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VOLUME I. | BY C. R. HANLEITER. P®HT K ¥ a “ Much yet remains unsung .” FUNERAL ODE. > [The following beautiful ode, by Thus. D. Rice, Esq. was sung at the celebration of the obsequies of the late Duke of Orleans, by the French citizens of Sa vannah.] Air —“ Bruce's Address to his Army.” Mourn France, astarhas set, That would have graced thy coronet i Oh! may its parting radiance yet, Give tranquil light to thee. Mourn France, thy lustrous shield, Has lost a lotos from its field ; May thy remaining lilies yield, A soothing balm to thee. Mourn, gay and gallant France, For braver heart, or brighter lance, Ne’er led thy laurel’d guard’s advance, To deeds of chivalry. Mourn, that his life is done, Thy patriot prince, thy noble son, Thy monarch’s heir, thy chosen one, To guide thy destiny. Rich frankincense perfumes the aisle, Devotion fills the sacred pile, And sadden’d hearts invoke the while, Kind Heaven’s clemency. Oh! what is wealth, or what is fame, Or life, an evanescent dream, Without religion’s lambcut flame, There's no felicity. We meet to sympathize with thee; We pray, that God may strengthen thee; Fair France,still may’st thou be free, From teuds and anarchy. And may it be our God’s behest, Who took thy ‘Orleans to his rest; That he, thy Prince, may with the bless’d, Have peace eternally. 0© 0 A L TAL I For the “Southern Miscellany.” “ INTRIGUE,” OR THE BITERS BITTEN. Walter Burr is one of those rare young men who occasionally appear in these de generate days to revive the fading glories of ancient gallantry. Handsome, talented and fascinating, he prides himself above all other qualifications on rendering himself agreeable to the fairer part of creation—and that he suc ceeds in his aim, the number of his rivals and enemies sufficiently testifies. If you chanced last week to see him cara coling down Broadway, you probably, tho’t him only intent oti displaying his faultless person, or bis horsemanship j. no : had you looked again you would have perceived him a moment after, hovering around the equip age of the beautiful Mrs. Grant, or leaning towards the half open window to continue a conversation commenced half an hour before in her boudoir. In the evening, you perhaps met him at the opera. Do you think he was attracted there by the music ? Not he ; but the lovely Mrs. Meadows is passionately devoted to it. Great was the consternation in town the mother day : Walter had not been seen for a week, either at the opera, the theatre,or any of his accustomed haunts. The ladies were inconsolable. What bad become of him ? The cause of his sudden disappearance is a secret, only whispered as yet in the most exclusive circle of /taut ton; but it shall be disclosed to you gentle reader, though under a strict injunction to secrecy—at least for the present. It seems that his very intimate and fash ionable friend, Mr. Grant, most unaccounta bly thought proper a.few weeks ago to take offence at the extra attention of our hero to his lady, and wished to put a stop to it; but well knowing that the charitable world al ways supposes a suspicious husband to have cause for his complaint, ho was extremely desirous of masking his jealously under a plausible pretext —and, fortunately, chance soon offered an excellent opportunity for ridding himself of his rival. He found means to have him arrested for debt, and placed the walls of a prison between him and his wife. This is the manner in which it was man aged: Mr.Grant one evening interrupted an interesting conversant! between the parties, .and drawing his lady aside said to her, •“ A few of our friends are engaged to dine with us to-morrow, but 1 have accident ally neglected to invite Mr. Burr. You, my love, must repair this omission of mine ; Walter is too polite to refuse even a late in vitation from you.” “ He will come,” said the lady, towards the close of the evening, to her husband.” Ihe next day, therefore, at five o’clock, all the invited guests were assembled at Mr. Grant’s, with tne exception of Walter who had not made his appearance ; and aftei de laying the repast half an hour, just when the Jfnpatience of the company began to display itself by frequent glances at the clock, his friend Charles Rashly entered, and, in a low Voice,communicated something to their host. