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OFFICE on Mulberry Street, East of the Floyd House and near the
[For the Georgia Citizen.]
IDOLS OF LODE.
EV T. 11. CIIIVER3, M. n.
“Till] GOOD DIE FIRST.”
Up through the hyaline ether-sea,
Blur-diademed, in chariot of pure pain,
Through th’ empyreal star-fires radiantly,
Triumphant over Death in 1 Leaven to reign—
Thy soul is gone, seeking its Blest Abode,
AV here break the songs of stars against the feet of God.
At Heaven's high portals thou dost stand,
Bands of atten hint Angels by thy side—
Gazing with rapture on the Promised Land—
Pale—meek—with thy last sickness purified
By suiTering, from the sins of earth, to be
A white-robed Angel round God's throne eternally.
Like stars at midnight in the sky,
Were all the dark things in this world to thee;
The joys of earth, when thou wort called to die,
Were ringing in thine ears most audibly,
When Angel-voices, from the far-off skies,
Poured on thy soul rivers of rapturous melodies. .
I'pon thy pale, cold, silent face,
Still speaking of the death that thou didst die—
A living light, which Death could not efface,
Was shed, crowning tli)- young immortality—
As if the power had unto thee been given
To show us here on earth what thou art now in llearen.
For when thy coffin-lid was moved,
Fast flowing tears of endless pity fell
l pon thy pale, cold brow, so much beloved,
From our torn hearts, as we then cried Farewell!
Like dews upon some withered lily leaf—
Rivers of sorrow from deep seas of bitter grief!
At thine, the newest grave dug here,
Beside our parents’ graves we humbly bow,
Offering our hearts to God in silent prayer—
Asking ourselves who of us next must go
Where thou art gone, to see what thou hast seen—
To he what thou art now, if now what thou hast been!
1 recollect the last long night
A\ e prayed together— brothers— -sisters—all—
Took notice of the infinite delight
That filled thy soul, till laughter's waterfall
Gushed, gurgling from thy lips in joyful Low—
And this, dear One ! was only three short months ago!
Then thou wort gayer than the gay,
And full of pleasure to the very brim—-
Whiling, with gladness, all thy time away—
Not thinking thou wert soon to go to Him—
Thy Father’s Father, there, in heaven, to shine
With thy dear mother—brother—sister Adaline!
Thou wilt behold my Florence there,
And she will know thee in that world above,
By that, which wanting, makes us strangers here ;
And she will love thee with the same deep love
She loved me in this world, if thou wilt tell
1 Icr thou art my dear sister—Angel! fare-thee-well!
For the Georgia Citizen,
Written and respectfully dedicated to Miss E. G. of Clinton, Georgia,
By her old friend A. D. B.
Awake, awake, awake !
Unclose thy beauteous eyes,
Thy peaceful slumbers break,
To thee our strains arise—
To thee our devotion, with rapture we bring.
Oh ! deign to accept them—thy beauty we sing.
Grant us, ye gods, thy aid,
Inspire us while we raise
To beauty’s fairest shrine,
Devotion, love and praise.;
Thy checks blooming roses, thy eyes sparkling bright,
Thy thoughts pure and happy—fair radiant with light.
Ye joyous spirits pour
Your harmony around,
And through night’s lonely hour
Wake no discordant sound ;
But guard well the treaure, give balm to her sleep,
Thy trust is more precious than gems of the deep.
Good-night, good-night, good-night!
Bright visions be thy lot,
‘Till morning’s rosy light
Shall call thee from thy cot;
And blessings attend thee, as be will be blest,
Who woos thee and wins thcc, thou fairest and best.
JONATHAN AND SALLIE—DUETT.
BY MRS. LYDIA JANE PIERSON.
Bailie. —Naow Jonathan, I guess as haow,
You’re goin’arter rum,
And if ye be, I tell ye naow
Ye better stay tu hum !
The biter patch is full o’ weeds,
Ihe pigs keep crawlin’ in;
And that old shack'lin’ barn door needs
A staple, and a pin !
The old cow tu, has run away,
Because the fence is down:
Ye’d better du some chores to-day,
And stay away from town.
Jon'n. — Dod blast it! Sal, I tell yu naow,
You kinder raise my spunk;
111 go to taown tu day—l swaow,
And darn me ! I'll get drunk !
A e’re fuller o’ ye're jaw, I snore,
Than Satan is of sin;
A e’re mouth needs more than the barn door
A staple, and a pin.
