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BV C. R. HANLEITER. IP © £ Y 2 ¥. Fur the “ Southern Miscellany.” A DUE AM. •f o • . “ Amen to that, sweet powers ! 1 cannot speak enough of this content, It stops me here ; it is too much of joy.” j dreamed that thou wert mine, my love, That naught on earth e’er could sever, Or take from me my gentle dove— That I’d dwell with thee for ever. I Methnnght I held Slice by the hand And gazed into thy speaking eye ; And, oh ! 1 felt ipy soul expand, As tho’ I were in realms on high! My heart! ’iwa full to running over With bliss; and joy, ‘twas most replete ; That 1 could wish, nor ask for more — My happiness was most complete. I would that I could e'er have slept In this sweet dream of heavenly dsy, As Hope's bright sun it might have kept, All dark’ning clouds of doubt aw ay. This vision I can ne'er forget, While here I draw this fl-eting breath ; With my last thought ‘twill linger yet, E'en ‘til I elose my eyes in death. LB SOLITAIRE. @IL!E©TE© YALE®. Freni the New Mirror : THE DISCARDED. [COXCI.UDEO ] I It tvas now May. The long, dreary win lei had passed; once more the trees put i Ifiutli their leaves; gaily the birds warbled i I amid their branches, filling the air aiotmd j [with their sweet melody. The beautiful I flowers, too, sprung up with the brig' t j | green grass, and all nature rejoiced in the . [glad presence of spiing. I But, alas! there vvas nospring in tlieheart ; Inf the poor forsaken Gaily. Her slender | I‘urrn had wasted away until it seemed too i ■frail to soppoit its lovely bin then; her ; Icheeks were sunken and colorless as marble; her beautiful hair had lost its brightness,, have where the silver thread already gleam lid naturally arming the tresses of the doom- j led giil. Her eye, too, now shone with a 1 Itrange arid tcriihlc brilliancy. J Whether it xvas the mental suffering she Irver endured for her wretched lot, uneer lainly as to the fate of her lover, the reflec- j lion, too, that she was an outcast from her lamily, with a parent’s curse ever ringing Inhertars; whether it was this, or the con riant companionship of that most hideous liiil crone whom her fathei had placed about ■er, which harrowed her soul to madness. Is difficult to determine —hut the fatal real ity was accomplished —Gaily was a marti- I;', t I Much physical suffering, too, had tho poor Kid endured. Compelled by hunger to eat ■ondfiom which her father’s menials would Pave turned away in scorn; at times aHnost Perishing with cold, and shut out from that pure air where, like a bird, she had ever loved in freedom; alas ! it is no wonder Itbat Reason forsook her throne. I Fur hours now would the poor girl pace Iwith rapid steps around the walls of her lirison; shrieking wildly, and calling, with |iie most piteous lamentations, on her father r-on Onnwahoo to release her. Again, pith wild dance and song, she wonIJ exhaust per feeble strength. Sometimes she would lancy herself again flying with Onowahoo pom her father’s roof; or that she was lis lening to that heavy curso; for on her knees, virile she would heat her breast and weep, ■he would pray her father not to curse her. It was not always thus; there were times when, for a few hours. Reason resumed her Inipire; yet who can tell whether the men fcl struggles she then endured were not ■tore dreadful than even the raving parox isms ! I It was during one of these lucid intervals ■tat (rnity one morning saw two persons ap- B ro * l 'hing the house, and one a female.— villi what eagerness she watched them ! ns ■tay drew near he! heart thi ebbed tumultu- Budy ! ■ “Edith! Edith!” she shrieked, ns she B*ognized the light step of her sister. ■ Edith eagerly raised her head to that sol- Bury window, revealing the spectral face of Baity, glued, as it were, to the glass. With ■ jay fal wave of her hand, and a cry of de fcta, Edith now flew to the door, ft yield- B not. She knocked; again and again, ■ n 'l shook the latch convulsively. No an ■wer was given, but she could hear the sobs Bnl prayers of Gaity, beseeching someone B 1 unbar the door. The sturdy Jacques, ■(nvevei, waited for no permission, but, Bizing a billet of wood, he soon heat in the B' ar ded casement, and springing through B e opening, he drew Edith carefully