aspirations—agitated with the natural feelings of gratified ambition— eagerly grasping at the prizes of beauty, wealth, and rank, now poured around him —Don Ramirez hurriedly drew from his vest a vellum scroll, and presented it rever entially to the king. “To sign this,” said Philip, taking the roll with an air of mingled grace and ma jesty—“ to subscribe this patent be our first public act to-day. The headsman lias long since dealt the traitor his meed, aud no oth er rtoment of time can he so fitting in which to reward the faithful savior of our crown and life;” and the king displayed the parch ment. “Ha!” cried Philip, suddenly aud impeteously; “Mother of Jesus, what have we here?” • • • • • • Again the legend carries us to the cell of the doomed. That fearful chess-game is over at last. Don Guzman has checkmated Ruy Lopez, and his awful triumph is per fected. The duke rises from his seat. “ I am once more the devoted servant of my king,” said the condemned prince to Calavar, in accents of dignity, and it might be pride. The executioners prepared rapidly to work forth their calling. Billet aud blade were speedily fnade ready. The prepara tions were completed. The duke advanced to the altar of sacrifice, with that profound air of tranquility only to be based on con scious innocence within. “Let not this act of rashness be visited as guilt upon my king, OGod!” prayed the Guzman audibly. Ruy Lopez prostrated himself in a coiner of the chamber, and with his face wrapped in his robes, poured forth almost hysterically the service of the church for the dying and the dead. The unhappy bishop could not bear to look upon innocent blood poured forth as water. Calavar laid his rough hand upon the duke’s shoulder, in order to remove the ruff from his neck. Don Guzman drew hack gravely. .“No part of thee or thine may touch a Guzmau, saving that steel 1” said the duke, as be himself tore ofT the impediment, and bared his finely-mouled throat for the blow. Don Guzman, we say, reclined his head • upon the billet, and gave the word to strike; hut a shout like the comingof a mighty band of warriors rang through the distant halls, and the door was dashed open, ere the thirsty axe could drink its draught. At the head of many nobles, D’Ossuna rushed in and threw himself upon the rescued duke, while the narrow cell thrilled with the loud hurrah of Don Tarraxas. “ The noble and the innocent 1” cried the Joung Alonzo. “He lives, and he is saved 1 ly own loved cousin 1 I durst not hope to find thy spirit yet on earth!” “But just in time, dear boy,” whispered the duke, as he swooned away upon the block. Death could'be better borne by that bold heart than the stunning consciousness of life and honorable acquittal 1 Ruy Lopez lifted the noble Guzman, ex ultingly in his arms, and theduko recovered sense hut to find himself in the hall of ma jesty, his friends warmly crowding around, and Philip himself hanging over the couch with an eager expression of delight and satisfaction. To dwell on the close of this scene were tedious as unnecessary. Don Ramirez, in his agitated triumph, had given a wrong parchment to the king, and its contents proved the forgeries and treasons of its ow ner. The whole exposed a plot to remove the Guzman ; and thereby net only weaken the chief defences of the throne, but extin guish for ever a most hated rival. Sicken ing were it in the moment of joy to dwell on this in more minute detail. The duke’s innocence was completely proved, and for mally proclaimed iu loudest tones by the high constable. Calavar and Iris gloomy band were first recalled, from their stunning sense of stuperfaction and bewilderment, to consign the black-hearted Count of Biscay to the Guzman’s late keep of stone, and three days afterwards Madrid witnessed the traitor’s well-deserved death on the public scaffold. The joy of the court, meanwhile, knew no bounds. The noble Guzman was over whelmed with embraces and congratulations; and the passages of the critical chess-game were minutely and evensuperstitiously dwelt upon. “My friend once more!” cried Philip. “How could I be so blind, so hasty, so un grateful to thy long and tried services? Nev er may my folly Ire expiated!” “Sire,” replied the duke, “name it not again. Such words of kindness from my sovereign outweigh a thousand lives 1” “ The king took the arm of Don Guzman. “Friend,” said Philip, “he thou very sure we may not be thus twice unjust. Tlie finger of God is marked in this matter, and Iris interposition has been indeed miraculous. To offer thee additional rankor wealth were vain, arid would he an insult to thy puresoul of honor. To hand dovVn to thy posterity this providential escape, it is our royal will that the Guzman shield do henceforth bear a bright axe argent, on a chess-field