Sallie. —That’s pretty stuff to give your wife
That’s pleadin’ for yer good;
That we’re to lead a dretful life
Is clearly understood.
A e'll larn to guzzle like a saow,
And be a drunken smack, —
The little we have gather'd—naow
Is goiu’ all tu rack.
Then quarrels, poverty, and duns,
And constables will come,
And we, with our poor little ones,
Shall be without a hum.
Hunger and rags will foller fast,
And misery and shame;
And ye'll die in the street at last
And who will be to blame ?
Oh husband ! I remember still
A\ hen first ye was my spark,
Then y e was busy as a mill,
And merry as a lark.
Avery bird's nest was our hum,
In our first married years,
Before you larn't to pour down rum,
And Itu pour out tears. (She weeps.)
Jon'n. — Ye're right, Sal—every word ye drop
Isjust like preachin’ true,
I'll never drink another drop !
Dod blast me if I du.— Lancaster Union.
The Courtship anil Honey-moou.
A SKETCH Flt O M LIF E.
BY JOSEPH WILSON.
To keep one sacred flame,
Through life unchill’d, unmov’d,
To love in wint'ry age the same
As first in youth we lov’d.
* * * * *
This is love—faithful love
Such as saints may feel above.
If we were constantly to bear ia mind in our passage
through fife, that ‘tis “trifles makes the sum of human tilings,”
how much of the misery into which many of us now heed
lessly plunge, might be entirely avoided. Unhappily there
are but few in the married state who, in their reminiscences,
are enabled to look back upon the unbroken chain of bliss so
beautifully depicted in the lines above quoted ; and tlie only
reason that we can imagine why it is not oftener realized, is
(next to the natural perverseness of our race) the want of
proper attention to the thousand little occurrences and un
pleasant passages, confessedly trifling in themselves, which,
in the aggregate, “make up in number what they want
It is not, however, our intention, even were we equal to
the task, to digress into a dissertation upon the various ills
which afflict humanity, or the probable causes which pro
duce them ; but merely to present the reader with a brief
sketch, which will perhaps serve, in some respect, to illus
trate, os well the ease with which the seeds of unhappiness
may be incautiously strewn in the hearts of those who love
us, as also what may lx: considered the infant or incipient
state of that bright existence, warmed by that sacred flame”
which can alone qualify us
“To love in wint’ry age the same
As first in youth we lov’d.”
A festival was given by a young married lady—one of a
numerous circle of acquaintances—on the return of her birth
day, which was likewise the first anniversary of her young
friends, the greater part of wly >m had kneeled at the hyme
nial altar at about the same time with herself, and were pres
ent to enliven the occasion. Air. and Madam Mayland, (for
such shall be the name of the host and hostess) presented a
most felicitous union, and were noted for their tender regard
for each other, which partook more of the romantic fondness
which characterises the young and hopeful lover, than of
what is usually observable in the staid realities of a married
life, of even less than a year’s standing. Happy within them
selves, they neglected no opportunity to administer to the
joy and comfort of their friends whom they gathered about
tliem, and possessing tlie most agreeable and winning man
ners, it was rarely that efforts to please were unsuccessful.
With such beings to entertain, it is easily imagined that
their visitors at such times would be under very little re
straint in pursuing the pleasures of the hour; and restraint in
such cases, as all know, is a great bar to enjoyment.
The conversations were animated, and for a time were par
ticipated in by all. Glowing with warmth and animation, after
a number of topics liad been exhausted, tlie ever prolific
theme of matrimony was brought upon the tapis. This, in
some respects, was perhaps peculiarly appropriate to the exi
gencies of the occasion; but unfortunately it was suffered to
take a turn, the only result of which, if left unchecked, would
be likely in time to grow into an ineonquerable evil.
This untimely interruption of the general harmony which
marked their intercourse a few moments previous, was caused
by sonic of the young husbands present who were disposed
to treat the subject in a most disagreeable light, by inveigh
ing against matrimony, and by ridiculing that condition and
it vaunted pleasures, when compared with their former “sin
gle blessedness.” Some of the coarser-minded among them
went so far—and this in the presence of their wives—as to
discourse eloquently upon the bright fields for various
achievements which they might enter, if they icere unmar
“ I would travel” said one.
“I, too;” said another. “ I would explore the old world,
and feast upon its curiosities and its wonders, ere I became
a settled man.”