with -81,81,B 1, fho next moment Gaity had fainted on ■ lc Ixisom of her sister! I It were a vain attempt to describe the Velioirj 0 f Edith, at the situation in which Bta found her sister. ■ 0 father, cruel father, is it you have B' 1 "® this!” she exclaimed. I, re ning tho insensible form to her breast, kissed that pale, altered face, while of pity and indignation streamed down B r cheeks. I tast, with a low moan, Gaily opened ■ fr eyes, and fixed them npqp her sister. A W@®My H®ws]p&]p®ff s 3D)®wfc®dl t® Hows* IWMJwatar®* Agrf®iHi3ltar®* MosHaam© Afffts* S©ii<m®® s <&©<> •* Gaity. dear Gaity, have I found you at I last!” sobbed Edith. *‘ VV ho calls Gaity !” she replied, spring- j itig from the arms of her sister, her eyes I (lushing with insanity. “ Who calls Gaity ? j Gaity is dead. They buried her with Ono- ! wuhoo under the dry leaves. Ha—ha—ha! i You are late to the bridal.” Then, advanc- j ing on tip-tie to Edith, she said—“ Come, I ‘ am ready ! Hush! tread softly! Don’tawa- j ken mother; she sleeps. There, now row quickly! See! the Sloe-blossom will glad den the lodge of Onowahoo !” She then seized the hand of Edith, and hurried her up the creeking stairs. ‘• Here is another birdie, Nel!,” she cried, in evident delight. “ Ha—ha—ha ! She is caged too /” I ” Oh, my God, this is indeed terrible ! Gaity, dearest Gaity, don’t you know me 7” cried Edith; “ have you forgotten ine?” But Gaity made no answer; apparently, her mind now wandered to the scene of her capture, for, with a horrible shriek, she now called on Walter for mercy. “Bind me —bind me —but, O! Walter, take off that chain from him —from Ono wuhoo. Have you no mercy ! No—no— no!” In this manner her ravings continued for more than an hour, when at length, perfect ly exhausted, she sobbed herself to sleep in the arms of Edith, who, as she became more quiet, had folded her to her bosom and wept over her in agony. She now endeavored to obtain some in formation from the miserable old woman ; but it was in vain. Apparently alarmed at ! llie sight of Edith, she had crouched down ! in a corner, and to all her questions only answered ; “ Go away—go away.” Long did the lieait-stricken Edith watch by the side of the poor manaic. and the shades of night writ* alteady falling when the si;fitter opened her eyes. The fit had passed off, and Gaity, now bursting into tears, threw her arms around the neck of Edith, murmuring, in a low, tremulous voice ; “ It is no dream, then, dearest Edith 7 1 You have come to take me away ? You wi.l carry me to my mother?” (Alas, she knew not that dear mother was dead !) — “ Dear Edith, O take me home!” “ Yes, dearest, Gaity, you shall eo home, | hut no', to-night. To mot row, dearest, I will come for you.” “ To-night, jo-night,” interrupted Gaity, “ O let me go to-night. Do not leave me 1 again,” she cried, clinging tightly around i her. “O, no, let us go—now —this mo ment !” j Edith, at length succeeded in calming I the agitation of Gaity, and after assuring ; her that the next dav she would return, and that she should go with her to her own dear home, she tore herself away from her em braces, and with a bleeding heart left the island. On reaching home, Edith went immedi- J atcly to her father’s room, where he usually | spent his evenings alone. Concealment was vain. Throwing her- ! seif into his arms she cried : I “ Forgive me, father, but I have seen her j —I have seen Gaity !” Speechless with astonishment, Mr. Tre vor gazed into the pule face of Edith, now bathed in teats, who, sinking on her knees nnd clasping his hand in hers, continued ; “O, father, father, forgive her! I con jure you, by the memory of my own dear mother, whose name I hear, and of that kind and gentle being who now looks down j from heaven upon the sufferings of her child; 1 0, I beseech you to forgive her. She is dying, father—yes, Gaity is (lying ! Fath er, she is a maniac! O bring her borne, she can no more offend ; bless her and for give her, ere she dies. O father, bring her home, or let me go nnd die with her!” The heart of Mr. Trevor was melted ; he folded his child to his hiensf, mingling his tears with hers. Edith again urged her Ruir, and related every circumstance of her visit to her sister, only interrupted by the . heavy groans which now