azure; and he it our duty to provide that thy nup tials with the fair Donna Estella he held with fitting pomp and splendor, within the month, iri the halls of our own Escurial here. Jesu Maria, assoilzie our soul from the sin of blood so nearly laid upon us 1” Tlie monarch crossed himself in silence, and turned to Ruy Lopez. Gloomy and bad as was unhappily Philip’s general de portment, there were not wanting moments through life in which the virtuous principle strove successfully for the ascendancy. None are nil good, andsutcly of men none areal together wicked. We arc fearfully fash ioned. “Ruy Lopez,” said Philip, with a smile, “methinks the church of Spain has gained a stalwart tlefender in her new bishop. Thou shalt be consecrated lord-prelate in a jewelled robe, for the chess game thou hast this day played 1” “ May it please your majesty.” replied Ruy Lopez, “ never before felt I joy at re ceiving checkmate.” The king laughed, and of course the courtiers all laughed too. The humor of the moment was to make mirth at but little. Their hearts were full. “And now, gentlemen, we hid yc forth with to the banquet,” resumed the monarch. “ Os all Spain’s kings, never had she one so famished ior food as Philip at this present happy moment. Let the cover for our no ble friend, Don Guzman, be placed at our own right hand, and ho the trusty Bishop of Segovia seated on our left. To dinner, to dinner, and that right speedily 1 Your arm, my Guzmati 1” #*###* And thus did chess save an innocent man, and thus did Ruy Lopez get his bishoprick. Doubtless was it meant as a retrospect of this event, that Ruy Lopez, subsequently, in Iris Treaties on Chess, printed in Alcala, 1561, heads his second chapter with these words i “Eli que'se tracta el juego e ocio loable, no solo permitirsc, pero ser necessa rio para la conservacio dela vida humann.” Can enthusiasm go farther? and are not all real chess-players enthusiasts, from the very nature and constitution of our noble and be witching pastime? An Old Coat. —A man in anew coat is never at rest. At home he is uneasy for fear the act of sitting should disarrange its primeval smoothness, and abroad he is still more uncomfortable inasmuch as the transit of every passenger fills him with inexpressi ble dread of an unpropitious contact. He steers like the pilots of old, an uncertain and dangerous course, a baker Iris Scylla, and a chimney sweep his Charybdis. Now an old coat labors under none of these dis advantages. If anew coat is like a trouble some stranger, an old coat is like an old ac quaintance. However restricted your famil iarity may have been at first, time renders you perfectly at ease with each other, and all ceremony is forever banished. An old coat is equally favorable to retirement and to learning, for when your coat is old, you lose all Inclination for gadding out else where; it acts as a gentle moralist, recall ing your mind from external pomps and vanities, and bidding you look within. And then, again, how an old coat enables you to plunge headlong into a whole train of ad ventures, regardless of what place or com pany chance may tlmiw you into. And then what an enviable independence of the weather is felt by a man in an old coat! What a Spartan scorn lie manifests for coaches and umbrellas! To him the “pel ting of the pitiless storm” brings no great terrors; his is no coat to be spoiled. There is a preacher in New Orleans, run ning a strong opposition to Miller, on the prophecies. He quotes from chap. 6, v. 4, of the Revelations, which says: “ And there went out another horse that was red; and power was given to him that sat thereon to take poace from the earth, and that they should kill one another; and there was giren to him a great sword.” He that sat on the red horse, and to whom was given the “great sword,” he contends, is Governor Dorr, and the beginning of the Rhode Island war, he positively asserts, is the beginning of the end of the world. Strong Opposition. —A chap “out west” came very neur being married lately, ac cording to his own statement. Tho only reason why he was not married appears to be that tho girl, her parents, as well as the rest of the folks, were opposed to tho match! sd>urwm is sst sxt as<© is & apit* Fromtbe Magnolia. THE BATTLE-FIELD OF LIFE. We sit down in our, arm-chairs, in the cool of the piazza, and rdad, with philosophi cal composure, daily accounts of the wrong done to man by man; nation#suffering from the spoiler—from the abuse of legislation— from the denial of justice. We fancy and flatter ourselves that all this belongs to an other condition—does not concern us—as it immediately concerns anotherpeople. The sanguine hues of hope enable men, in all situations, to find the most favorable aspects and colors for their own fortunes; and