“ I would enter the lists of Fame at home,” said a third.
“I would not yield to the blind impulses of Cupid until I had
reached the highest seat in the Council of State.”
“My choice,” said a fourth, “were I permitted to recom
mence niy career, should be the navy instead of a wife.”
“And mine the army.”
Thus they proceeded through the lengthened
but, alas! none said they would endeavor to make themselves
and their wives contented and happy in their then present
condition. All that they did say, though apparently without
any evil or malicious intent, broadly enough implied that their
wives were burthens which kept them from rising.
But there are some things too exalted to be assailed with
the trifling jest; and there are hearts whose cords are too ex
quisitely sensitive to resist the withering influence of the im
perious sneer, when coming from those they love, be the
motive what it will. It was evident that the words which
“JtoDcpenircnt hi all lljtngs—Neutral in Xotljiug.”
MACON, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, JUNE, 7, 1850.
fell from tlie lips of some of the party, descended like drops of
molten lava upon the hearts of their young and trusting wives,
rendering them incapable of continuing their participation in
the evening’s enjoyments. This, though readily noticed by
others, and particularly by Mr. and Mrs. Mayland, was en
tirely overlooked or unheeded by those who were the cause
Painful indeed was the result to all but such as wore its
active promoters. Mr. Mayland, who had withdrawn his
voice, and was sitting a silent spectator of what was going
forward during part of the conversation, was justly indignant
at the excesses of his gtrests, and longed for an opportunity
not only to change tlie tenor of their unbecoming observa
tions, but to administer at the same time, without in
volving a breach of hospitality, some suitable and effectual
rebuke. They, however, continued their bitter remarks:
and at length, noticing Mr. Mayland’s silence, one of them
approached, and tapping him upon the shoulder, said,
“M ell, Mayland, here you sit as quiet as a mouse. What
do you think of the matter—the advantages and disadvanta
ges ? We should like to have your opinion ! What would
you do if you were not married ? ”
Mayland’s sweetheart wife was sitting a little distance from
him when this question was propounded. She had boon
highly delighted that her dear husband had abstained from
the reckless flow of words which had been passing—but now,
seeing that he was directly appealed to, her heart leaped, and
she riveted her eyes upon him with mingled emotions of
hope and fear. It was not, at that moment, a matter of much
difficulty to read her countenance. It seemed to ask—“And
am I to be compromised by my husband, as my friends have
been by theirs ?’’ But her suspense was of short duration.
“Y\ hat would I do ?” slowly repeated the lover husband ;
and turning to meet the glance of his wife, he continued—“l
would go immediately in search of Miss , (repeating her
maiden name,) offer toller my heart and hand, be blessed by
receiving hers in return, and get married as soon as possi
This unexpected reply, so deliberately and firmly ex
pressed, had the effect to produce instant silence. The satiri
cal portion of the young gentlemen understood and apprecia
ted its fine force. They were suddenly abashed. It was a
contrast with their own conduct too striking not to have its
own weight. The young wife who was tlie subject of it, was
so deeply affected—so filled with gratitude, that she had been
spared the infliction of a pain she so fervently deprecated—
that she sprung from her seat and fell upon his neck, and with
a tear of joy glistening in her eye, said, in a subdued tone:
“My beloved husband, that answer is in consonance with
what to me you have ever been. Would that I were more
worthy of your most devout affection.'’
“More worthy, my dear wife,” lie returned, “you cannot
be. You are a jewel of inestimable worth. Deprived of you,
life would he to me but one unrelieved blank.”
He then impressed upon her forehead an impassioned kiss,
and seated her gently beside him.
But the scene did not end here. The voices of those who
a few moments before were loudest in vain prattle, were now
hushed in silence—and that silence needed to be broken by
some spirit that could suggest a different and more agreeable
pastime than that in which they liad just been indulging, but
which none now seemed disposed to renew. At this crisis,
a married sister of the husband who had so suddenly changed
the order of things, which she viewed with much satisfaction,
noticed likewise the kiss, and for the purpose of putting an
end to the awkward intermission, playfully asked, directing
attention to her brother,
“Are you not ashamed to be courting her before all the
“The company,” he returned, with an air of triumph which
he could not well repress, “will phase excuse us ; we did not
commence our regular courtship until after marriage , and it
is not yet ended ! We trust that it may continue through
the whole course of our natural lives, and that we may spend
our honeymoon in Heaven ! ”
This was enough. The scene was indeed changed. The
offending gentlemen became fully convinced of the pernicious
tendency of their conduct—frankly aeknowled their error—
apologized to their wives—kissed them all round, and soon
retired in perfect good humor, all well pleased with the les
son they had learned, and which was perhaps the means of
saving them from many after years of discontent, aliena
tion and misery.