burst from the bo- ‘ sum of the repentant father. “ Your brothers have deceived me,” lie said ; •• they have always assured me the j I poor child was well and that in oil their con- i versatiou with her she had never manifested any repentance for her misconduct.” “Alas! father,” interrupted Edith, “they | hove nevei seen hei—have never spoken ! with her !” Basil and Welter were immediately sum- i moned, and after vainly attempting toeqitiv- I ocate, tit length confessed the part they had acted. “Out upon you !” exclaimed the miscra- j hlc father. “What! are you human ! Did l not entrust that wretched girl to your charge, bidding you treat her with kind ! ness! Inhuman brothers! you have mur tiered your sister !” There was no sleep at the Grove that night, and, ere the dawn of day, Mr. Trc- | vor, accompanied by Edith and Jacques, ; had set out for the island. Swiftly now nas the boat propelled to , tho shore, nnd w*illi rapid step Edith flew along the path conducting to the lone abode j of Gaily, followed by her father, trembling ; with agitation at the thought of so soon j meeting the victim of his pride. As they i approached the house, Edith looked up at the window, where she had before seen the | oale face of Gaity. She wa# not there.—- MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, FEBRUARY 23, 1844. They entered the house—the silence of the i grave rested upon it. Edith now rushed up | the ruined staircase. The room was empty. j In vain she called her beloved sister—echo j j alone replied. Filler! with apprehension i they now left the house and entered the i : finest, culling distractedly upon the name of | Gaity. For some time their search proved [ fruitless, when, suddenly, llie faint sound of j ! a voice reached their ears. Hastening ea gerly in the direction from which it proceed ed, Edith soon distinguished the tones of Nell, as if in entreaty, saying ; “Gome home, pretty bird ; come home, birdie !” Gently now, lest she might alarm her I sister, Edith advanced. Seated on the j i ground, her head reclining against a tree, ( was Gaity. Her eyes were closed as if in j sleep, while a sweet sinile rested on her lips, j Wreathed amid her long hair, which fell around her as a pall, was a garland of wild flowers, and her lap was full of these frail blossoms, just as in happy days of child hood she had plaited and woven them into garlands. One arm hung listless at her j side ; the other lay across her 13p, the long slender fingers still grasping the flowers.— Over her bent the old woman, as if trying to awaken her. “ Gaily, dear Gaity, we have come,” cri ed Edith, springing to her side—but theie was no answer. She was dead ! Oh the agony of that moment ! The grief and distraction of the faithful sister! The horror and remorse of the father ! re penting, now too late —the victim was far beyond his cruelty or his kindness ! From what incoherent words they could gather from the old woman, it appeared that Gaity had stolen out early that mottling through the broken casement left by Jac ques. When the poor girl found lierstlf once more inhaling the pute air of heaven, with her foot again pressed on the green sward in freedom. she screamed with de light. Like a bird, she flew from spot to spot, singing the songs she used to warble in childhood, clapping her hands in ccstacy, and stooping to gather the wild flowers which sprung up in her path. In this man ner she reached the forest ; and now the image of Onowahoo was brought, by asso ciation, to her wacdeiing mind. Willi child-like glee she called him to her, and then, os if cat tied hack to those scenes where so much of her early life had been spent, she laughed and chatted as though the com panion of her youthful spott was even now at her side. After awhile she appeared to weary, and, calling Onowahoo to sit beside her, she threw heiself under a tree, and for some time, laughing and singing hy turns, amused herself in entwining the wild flow ers she had gathered amid her hair. Death came now in mercy, disarmed of | all his terrors. Gently lie laid ids hand up j on her innocent brow, ami she sank into his j arms as a tired child on the bieast of its I motliet, happy in the delusion that her lov er was at her side ; and that the trees, the i birds, nnd the