we learn to take for granted that the storm which rends the dwelling of our neighbor, will pass over, leaving our roof-trees totally unscatched. Such is the confident nature of man, strong always in his self-assurance— bolstered always on thelulling and deceitful pillow of hope. We take no interest in the matter, except as mere spectators —ameteurs gathered to an exhibition, and feeling our hurnahity only touched as wo discover that the victim is not a beast but a man. When the storm descends and disturbs our quiet— when the holt falls and shivers our roof-tree —we start and wonder, inconceivably an noyed, greatly frightened, scorched, per haps, and with some bruises to meditate upon. But not one of us recollects to have had any warning that such an event was to happen. The world is Very much the same always. What has happened once, is very apt to hap pen again and again ; and there is no situa tion, country, people, or laws, secure from danger, overthrow, and violation. Thereis a common lot, whether we live in hot or cold, in Africa of Nova Zembla—whether we live under despotism or democracy— with President or Sultan. The old world’s history is very likely to be ours, for, most unhappily, we have the most .perfect faith in the old world’s models. We still hanker after the Egyptian flesh-pots. The same events which led to the desolation and de struction of ancient empires, are active in hostility to our own. Thesame animal man! —with all Iris capricious appetites —hisfierce passions—his unbridled lusts —his love of ease, of power, and indulgence—heishere, also, scarcely changed in any one respect from what lie was five thousand years ago. Amidst the overthrow of empires, the rise and fall of dynasties and nations, the fluctu ations of peace and war, the discoveries and inventions of ait and science—amidst all changes, he, alone, has suffered none. He remains the same—fond of ease; fond of power; reckless of right in the prosecution of his purpose; a sycophant in his feeble ness, a tyrant in bis strength; forever watch ful of his moment, and always preparing new nets in which to snare his prey. There are some influences in modern times which make him less openly dangerous, and which provide us with better means of defence and security, than were possessed by the ancients. But we daily perceive that, how ever the spoiler may forbear his robberies with the strong hand of violence, we yet become the victims of liis cunning, and our own miserable follies. His gins snare our feet when liis knife fails topierce ourthroats. Our wealth diminishes, our labor becomes unproductive, and our children, bred up to great expectations, too frequently inherit only beggary and shame. How painfully frequent lias been tlrissort of history, of late years, in our Southern country. How sad have been the fluctuations of for tune in some of our noblest families:—fluctuations which can lie ascribed to evil counsellors only; to the weakness, the folly, and the false pride of the parties themselves, and an economy which seems to have done nothing but err from the beginning. An agricultural com munity like ours, which resembles so greatly a feudal aristocracy, is very apt to suffer from false impressions. Our population, sparsely settled, do not often commune to gether—do not know each other—and the wisdom of communities depends very great ly upon tlieconstaut attrition of their mem bers. Without this attrition, the minds of ordinary men rust; for God has intended that man should be a social afiimal. It is in consequence of the advantage which he possesses in this respect, that the mind of the citizen is apt to be more subtle, more prompt and active, than that of the farmer; and it is in consequence of this difference between them, that the simplicity of the latter so frequently subjects him to the cun ning of the former. While we are thinking wliat to do, the citizen has done it. While we are asking what road to take, he has taken all roads; and if he wishes a track, which more than any other will peculiarly serve his purpose, he finds little difficulty in persuading us that we can do nothing more thoroughly patriotic than to hew it out, and blaze it—under his directions! The truth is, the wits of man were given to them for some purpose. It he can live l>y them, he will. But he can only live by them with the assistance of your hands. Man, therefore, if you let him, is the natu ral enemy of man. You can only defend yourselt against him, by the exercise of your own wits. If not, you are just os legitimately his game, as the dull turkey whom he snares, or the timid deer, which flying, he shoots down. It is not our counsel that you should snare and shoot also; for that would bring us to the savage.state again: but do not drowse over your rights, do