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr. Grant, in a grave tone, “I have just learned that an unforeseen occurrence must deprive us of the pleasure of Mr. Burr’s company to-day; but Mr. Rashly will gtatify us by taking his place.” “If any accident lias happened to the gen- < tleman,” said Mrs. Meadows, a delicate lit tle beauty, “ pray do not take away our ap petites by telling it.” & jFamUfi JLetosjmper: Brfcotetr to Hiterattire, Startatlture, J&ecfiawtco, 23Trucatfou, jForetcn autr ©omesttc XntcUiflcuce, tec. “ Indeed,” said Mr. Grant, “ the event has taken me completely by surprise, and I certainly would not depress your spirits by disclosing it.” Os coarse, this appearance of caution in creased every one’s curiosity ten-fold. “ Perhaps Mr. Burr has been engaged in a duel,” observed Mrs. Barnard, carelessly. “ And be may have been wounded !” ex claimed the lady of Colonel Elliot, while to her husband’s ear at least, her voice appear ed to tremble. “Mr. Rashly,” said one of the gentlemen, “ these ladies will never be satisfied till they have heard the news you bring.” “Unluckily,” said Charles, “it cannot long be news to any one. The fact is, that poor Walter is in debt—as who is not?— but his creditors happen to be particularly savage, and one of them arrested him to-day just as he was preparing to join your party.” “He fell into my trap,” thought Mr.Gi ant, then, in an hypocritical tone, he exclaimed, “ Poor Walter ! I had no idea of his embar rassments.” This affair furnished the principal subject of conversation at dinner, during which the prisoner was alternately blamed, pitied, and defended. “ The devil take him ! how does my wife happen to be so well acquainted with his af fairs ?” muttered the wealthy Mr. Barnard. “ Well, he is in prison now, and there lie may stay for all me.” “ My wife seems unusually interested in this young man,” thought Mr. Stanley, “hap pily his prison walls are solid ; let him get out if he can !” “ 1 feel great sympathy for Walter,” said Rashly, “it is no trifle to relinquish all the articles of taste and luxury which he has been at the pains of collecting. Rich furni ture, choice books, exquisite pictures, and many other articles of virtu, all must come under the hammer.” “ W hat!” said (he scientific Colonel, “ his valuable shells and minerals?” “His splendid French furniture?” said Barnard. “His library too?” exclaimed Stanley. “ Our dear friend’s misfortune,” resumed Charles, “ will soon become but too public ; and it will scarcely be credited that among his numerous friends, the sum of live thou sand dollars could not be raised for him.” “Mr. Rashly is very right,” said Mrs. Stan ley, thoughtlessly. “ Pooh !” said her husband, “ it is quite enough for us to pay our wives’ debts, with out answering for those of their gallants al so,” added he in a low voice. “ True enough,” remarked his friend Barnard. “ But,” said Charles, “ these things will probably be sacrificed for almost nothing.— We ought to buy them in, and though Wal ter lias no wife to be benefitted by the trans action, we may do it for bis sister. The plan has succeeded admirably of late, for no one will bid against the ladies, you know.” “ Aba !” said the Colonel, “we under stand ; but I suspect that trick will not serve again.” “Oh, never fear,” exclaimed Charles, “the world is easily gulled. We must all go to this sale, and that the business may be con ducted completely among friends, I will de vise means to keep off everyone but our own party.” “ I fear that will be less to Walter’s bene fit than you imagine,” thought Mrs. Grant. “ I will take the furniture,” said Barnard. “ And I the library,” said Stanley. “ The shells and fossils I must have,” said the Colonel. “ And will you not take part in the good work ?” inquired Mrs. Grant of her husband. “ There are several vacancies in our picture gallery.” “True; let the pictures be my share,” said he. Walter’s friends having thus divided his goods to their own satisfaction, at length sep arated with an arrangement to meet at an early hour on the day of sale. But before that time arrived, all the ladies had taken a different view of the affair, and unanimously agreeing that it had better be left to chance, endeavored to dissuade their husbands from . meddling with it. But these remonstrances came too late, and at the appointed hour all the gentlemen assembled according to agreement, with san guine hopes of finding the coast clear; but on entering the rooms they were both sur prised and disappointed to find six or eight sturdy looking men already there. “ Did you bring in these people ?” said Barnard to Rashly. “ Certainly not: on the contrary, in con sequence of a mistake in the advertisement, which I took care should not be rectified, the sale is not-expected to tuke place these three hours.” “ Any how, these look like bidders.” “ What if they are ? The worst they can do is to make you pay a little more, and that you can well afford.” “ My wife was right,” muttered Barnard between his teeth, “ it would have been bet ter for me to stay at home. This affair is going to cost me something.” The sale now commenced, and the furniture was first put up; yet rich and attractive as it was, no voice but Barnard’s was heard to bid upon it. This being the part which he had selected, his friends Were too polite to raise the price upon him. “ Thu Jew !” thought Charles, *• It was MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 3, 1812. worth three times what he has given. I hope