A happier company than that party when they again as
sembled, were never met together! And this assurance,
kind reader, is all the moral that need bo written.
II If"'I. I 311 ■■ IVJ’AJ^WI
The Ann's Profession.
To the novice, the opportunity is nominally offered of with
standing if she wishes. The truth is, that she dare not ac
cept this nominal offer, however much or anxiously she may
wish it. The feelings of her own family, and the state of pub
lic feelings, impose an insuperable obstacle to her fulfilling
her desires ; and she passively resigns herself to her fate.
It is not that she finds her noviciate a happy spring time, as
some have imagined ; nor is it that the other nuns, though
naturally anxious for some new companion to enlighten the
dull monotony of the cloister, weave all their arts to fascinate
and ensnare the novice; it is not this that impels and precip
itates the fatal step, but it is the impossibility of overcoming
the obstacles arising from the feelings of her family and the
tone of public feeling on the subject. If her parents oppose
her wishes, she has no alternative but to take the final plunge,
unless, indeed, she can depend on the honor and love of some
nun who may have won her affections, and who will open to
her a home and secure her protection.
A curious instance of this kind occurred at Rome, and was
narrated to us by a general officer who was present at the
time. A you tig lady was destined by her parents for the cloi
ster. She bad regarded herself as the wife of one to whom
she was much attached. The parents not approving this mar
riage, placed her, as is usual in such eases, in a monastery
where she could never see him ; and she commenced her no
viciate. Before doing so, however, the young gentleman found
means to communicate to her that he would attend in the
(liurch at the conclusion of her noviciate ; and that if she
still loved him and preferred marriage to the taking of the veil,
he would be there to claim her. and to give her the home and
protection which her own family would deny her.
The year rolled slowly away. The noviciate had ended. The
procession was publicly announced ; the bells rang merrily
as for a bridal; the first (lowers were blooming on the floor of
the monastic chapel. The cardinal had arrived ; the young
novice, fair as the young moon in May, knelt with her white
veil floating behind her, and her eyes glanced eagerly from
face to face in the assembly, until it rested on him whom, for
that long and sad noviciate, she had never seen, and whose
presence at this moment assured her of his faithfulness in the
past. The service proceeded until the cardinal asked the usu
al question as to her willingness for the life of a cloister; she
at once declared her unwillingness. Tlie cardinal was as
tounded. The assembly was greatly excited. On her being
asked for her reasons, she pointed to the young man who was
present, and said boldly—
“My wish is to he married to that gentleman /”
She was the next instant on her knecss to the cardinal, be
seeching him to forgive her, and to permit the marriage. The
feelings of the cardinal and the assembly were deeply moved.
Tlie service ceased. The cardinal declared that she must not
be received into the sisterhood, as she had herself refused her
consent; he made inquiry, and in the end himself married
the young couple. And thus she found at once the home and
protection she required.
Riches got by deceit cheat no man to much as the getter.
End of Atheistic Revolutions.
See Mirabeau on liis death-bed. “Crown me with flowers,”
said he “intoxicate me with your perfumes, let me die with
the sound of delicious music.” Not one word of God, or of
his soul! A sensual philsophcr, he desires to give a pleasure
even to agony.
Look at Madame Roland, that woman of the Revolution,
upon the car that carries her to death. She looks with scorn up
on the stupid people, who kill their prophets and their sybyls.
Notone glance to Heaven ; only an exclamation for the earth
she leaves, “O, Liberty !”
Approach the prison door of the Girondines; their hist
night is a banquet, and their last hymn is the Marsellaise.
hollow Camille Desmoulins to punishment: a cold and in
decent pleasantry at the tribunal; one long imprecation on
the road to the guillotine! those are the last thoughts of this
dying man, about to appear on high !
Listen to Danton, upon the platform of the 6eaffbld, one
step from God and immortality : “I have enjoyed much ; let
me go to sleep.” He says then to the executioner, “You
will show my head to the people, it is worth while !” Anni
hilation for a confession of faith ; vanity for his last sigh: such
is the Frenchman of these latter days !