not loiter in your duties, do not sleep in the prosecution of the grand march of existence. Use your own wits in what concerns your own inter ests ; lend your money with your own hands, instead of deputing this duty to a hank; so shall you possess the power of choosing whom you shall assist, and be able to exer cise the sweet charity of forbearing to press the unfortunate debtor for his dues. So shall you also stand some chance of keeping some of your property from the general wreck of hank-insolvency. Indolenne of dis position, and a mercenary ddsire to secure larger profits, are the true reasons of most persons in lending their money by means of such an institution, instead of lending it di rectly to him who seeks the loan. This is given as an example purely, hut the arts of speculation are as numerous as the leaves on the tree, and the sands on tlie sea-shore, and the man who hopes to evade them, must always keep his wits about him. The Citric Acid is procured from lemons. The blind beauty of the Moor. —Death seems not to have touched that face, pale though it be—lifelike is the waving of those gentle hands—and the soft, sweet, low mu sic which now we hear, steals not sure from lips hushed by the burial mould! Restored by the power oflove, she stands before us as she stood of yore. Not one of all the hairs of her golden head was singed by the lightning that shivered the tree under which the child had run for shelter from the flash ing sky. But in a moment the blue light in her dewy eyes was dimmed—and never again did she behold either flower or star. Yet all the imagesof all the things she had loved remained in her memory, clear and distinct as the things themselves before unextinguish ed eyes; and ere three summers had flown over her head, which, like the blossom of some fair perennial flower, in heaven’s gra cious dew and sunshine each season lifted its loveliness higher and higher in the light, she could trip her singing way through the wide wilderness, all by her joyful self, led, as all believed, nor erred they in so believ ing, by an angel’s hand 1 AVhen the prim roses peeped through the reviving grass up on the vernal braes, they seemed to give themselves into her fingers; and ’twas thought they hung longer unfaded round her neck or forehead than if they had been left to drink the dew on their native bed. The linnets ceased not their lays, though her garment touched the broom-stalk on which they sang. The cushat, as she third her way through the wood, continued to croon in her darksome tree; and the lark, although just dropped from the cloud, was cheered by her presence into anew passion of song, and mounted over her head, as if it were his first matin liymn. All the creatures of the earth and air manifestly loved the Wanderer of the Wilderness ; aud as for human be ings, she was named, in their pity, their wonder, and their delight, the Blind Beauty of the Moor! She was an only child, and her mother had died in giving her birth ; and now her father, stricken by one of the many cruel diseases thal shorten the lives of shepherds on the hills, was bedridden, and he was poor. Os all words ever syllabled by hu man lips, the most blessed is—charity. No’ manna now in the wilderness is rained from heaven, for the mouths of the hungry need it not in this our Christian land. A few goats feeding among the rocks gave them milk, and there was bread for them in each neighbor’s house—neighbor though miles afar—as the sacred duty came round—and the unrepining poor sent the grateful child away with her prayers. One evening, returned to the hut with her usual song, she danced up to her father’s face on his rushy bed, and it was cold in death. If she shrieked—if she fainted— there was but one ear that heard, one eye that saw her, in her swoon. Not now float ing like a small moving cloud unwilling to leave the flowery braes, though it be to melt in heaven, hut driven along a shroud of fly ing mist before the tempest, she came upon us in the midst of that dreary moss ; and at the sound of our voice fell down with clasp ed hands at our feet—“ My father’s dead!” Had the hut put already on the strange, dim, desolate look of mortality ? For peo ple came walking fast down the braes, and in a little while there was a group round us, and we bore her back again to her dwelling in our arms. As for us, we had been on our way to bid the fair creature and her father farewell. How could she have lived —an utter orphan—in such a world ? The holy power that is in innocence would for ever have remained with her; but innocence longs to be away, when her sister Joy has dep'arted ; and ’tis sorrowful to see the one on earth, when the other has gone to Heav en 1 This sorrow none of us had long to see, for though a flower, when withered at the root, and doomed ere eve to perish, may yet look to the careless eye the same as when it blossomed in its pride—yet its leaves, still green, are not as once they were—its bloom, though fair, is faded—and at set of sun, the dews shall find it in decay, and fall uufelt on its petals. Ere Sabbath came the orphan child was dead.