flowers were the same that | hail surtouuded her in infancy, Her remains were borne fmm the island, and placed at the feet of her mother. The flowers she had loved so well sprung up around her grave, nourished by the tears of her mourning sister, who daily visited the spot where, released from all suffering, her beloved Gaity reposed. Nearly a year hud passed since the death j of the ill-fated Gaity, when; one morning, ■ Edith as usual bent her steps to the spot so ; sacred to her affections. She started, as she j drew near, to perceive some person already ihere, kneeling by tiie grave of Gaily ! She softly advanced— “Onowahoo!” she exclaimed, springing to his side. He raised his head slowly, revealing in deed the features ofOmwahoo, but so worn with care and suffering that it was almost j impossible for another than Edith to have ! recognized him. I “ The Sloe-blo**snm sleeps,” said lie, in a ’ low, muscular tone; “she hears not the i voice of Onowahoo !” j “ She is in heaven,” replied Edith ; “she I hears you there.” ! The Indian raised his head, and looking upward, ns if lie really saw the angel foim ’ of Gaily bonding over him, remained for a few moments silent, then, turning to Edith, he said : “ Onowahoo departs for ever. He has 1 seen the spot where the Sine-blossom lies , withered, and the heart of Onowahoo is 1 i crushed beneath !” Stooping and plucking a violet from the ‘ j grave, he was about to depart, when, with 1 all the kind sympathy of a woman’s heart Editli took fmm her neck a little chain wo- \ ven from the hair of Gaity, and, placing it ! I in his hand, said : “The tress of the Sloe-blossom will bind 1 the wounds of Onowahoo.” He made no reply, but, pressing the chnit. j to his lips, waved bis hand to Edith, aud | turned into the path which led to the for* I cst. Mr. Trevor never recovered from the i shock sustained by the death of Gaity, and lived out the remainder of his days a prey 1 to remorse and wretchedness. I'o such as may lie interested in the fate i j of Edith, it may give pleasure to learn that j she aftetwurds became the wife ot one wjjo ! ; held a high office under Washington, and who distinguished himself nolily in tho war of the revolution, and that the* devoted sis ter was lecompensetl, by many years of happiness, sot the sorrows she had endured in early life. Walter and Basil Trevor, although they openly espoused the cause of the A met icons in the great struggle for liberty, were de tected in several nefarious transactions with the British fleet, which for some time lay of)'and on the harbor of Stoniugtun. Held up to the scorn of their own countrymen, they were compelled to join the British, and soon met the death they merited. c.h. is. THE BROKEN HEARTED. BY GKO. D. PRENTICE. I have seen the infant sinking down like a stricken flower to the grave—the strong man fiercely breathing out his soul upon the field of battle—the miserable convict stand ing upon the scaffold with a deep curse up on his lips. 1 have viewed death in all its forms of darkness and vengeance, with a tealless eye; but I never could look on a woman, young and lovely woman, fading away fmm the earth, in beautiful ar.d un complaining melancholy, without feeling the very fountain of life turned to tears nnd dust. Death is always terrible; but when a form of beauty is passing off’ to the silent land of sleepers, the heart feels that some thing lovely is ceasing from existence, and hioods with a sense of utter desolution, over the lonely thoughts that come up like spectres from the grave to haunt our mid night musings. Two years ago I took my residence for a few weeks in a country village in the east ern pa it nf New England. Soon aftei my anival 1 became acquainted with a lovely girl, apparently about 17 years of age.