the others will be more liberal.” But, alas ! distrust the generosity of your friends, if they happen to be among the rich. The valuable library, pictures, statues, bron zes, and tasteful articles of every description, all shared the same fate. Each of Walter’s friends chose what he preferred, and seized upon it without remorse : he was in the predicament of a conquered soldier whose enemies were dividing his spoils. “ Thank fate !” thought the new posses sors with secret joy, “ Walter is secure in prison.” “ Gentlemen,” said Charles, as he saw them preparing to depart, “have you drain ed your purses, or do you think there is noth ing more to purchase ? The sale is not fin ished.” “ Indeed!” said Barnard, turning back, “ what remains ?” The rooms were now rapidly filling with idle and curious spectators, attracted by the novelty of such a spectacle in the neighbor hood ; and, mingled with them, a few of the unlucky creditors might easily be distin guished by their elongated visages. After a short interval the auctioner laid his hand on a small ivory casket of delicate workmanship, and turning the silver key, drew forth a gold cross and chain. “Twenty dollars, for this cross and chain,” cried the auctioneer. “ That is as much as it is worth,” whis pered a jeweller to his neighbor. At this instant a man who stood near the auctioneer, one of those whose appearance had pteviously alarmed Barnard, stepped foi .vhrd and requested to examine the arti cle. T his man with bis companions had at tentively followed all the movements of the game, and seemed, like a prudent player, to have been watching a favorable moment to throw in his stake. “ Thirty dollars!” said lie. “ Ah,” thought Barnard, “ it must be of some value. Forty dollars !” “Forty dollars for the cross and chain !” Barnard having weighed it in his hand and found it light, began to repent his offer, when bis opponent with the utmost sang froid cal led nut, “ Sixty dollars!’’ “The deuce,” thought Barnard, “that man must be crazy.” The cross, passing from hand to hand, at length reached Elliot, who touching a se cret spring which bad escaped the attention of the others, it flew open and displayed a curl of black hair. “Two hundred dollars!” exclaimed the Colonel, hastily closing it. “Elliot, are you dreaming?” said Mr. Grant, slapping him on the shoulder. “ Let me alone,” cried he, roughly sha king off - his friend’s hand. “ Two hundred dollars for the cross and chain !” . “ Three hundred!” said the first bidder. “ Four hundrnd I” shouted Elliot, in a threatening tone, as if resolved to intimidate his adversary. “ He must have lost his reason,” thought Grant; “ after purchasing articles of great worth for a tenth part their value, he is now ready to ruin himself for this bauble. “ Four hundred dollars for the cross and chain !” “ Five hundred!” exclaimed the pertina cious stranger. “ Six hundred !” “ Seven hundred !” But here Elliot’s friends crowded around him, and in spite of his efforts and menaces they stifled his voice, until the cross was de creed to the stranger. As soon as he was released, the Colonel sought him in vain among the crowd : be had disappeared. A pearl necklace was next drawn from the casket. “ An hundred dollars for a pearl neck lace,” cried the auctioneer. “ That is dear for it,” murmured the jew eller. “ An hundred and fifty !” exclaimed an other of the mysterious band. “T wo hundred!” sighed a voice from the crowd. “ Who bid two huudred dollars?” it j > Every eye now turned on Mr. Meadows, and observed with surprise the paleness which overspread his countenance. Then commenced a struggle between him and the unknown bidder, similar to the one we have already described. Each pearl was valued higher than the whole had originally cost. The creditors rubbed their hands joyfully; and Charles began to imagine that Walter’s friends were amusing themselves by paying in this manner for the rich booty they had already acquired. The necklace soon reached such a price that the auctioneer determined to stop the frantic contention by suddenly adjudging the object in dispute at fifteen hundred dollars: and while Mr. Meadows foaming with rage, threatened and stormed in vain, the stranger cooly paid for his prize and departed. “ An antique Cameo, set in diamonds, one hundred dollars,” cried the auctioneer. “An hundred and fifty!” “ Ah, here goes again,” exclaimed Bar nard ; “ this box seems to be enchanted, and to contain talismans : let me see the cameo.” Stanley, who stood behind him, leaned over his shoulder to examine it also, but scarcely had his eye rested on it, wheu he called out in an agitated voice, * “ Two hundred!” “And are you running mad too ?” exclaim ed Barnard, looking round in amazement. “Three hundred !” said the first bidder. “ Four hundred !” persisted Stanley. The price of the cameo now rose rapidly, and soon exceeded that of the necklace. “Bravo,” thought Charles, “Walter