* Methinks we see now her little funeral. Her birth had been the humblest of the humble ; and though all inlife had loved her,it was thought best that none should be asked to the fune ral of her and her father but two or three friends. The old clergyman himself walk ed at the head of the father’s coffin ; we at the head of the daughter’s; for this was granted unto our exceeding love. And thus passed away for ever the Blind Beauty of the Moor I— Recreationstf Christopher North. A Snake Story. — A live garter snake, twelve inches long was found in the Savan nah mail bag on being opened at the Balti more Post OfficeonSaturdayevening. The Patriot questions the snake’s right to a free passage in Uncle Sam’s mail. His garter ship has certainly evaded the scriptural de nunciation under which his journeyings should be performed by crawling. Howev er, be has furnished a decided snake story. Newspaper. —l positively never knew a man in the country who was too poor totake a newspaper. Yet two or three, even re spectable people, read no papers but what they borrow. As I speak generally, I hope I offend none. If I do, the greater neces sity to speak out. Every man is able con veniently to take a weekly newspaper. The cost is four cents a week. How many who think themselves too poor to take a paper, pay as much daily for drink ? We very much admire the church war den’s wife who went to church for the first time in her life, when her husband was church warden ; and being somewhat late, the congregation were getting up from their knees at the time she entered, and she said with a sweetly condescending smile, “Pray, keep your seats, ladies and gentlemen; I think no more of myself now than I did before.” “John, how I wish it was as much the fashion to trade wives as it is to trade hor ses!” • “ Why so, Peter ?” “ I’d cheat somebody most shockin’ bad afore night.” @ O©OM A(L a For tho “ Southern Miscellany.” SKETCHES FROM THE H1LL...N0.2. Aunt Betsy's Pedigree, by herself—Prefaced BY QUIZ. Judging from tlie following pedigree, we should say that Aunt Betsy’s was an “ uncommon smart” family, and the literary world have to lament that they were not all dependent upon their “ mental resources for support.” But Aunt Betsy alone seemed destined to “ astonish the natives” with her literary productions. It is unfortunate that she became attached to one who had a “ sound judgment” but a dormant taste for literature—otherwise she would have adopt ed the advise of kind friends, and flooded the world with literary gems, many years ago. If we are not much mistaken, the pedigree which we extract, was one of the first literary lights that gleamed upon a benighted public from tho pen of Aunt Betsy. Aunt Betsy was born a genius—at least so says the pedigree, and who can doubt it ? Have not the public wept, laughed, ay, shouted over her writings? We ask the ques tion, have they not? For of course we know nothing of the matter ourself! Not withstanding domestic oppression, the Pro methian fire of intellect would blaze forth and o’ertop the little .geniuses of the school room. Did she not “ compare herself with those who possessed real talents,” while yet in her teens ? With what avidity did she ddVour the contents of books belonging to literary men, who “ hoarded with her mother.” Who can tell but at that very time the spirit of prophecy was whispering in her eager ear the tale of future greatness, and the gratitude of coming generations for sundry works of vast conception, yclept but pass we that! But she “ sup pressed her ambition.” What an extraor dinary spirit of forbearance she must have exercised in thus forcing, as it were, the very current of the turbid stream back up on its source. W hat 1 cramp such towering genius within the compass of a school-room! “ The creature of imagination,” teaching a-b, abs to numerous little ragged uhchins 1 Truly fortune delights in sporting with the gifted. The mishaps of herself and husband are most pathetically described. His “ acci dents by flood and field,” thus delineated, would move to tears many a gentle Desde mona. But his “ sterling qualities” carried him through; and he has, by the mere force of resolution, put Dame Fortune to flight and thrived “ upon his own hook.” “ The struggle for mere existence over his mind has had leisure to turn to litera ture.” We do not suppose this to be meant in its literal” sense, that he has turned author, but that his “sterling good sense” added to