— She had lost the idol of her pure heart’s putest love, and the shadows of deep and holy memories were resting like the wing of death upon her blow. 1 first met her in the presence of the mirthfirl. Siie was, in deed, a creature to he worshipped ; her brow was garlanded by the young year's sweetest flowers, her auburn locks were hanging beautifully and low upon her bo som ; nnd she movetV through the crowd with such a floating unearthly grace, that the bewildered gazer looked almost to see her fade into the air, like the creation of some pleasant dream. She seemed cheer ful and ever gay; yet I.saw that her gaiety was hut the mockery of her feelings. She smiled, but there was something in her smile which told that its mournful beauty | was nut the bright reflection of a tear; and | her eyelids, at times, dosed heavily down, , as if snuggling to repiess the title of agony I that was bursting up from her heart’s urn. She looked as if she could have left the i scene of festivity ami gone out beneath the quiet stars, and laid her forehead down up on the fresh green earth, ami poured out her stricken soul, gusli after gush, till it mingled with the eternal fountain of life and purity. Days and weeks passed on, and this sweet giil gave nre her confidence, nnd I became to ber as a brother. ’The smile upon her lips was faint, the purple veins upon her check grew visible, and the cadences of her voice became daily more weak and tremulous. On a quiet evening in June, I wandered out w ith ber into the open air. It was then that she told me the tale of her passion, and of ‘.lie blight that had come down like mildew upon her life. Love had Ireen a portion of her existence. Its ten drils had been wound around her heart in is earliest years ; and when they were rent away, they left o wound which flowed till all tlie springs of her soul was blood. “1 am passing away,” said she, “ and it should he so. The winds have gone ever niv life, 1 and the liiight buds of hope, the sweet blos soms of passion, are scattered down, and : lie withered in the dost. And yet l can not go down to the tomb without a tear. It is hard to take leave of friends who love rue ; it is very hard to bid farewell to those dear scenes with which I have held com munion from childhood, ami which from day to day, have caught the color of my life, and sympathized w ith its joys and sor | rows. That little gtnve where! have so often strayed with my buried love, and 1 where, at times, even now, the sweet tones of Ids voice seems to come stealing around } me, till the whole air becomes one intense ami mournful melody; that pensive star in which nty fancy can still picture his form ‘ looking down upon me, and beckoning me 1 on to his own bright home, every flower, , and tree, and rivulet, on which our eyes hud Irent, in mutual repose, and bore wit ’ ness to our ear ly love, and, became dear , tome, and 1 cannot without a sigh, close | my eyes upon them forever.” ; 1 have lately heard the beautiful gir lof i whom l have spoken, is dead. The close of her life was calm as the failing of a quiet stream —gentloas the sinking of the breeze that lingers for a time around a bed of with* cierl roses, aud, ‘.ben dies as ‘twere from sweetness. It cannot be that earth is man’s only , abiding place. It cannot be that our life is { a bubble, cast up by the ocean of eternity to j float a moment on the wave, and then fink ! into deep darkness aud nothingness. Else, j ’ why is it that aspirations which lenp like i angels from tire temples of our hearts, trie I forever wandering alpurt unsatisfied 7 Why H it that (he raytbow agd elacd* dome.over us with a beauty that is not of earth, and then pass off and leave us to muse upon their faded loveliness 7 Why is it that the stars which hold their festival around the midnight throne, are set so far above the grasp of our limited faculties —forever mock ing ns with theirunapproacliing glory 7 Anri finally, why is it that the bright forms of human beauty ore presented to nur view, and then taken from us, leaving the thou sand slreums of our affection to flow back in cold aud Alpine torrents upon our hearts? We are born for a higher destiny than that of earth. There is a realm where the rainbow nev er fades—where the stars will spread out before us like the islands that slumber on the ocean ; and where the beautiful beings that here pass befote us like visions, will stay in our presence forever. Bright crea tine of my dreams, in that realm 1 should see thee again! Even now thy lost image is sometimes with me. In the mysterious si lence of midnight, when the streams ore glowing in trie light of the many stars, that image comes floating upon the beam that lingers around my pillow, a*d stands before me in its pale dim loveliness, till