i3 free.” “ This is necromancy,” said Grant; “it far exceeds my comprehensionbut having examined the ring, he whispered a few words to Barnard, and a meaning smile passed be tween them. “ Stanley,” said the latter, “ if you were not my friend, I should be tempted to bid for that ring—but I know it must be inval uable to you.” A burst of laughter accompanied these words. Stanley blushed, and relinquished the cameo to his adversary, who paid for it and was quitting the room, when he essayed to follow him, but found himself detained with iron force. “ What is the matter ?” said he, perceiv ing that it was Barnard who held him pris oner, “ lef go my arm ; you hurt me.” But vain were his efforts to release him self from that convulsive grasp. “Fifty dollars for this bracelet,” cried the auctioneer. “ Three hundred !” exclaimed Barnard, in a hoarse voice, apparently hoping to dis engage competition by the extravagance of his offer. “Five hundred!” said one of the unknown bidders, with the utmost nonchalance. On hearing this, Barnard’s emotion be came so excessive that he fell fainting into the arms of his friend, and while he remain ed insensible, the bracelet passed into the stranger’s hands, who soon followed the steps of those who had already borne off the cross, the necklace, and the cameo. “Ah!” exclaimed Mr.Grant, “how much this story will amuse my wife ! But,” ad ded he, “ who the devil can these people be, who have half ruined themselves to drive all these gentlemen crazy, and frighten poor Barnard into fits ?” As lie made this remark, the auctioneer drew from the enchanted casket a medallion, richly mounted, and containing—oh, mis hap ’ —the miniature of Mrs. Grant. As he held it up to view, it was instautly recognis ed, and several voices were beard loudly praising the resemblance ; but no one ap peared to bid against the disconcerted hus band except Barnard, who, having regained his senses, and smarting under his own mor tification, seemed to take malicious pleasure in running it up to an exliorbitant price. Thus these trifles, which a jeweller would not have valued altogether at three hundred dollars, sold for five times more thau the library, the pictures, the furniture, and every other valuable united. The friends separated with many a silent pressure of the hand—now fully compre hending wlTy the ladies had so strenuously opposed their design. However, as wonders are never to cease, Colonel Elliot on returning home found his lady ready dressed to attend a charitable meeting. She wore the identical cross and chain, and laughed incredulously when her bewildered husband asserted that he had just seen it in Walter’s apartment. As for Barnard, on reaching his own house he seated himself at table without say ing a word to his*wife; but after dinner, having arranged his plan of vengeance, he assumed an amiable air, and looking stead fastly at her— “ I believe, my love,” said be, “ that we spoke of going to the theatre this evening, and I wish you to wear your emerald brace let ; I have not seen it this long while.” Certainly, my dear, if you desire it,” she replied, without betraying the slightest emotion. Tiie amazement of the husband may well be imagined, when she appeared a few mo ments after with the bracelet sparkling on her arm. A similar scene passed at Mr. Stanley’s and Mr. Meadows’. As for Mr. G rant, he bitterly repented his trick on Waller, and has thought best to take his wife to New-Orleans, where they will probably pass the winter. But before his departure, indeed on the very day after the sale, Walter Burr, released from his bonds, and, prompted equally by civility and grati tude, left his card with each of his liberators, not forgetting Mr. Grant. Macon, Georgia, Parental Partiality. —There is one fatal danger in family government, which every f arent should avoid, and that is partiality. t is too often the case that fathers and moth ers have their favorite child. From these two evils result: In the first place, the pet usually becomes a spoiled child, and the “flower of the family” seldom yields any other than bitter fruit. In the second place, the neglected part of the household feel hatred towards the parent that makes the odious distinction. Disunion is thus sown in what ought to Ire the Eden of life; a sense of wrong is planted by the parent’s hand in the hearts of a part of his family ; an example of injustice is written on the soul of the offspring, by him who should instil into it, by every word and deed, the holy princi ples of equity. This is a subject of giea,t importance, and I commend it to the partic ular notice of all parents. “ Fondness for fame is avarice of air.” M 0 ® © E L (L A KI Y . THE MAINTOPMAN’S DEATH-BED. BY EDWARD UOWARD. The assistant surgeon, and the overgrown and womanish-looking youth who tended upon the afflicted, were the only pereons in the sick-bay, excepting the departing sea man, John Rock