her sublime “ imagination,” has enabled them, jointly, to create quite a sensation among the literati. And now, Aunt Betsy seems about to attain the summit of her “ high ambition,” and “ bask in the sun shine of fame.” We hope the public will properly appre ciate our motives in thus presenting them with a document, valuable not only for its beauty of diction, but as a brief biography of one who occupies a prominent place in the literary community. “I was the second daughter—my older sister and brothers, of course, felt them selves my superiors—and my younger sis ter, as the youngest child, was the pet of all. Every thing she did was lauded highly, while my efforts were either passed over in silence, or the defects pointed out with ridi cule. Thus repressed at home, school be came my happiest place, for there competi tion was free; but while I was always near, or at the head of my classes, my abilities were but lightly esteemed at home. “ I was generally a favorite with my mas ters, though their kindness was shown in judicious advice, rather than in that baneful indulgence, which exempts some from the more difficult parts of their lessons, or gives mechanical assistance, to the great detriment of the minds of the so favored ? mortals. My teachers kindly explained principles, and left me to apply them, which strength ened my reasoning faculties, and has been of great advantage to me through life, for, naturally, I was extremely sensitive, and the creature of imagination. “As I advanced in years, I began to be less entirely absorbed in my studies, and to reason upon things around me. I perceived that the pecuniary circumstances of my fam ily were not so easy as formerly—a cloud of care appeared upon the brow of my mother —and when I had reached the age of thir teen, the entire support of us devolzed upon her. It was indeed hard for her— bred in affluence, and living in ease so’long, to be obliged, by her own efforts, to support a numerous offspring, who were atthattime of life when their pursuits were to be cho sen, and when they most required a father’s care. But my mother was a woman of strong mind: she saw her appointed path, and with firm step, prepared to walk in it. She established a boarding house, where gentlemen, who were finishing their medi cal studies, and other literary men, formed our family; and their conversation and in struction were of great advantage to me. I had access to their books, and my taste was formed upon just models, while I could com pare myself with those who possessed real talents; and hope, one day, to show that I had similar abilities. I attended an excel lent school until I was about sixteen—my older sister was married, my brothers either in business or learning trades—so that my mother had only my younger sister and my self to support. She still had a small num ber of boarders, and I was desirous to re lieve her advancing years of part of her re maining burden. “I consulted my teachers as to my best course, for I depended on my mental resour ces for support. They advised me, with one voice, to turn my attention to writing for the public; aud my ambition would have directed me the same way, but there was one, whose sterling good sense had won my esteem, and whom 1 looked upon as my fu ture partner in life, though we were both young. He hod a sound judgment, though his taste for literature was still dormant. 1 reflected, that if I married him, literary a V tv cations would not well accord with the calf of my duties, which would devolve upon me. not only the cares, hut much of the ac tual labor of afamily. I suppressed my am bition, therefore—took charge of a school and while I assisted ray mother, felt myself happy. My mind would sometimes yearn for higher pursuits, but after the fatigues of school hours and home duties were over, I had little spirit left to indulge in efforts for the attainment of literary excellence. “Years passed on—my sister married and, at the age of twenty, I also, with good prospect of competence, entered on thatholy state. But, alas 1 my hopes were doomed to disappointment—in six short weeks fire reduced my husband from prosperity to an embarrassedstate—sickness was my lot, and trouble seemed to come upon us, as if to try how much we could bear. “My husband preserved his fortitude, and what was more, his even temper; but em barrassment succeeded embarrassment, till at the time my second babe was given us) he was reduced to seek, in vain, for em ployment as journeyman, in thetrade where lie bad been master. His heart was wrung with our situation—for my health continued very bad, and I was obliged to exert myself to the extent of my strength, at all times and often beyond it, till the most fearful ias’ situde would ensue. “When we were thus almost reduced to