its own quiet spirit sinks like a spell from Heaven upon my thought, and lire g'ief ot years is turned to dreams of blessedness and peace. A LOVE SCENE. We extract from the late Miss Landon’s novel, entitled “ Lady Anne Gratia id,” Mr. Glentworth’s declaration to Isabella—one of the freshest aud most naif love-scenes that could well he selected from the imagina tive literature of the season, tr, indeed, of very many seasons past. “ ‘Lady Anne is at home, but the young ladies are out walking,’ was the answer of the page ; but in the drawing-room lie found Isabella alone. Languid and dispirited, she had declined accompanying her sisters, and was employed in copying a drawing.— It was a sketch of Mr. Glentwotth’s, and lie had been describing the scene the last evening that he spent in Welheck-street.— He caught sight of her face—it was unusu ally pale, aud there was a glitter on the long, dark lash, and a dimness in the eye, as if tears had been recently shed. Not such was the countenance that turned and met his own. The daik eyes filled with light, a rich color mantled her cheek, and smiles surrounded the lip, whose welcome was at first inaudible. “ ‘ How we have missed you !’ exclaimed she. ‘Do you know that we have left the hook that you were leading to us in the middle—we could not bear to go on in your absence.’ Sbe did not add that this was her own suggestion. “‘I have been much engaged,” replied Mr. Glent worth. ‘“I hope your engagements are over now,’ said she; 1 we have grown so accus tomed to you, that we cannot get on with out yon.’ ‘"I fear,’ said he, hesitatingly,’ ‘I shall soon be obliged to go abroad.’ He was startled to see the effect t f his own words in Isabella’s ashy paleness —she could not force a reply. But there is a timidity in genuine feeling, which brings with it un intuitive desire of concealment : and she was soon able to add. “‘Yon have been so kind to us all.” “At this moment Mr. Glentworlh’s eye fell on n little pencilled sketch of himself. . In her joy at seeing the original, Isabella had forgotten the copy. Again a bright scarlet passed over her fare; and her com panion, from that necessity of saying some thing, which originates more subjects of conversation than any thing else, suid, “ ‘ I did not know you bad a talent sot ta king likenesses.’ “‘ I never tried It fore,’said Isabella, hesitatingly. “ • You ought to cultivate it,’ continued Mr. Gleritwoitb. ‘ Would you like to lake some lessons 7’ “‘No,’ replied his companion, aud then hastily edded, * I should have no interest, unless the face were one 1 knew.’ “ Hero, for the first time, the conversa tion languished. Isabella felt embarrassed, though she did not even suimiso n cause, nnd Mr. Glenthworth was thoughtful. “ ‘ Do you know,’ said she, after a pause, j ‘I fear I am ungrateful; for 1 feel quite i sorry that we have known you. What shall | we do when you go away 7 At least,’ add j ed she, in a subdued tone, ‘we shall never forget your kindness.’ But the effott et forced composure was too much for the young nnd unpracticed giil—her Voice be came inaudible, and she burst into tears. j “ ‘My going is quite uncertain,’ said Mr. Glentworlb, trying to soothe her with the utmost kindness. “‘All!’ exclaimed she, ‘how much hap pier wo have been since you came—bow much we owe to your kindness! 1 had no j idea that life coulJ be so pleasant till we ! knew you;’ and again poor Isabella’s voice j failed. “ Mr. Glentworlb rose and took one or , ! two turns up and down the room; suuden- j I ly he caught Isabella’s eyes fixed upon him. j ; with such a look of wretchedness that his j j heart smote him. ITe (bought on the lone | ly and unprotected state of such singularly ! lovely girls—he could not he blind to what Isabella’s feelings were to himself, so unconsciously, so innocently betrayed—he j felt that h was not, only their sole friend, j but that he possesses the tu sjake, VOLUME 11.