wood. The evening breezes dallied gently with the white and extented sails, and made a melancholy music, pecu liarly their own, among the tightened and well-stretched standing and running rigging. The sounds from these rough and noble harp-Strings might, fancy-aided, have been thonght to breathe a requiem of the most soothing melody to the dying maintopman. There was that awful bush throughout the populous ship which, though not absolute silence, might be said to be something more still. The low moaning of thegentle winds, the faint splashing of the waves, and the careful tread of the few officers who were moving about, indicated that life and action still existed, but existed with a subdued solemnity, well befitting the quiet death-bed of the humble and the good. The.hardy and stalwart seamen were at quarters, and they whispered to each other in sorrowful accents that their shipmate was “ going aloft,” was “ under way for the right place,” had “trippled his anchor for glory,” and in many other sea-taught and quaint expressions intimated their convic tion that lie was down in the “ good behavi or list,” and had secured “ a good berth” where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary find rest. The men had been mustered, whilst the slanting sunbeams streamed through the port-holes upon the glistening cutlasses : all the dreadful appurtenances belonging to “ glorious war” had been reported ready for action, and secured for the night, and Captain Dabricourt was on the point of or dering the first lieutenant to “ beat the re treat,” when the assistant surgeon walked slowly and lightly accross the quarter deck, and whispered the surgeon, who approached the captain, and communicated with him in a low tone. The commander of the Majestic bowed bis head sorrowfully at this information, and approaching the break of the quarter-deck, commanded, in a subdued tone of voice, that the boatswain’s mates should pass the word fore and aft, for the men to disperse themselves quietly. One man on board was to hear no more the cheerful rattle of “dou blingdrum.” Attended by the surgeon and his assis tant, Captain Dabricourt proceeded to the sick-bay, and was soon standing near the hammock, where swung, on his death-bed, the honest and once blythe maintopman, John Rockwood. There was no chaplain on board. At the time of which we are speaking, there were, at most, but three or four clergymen dis persed among many ships, and it was sel dom that a single cruizer was so fortunate as to possess one. As Captain Dabricourt stood over the dying man, gazing wistfully in the wan countenance beneath him, he held open the prayer book at the office of the visitation of the sick. “Isherationalenoughtobebenefitedby the divine consolation ?” said the captain, ad dressing the surgeon. “ I hardly know, Captain Dabricourt.— The poor fellow fancies that he is overlook ing a party of agricultural laborers who are moving down the grass in the green fields of his native village. He is very restless.— Listen !” “ The scythes want sharpening, lubbers all!” murmured Rockwood. “ See the waving grass rises again fast—fast as they sweep it down. A ropeyarn for such mow ers ! They do no more than the summer wind as it sweeps over the fields ; there— there —there 1” and he pointed to the danc ing waves, all green and joyous, which rose and fell not unlike the bending and rising grass in a meadew ready for the scythe. Rockwood was then silent for a space, gazing intently through the port-hole upon the sea, and feebly nodding his head and waving his attenuated hand to the motion of the waters. “ Yes,” he continued, “ I know ifiat I am very ill, and it is terrible to die here, away from my gallant ship, and my jolly, jolly messmates. I always hoped to be buried in the cool blue seas, a thousand fathoms, below all the sharks. What a quiet, loomy, pleasant grave ! No mould, no dirt, no filthy worms. But now, poor Jack will be huddled into the churchyard, among the bones of a parcel of shoregoing sinners, to rot in a six feet deep grave. How I bate that rotting! Mow away, mow away, ye lubbers! You see the grass is up agaiu be fore you have time to bring your scythes round.” An expressive look passed between the captain and the surgeon, which plainly indi cated that they thought the poor fellow in extrimity, and that they ought not to pray with, hut for him. The captain then com menced with a solemn voice, reading the prayers for the sick at the point of depar ture. When he came to the words—“ We humbly commend the soul of this thy ser vant, our dear brother,” the sailor rallied at the word brother amazingly, for very strong ly bad the captain emphasized it. “Brother? my brother ! Where is hfc? j NUMBER 23. W. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR. and where atn I ? No, no, no—your honor s you are not my brother!” andhemadean abor tive effort to perform the accustomed pluck at the forelock—the mark of dcfcrcncetohis commander; “ I know better than that: you are my captain—God bless you, sir.” “ Your brother—your friend and broth er !” “ I cannot very well make out my bear ings and distance,” said Rockwood, hesita tingly, and with a very feeble voice. “ I seem to be in two places at once—in my own village and in my aunt’s room, looking out upon the half-yearly parish land ; and yet, things are about me that could only be on board ship. lam sure I’ve had a metho* dy parson praying with me the last two glasses; and what vexes me is, that I, & thorough seaman, who has always done a seaman’s duty, should be buried in a dirty grave ashore!” This was uttered with ma ny interruptions, yet the meaning was dis tinct. “John Rockwood,” said the captain, “I never, purposely, deceived any one. Col lect yourself, my good friend. Believe it, that you are now very dangerously ill,on board bis majesty’s ship Majestic.” “In deep sea, and in blue water ?” asked the poor man, anxiously. “ The water blue as midnight—the depth unfathomable—we have no soundings.” Then, after a pause, the sailor said, in a very low, yet firm voice—“ lam ready aye—ready!” “ Then turn your thoughts with me to your Maker,” replied Captain Dabricourt. He then read the necessary prayers, to which it was evident that the departing man attended devoutly, as, when the office was finished, he’appeared to lapse into cons ciousness; his embrowned andjnow bony fingers were uplifted, and he was perfectly heard to ask—“ Have I done my duty ?” “ Gallantly, nobly, bravely—always—al ways !” said Captain Dabricourt, with a voice trembling with emotion. “ Alow and aloft—alow and aloft! Hur rah !” How faint, how pitiable was that dy ing shout. It was the last sound uttered by John Rockwood, the maintopman. In the middle-watch, two of bis mess mates were assisting the sail-maker in sew ing John up in a hammock, chaunting, in a low voice, the simple dirge—“ He’s gone, what a hearty good fellow !” “ Give him a double allowance of shot,” said one; ’cause as how, poor fellow, be had a notion that the deeper he went, it was more becoming to a regular out and out sai ler. But it’s my notion, that seeiug as if we does our duty, it won’t signify where we start from, when we are all mustered at the last day. \Ve shall all be in time, depend on’t!” “ I think so, too,” said the sail-maker. THE END OF THE DRUNKARD. The New Yoik correspondent of the Uuited States Ga zette, describing an event on the Battery, concludes his letter with this affecting incident. “A crowd had gathered near the gate at the southern extremity of the Battery, and several voices rose at the Same moment on the air, crying for vengeance upon a tatter ed form that reeled into the enclosure in a *beastly state of intoxication. He was ap- ! latently about fifty years of age, followed >y a young, beautiful end interesting girl, not out of her teens. A moment before I saw him lie iiad raised bis arm and struck this lovely being to the earth. For Ibis the crowd was pursuing him, and doubtless would have committed some summary act upon the inebriate wretch, had not the same delicate form interposed to prevent the con summation of the deed. She approached timidly, and fondly begged the monster to go home. He swore by the living God that he would never return. Little did he think as he uttered the oath that the vengeance of that God his sacrile gious lips had profaned was at that moment hanging over him, and that the angel of death was waiting upon the waters to bear him with all his sins upon his head, into the presence of the Creator he bad mocked. He shook the fair girl from him with a curse and staggered to the railing. A clus ter of boats was at some distauce from the shore, and a few voices were singing one of Russell’s songs. The drunkard had contriv ed to clamber on one of the uppermost rails, and after having seated himself, called out to the singers to perform something lively, or “ d—n his eyes, he would come out there and sing for himself.” These were the last words he uttered. In endeavoring to change his position, his foot slipped, and he fell in the waters to rise no more. Great exer tions made by the boats to render him assistance, and more than one daring soul plunged into the sea; but all in vain—his body has not yet been recovered. The tide was running strong at the time, and we may hear of his body being washed upon the op posite shore in a few days. The poor girl was utmost frantic—she rushed to the water’s edge crying—“ Fat her ! fathei ! dear father! far Heaven’s sake, save my father!” It was indeed her father. He had once enjoyed a handsome property, hut liquor ruined him. He sold uis house for it, and at last his garments. His wife died from want, and this daughter had sup- C ot ted him and her brothers by the labor of er bands. He swore he would never again enter her house, because she would not givo hi® h-