despair, Providence opened a way for my kind husband, to go as supercargo of a ves sel to a distant ynrt ; and though parting was doubly painful to us, who had borne sorrow with increase of love, we hoped his efforts would he blessed. Again, however, we were doomed to disappointment—the vessel was wrecked, and his only consola tion, in that dark hour, was, that his wife and children were not exposed, with him, to the fury of the storm—all lives were saved, and he took passage from the West Indies, for home. Still again disappointed—the ves sel was driven from her course, and obliged to enter a Southern port. Homeless, pen niless, and almost naked, still his sterling qualities carried him through—besought and obtained employment—was esteemed, and in a short time, felt justified in sending for his family. Our union was joyful, it may be supposed—God only can know the gratitude of our hearts. “Years have passed—every thing has prospered under his hand—and the struggle for mere existence over, his mind has had leisure to turn to literature. He is no com mon character, as this narrative shows; but no one can value his qualities rightly, with out actual intimacy. Respected, honored, by all around him, his name is already known; and lie has become anxious that 1 too, should bask in the sunshine of fame. His urgency and encouragement have induced me toplaee before the public, some productions, which have been well received; and in after life, thissketchmay teach our children that ‘God forsakes not those who do not forsake them selves.’ ” Macon, Georgia, For the “Southern Miscellany. “ Perhaps il may turn o u t n song, Perhaps turn out a sartnon.” The above lines, I believe, were written by Burns, or by somebody else ; but let the author be who he may, of one thing I am satisfied, and that is this, they form a first rate “ heading” for what is about to follow, because I am not myself at all certain what I shall write—perhaps a song; maybe a ser mon. But I have gotten the fit upon me— the “cacoethes scribendi,” I believe the learned. folks call it-—the desire to writeand the desire to print what I write, that the world may see how much is yet unwritten and unsung, and by-the-way that your good readers, may know that there is another competitor for fame about to venture upon the stirring race. Now, I take it, that it must produce a most pleasurable sensation about the phrenological organ of “ desire of approbation” in an author, to know that hundreds of eyes are tracing the lines which have sprung from his fruitful brain, or pen —I don’t care whether the brain had any thing to do with it; and to sit down in the midst of a crowd, when the paper comes out, and all eyes are running over its pages to see who is in the paper, &c. &c. I say.it must be a treat of no ordinary sort to hear the enquiries made, “ I wonder who such and such an one is ?” and “ who is the auth or of this or that?” “that fellow writes well”—“ such a lady is a graceful writer,” and so on. Now, the anonymous writer hears and sees all this ; hears himself prais ed by every one; fells all the world like a second edition of Byron revised aud improv ed, and who but he who feels so self com placent ? who has a right to strut larger, or wear his hat with a more rakish set than him ? Now, I have witnessed all this, and I have seen it about town too. You have some nice writers, likely to do well in the literary world, and will doubtless rise one of these days, if they “ keep a cuttin,” as the saying is. I like to see them going ahead, and weaving the Web of their own glory. Now, I have a great thirst to become an author, and to hear myself—though all un known—praised by the gaping crowd ; and to hear the eager inquiries, “ well I wonder who he is ? did you ever 1 my gracious! how he writes 1” Now, sir, you may think me egotestical, and all that, and mighty for ward, and not so modest. Well, I don’t care a stiver if you do. lam rather more honest than other folks—that is all. We all love praise, and all seek it, some covert ly, some slyly, some more openly; I am flat-footed about it, and if you could only give me a puff or two—none of your in undos, but a broad up and down puff in your “ To Correspondents” corner, it would help me mightily. I intend to go the figure, sir, I shall write, and I want the praise—the honor—the glory j that’s it. That is what lam after. lam out on the ocean of po pular favor, with all sails set to catch the breath—the soft-soothing, refreshing breath of.faroe. Don’t you think I shall win the prize ? I do. lam determined on it—no matter what you think, or what any body else thinks. I believe that to will it, is to do it. So I give to all your corresdondents, and to you, too, Mr. Editor, fair warning: lam out—out in the field, a candidate—QOt