--.NUM6ER 43, tlint friendship available in many ways, while he was scarcely able to do so in their peculiar situation. A sudden impulse led to an equally sudden resolution—lie ibok.it seat by Isabella’s side, and took her lintyf* cold, trembling bend in his own. ‘“My dear girl/ said he, very kindly, ‘I have a great deal to say to you. Will you listen to me patiently i’ “ Isabella’s eyes, even more than her words, assuied him that her patience ttoulff be little tried while listening to him. ‘Ate you aware,’ asked he, ‘ why I have not been to see you during the last foitnight V His companion looked astonished. * The fact is,’ continued he, * Lady Anne fears that my visits here may prove detrimental to what she considers your best interest. I thought myself an old, safe friend; but, as that cannot be explained to every body, sb< fears that I may keep off other and ntort/ eligible lovers.’ Isabella tried to speak, hut her words died in utterance. *ln short, whether 1 shall be obliged to give up visit ing altogether, depends upon youiself.—- As the husband of one of you, no exception could be taken. Tell me, truly, my dear, do you think that 1 could make you hap py as ray wife I’ Isabella’s eves, that had hitherto been fixed on Mr. Glcnlw'orth’s, half wonder, half regret, were now cast down—again a sweet color mantled her cheek. “ * Happy !’ murmured a voice so low al to be almost inaudible ; * Do you not make every one near you bappy V Could con sent be given more graciously nr more gracefully? Mr. Glentwnith felt that lie’ had sealed his fate ; he was dizzy, confuted, and sought in vain to speak. Mechanically he retained the hand that trembled in hit own—but Isabella needed no pintestationa —one woid fiom bis mouth bad been enough, and she sat in silent, ‘measureless content/ She was yet too happy to wonder at her own good fortune. “ • Isabella/ exclaimed he, starling up, •I will write to you this evening; I cannot speak all I could wish ; read my letter care fully; think before you decide. 1 shall send for an answer in the morning. God bless you !’ “ Isabella held her breath to bear bis last step ; she spiangto the window, and watch ed long after he was out of sight ; she their hurried into the little hack pat lot ; sho was too intensely happy to wish for anything hut solitude; she felt as if she feaied to awake’ from so delightful a dream.” TIKI IE IHI M M®K3 ®T * Sentiment. —“ Behold, my Flora, how gloriously Nature looks in her bosom ! The tieos are filled with blossoms, the woods is dressed in its green livery, and the plain i carpeted over with grass and flowers. •• Yes, Charles, 1 was thinking of thw same thing. These flowers are dandelions, and when they are gathered and put into a pot, with a piece of good fat potk, they make the best gieens in the world.” An African Prince's Idea of a Gentleman. —At a Colonization meeting held recently in Washington, one of the speakers, with a view of showing the standard of morality among the African Princes—their idea of what constitutes a gentleman—related the following anecdote : A missionary, at nit interview with one of the Ptinces, incidentally spoke of cer tain gentlemen in the United .States. The Pi hue said —“Ah! 1 wish I were a gentleman.” The missionary was surprised, and asked him if he had not great wealth and plenty of servants. “ Yes,” said the Prince, “ but that does not make a gentleman.” “ What does, then,” replied the missiona ry, ‘‘ make a gentleman ?” “ A proper number of wives,” said the Prince. “ Why, how many wives hare yon V s “ Only two,” said the Prince ; “ hut t must have six before 1 cun be a gentle man.” idea of it requiring six wives to make n gentleman created no little mirth among the female portion of the audience. Thete were some hard looks at the bochel ots, as much ns to say—“ What miserable creatures you must be then t” A orel and Sudden Introduction.—A wag lias informed the editor of the Nantucket Inquirer that while journeying lately he was put into a stage 1 sleigh with a dozen persons 1 of whom he did not know a single one.— Turning a corner shortly after,however,the sleigh was upset, “and then,” said fie, *• / found them all out /"—in the snow, we sup j pose. ; A gentleman who hod lost his wife, whose maiden name was Little, addressed the fol lowing to .Miss Moore, u lady of diminutive ’ statute : I . •• I’ve lost the Little once I find ; My lieurt is sad uml sore ; So ■>• I should be very find To have □ little Moore.” To which the lady sent the following an swer; ** I pity rauelt tbe loss you’ve had ; The grief you must endure — A heart by Lktj* mad* so end, Cuwol’