What do you think of the religious sentiment of a free peo
ple, whose great characters walk thus in procession to annihi
lation ; and die without even death, that terrible minister, re
calling to their minds tlie fear or the promises of God ?
Tliuv the Republic,—which had no future, —reared by these
men and mere parties, was quickly overthrown in blood. Lib
erty, achieved by so much heroism and genius, did not find
in France a conscience to shelter it, a God to avenge it, Peo
ple to defend it, against that other Atheism called Glory !
All was finished by a soldier, and by the apostacy of republi
cans traversified into courtiers! And what could you expect ?
Republican A theism has no reason to be heroic. If it is ter
rified, it yields. Would one buy it? it sells itself. Who
would mourn for it? the people are ungrateful, and God does
Thus ends atheistic revolutions!— From 1 Atheism among
the People ,’ by Lamartine.
Premature development of Mind.
The premature exertion of intellect to which it is stimulat
ed by the constant excitement of emulation and vanity, far
from strengthening, tends to impair the health and tone of the
brain, and of all the organs depending on it ; and hence we
rarely perceive the genius of the school manifesting in future
years any of the superiority which attracted attention in early
life; but we find him, on the contrary, either sunk below me
diocrity, or dragging out a painful existence, the victim of
indigestion and melancholy. On the other hand, some of the
most distinguished men who ever lived were in childhood re
markable only for health, idleness and apparent stupidity.—
The illustrious Newton was, by his own account, an idlo and
inattentive boy, and “very low in the school,” till he reached
twelve years of age ; and the young Napoleon himself is de
scribed as “having good health, and being in other respects
like other boys.” Adam Clarke was considered “a grievous
dunce” when a boy, and was seldom praised by his father ex
cept for his ability in rolling large stones, which his robust
frame and good health enabled him to do. Shakspeare, Gib
bon, Byron, Scott aud Davy, were in like manner undistin
guished for precocious genius, and were fortunately allowed
to indulge freely in those wholesome bodily exercises, and
that freedom of mind, which contributed so much to their fu
ture excellence. The mother of Sheridan, too, long regarded
him as “the dullest and most hopeless of her sons.”
Among the many who give great promise in early life, and
whose talents are then forced by ill-judged cultivation into
precocious maturity, how few live to manhood to reap the re
ward of their exertions, and how few of those who survive
preserve their superiority unimpaired 1 Tasso was early dis
tinguished, and wrote his immortal epic at twenty-two vears
of age; but his life was miserable, and his reason disordered.
Pascal is also another example of the same result.
The Echo —I kittle George knew nothing of an echo;
and one time as he played in a meadow, ho called out cheeri
ly, “Hop? hop!” Immediately he heard from a little wood,
hard by, “Hop! hop!” Hereupon cried he, wondering!v,
“Who art thou ?” . The voice cried also, “Who art thou?”
Then answered he, “Thou art a stupid fellow!” “Stupid fel
low !” echoed again the voice, out of the little wood.
Now, George became angry; and he screamed into the
woo l louder and worse names. And echo sent truly, the
sound as it fell. Then he sought among the trees to find the
supposed boy, in order to revenge himself upon him, but he
was no where to be found.
So he ran home and complained to his mother, how a naugh
ty boy had hidden himself in the wood and called him naugh
ty names. “Ah!” said his mother, “thou hast now indeed
betrayed and accused thyself! For know, my child, that thou
hast heard no other words than thine own ! For as thou hast
often seen thy face in water, so now thou hast heard thine
own voice in the wood. Iladst thou given a friendly message,
so would a friendly message have returned to thee again.”
Ever is it thus. The conduct of another is almost always
an echo of our own. Deal kindly and lovingly with us. But
are we iinpertiHcnt and rude towards them, so ought we to
expect from them, nothing better.
The Afrcclions. —There is a famous passage in the |
writings of Rousseau, that great delineator of the humau
hoart, which is as true to human nature as it is beautiful in
expression : “Were lin a desert, I would find out wherewith
in it to call forth my affections. If I could do no better, I
would fasten them on some sweet myrtle, or some melancholy
cypress to connect myself to it; I would court them for their
shade, and greet them kindly for their protection. I would
write my name upon them, and declare that they were the
sweetest trees throughout all the desert. If their leaves with
ered I would teach myself to mourn, and when they rejoiced I
would rejoice along with them.' ’ Such is the absolute necessity
which exists in the human heart of having something to love.
Unless the aiFeetions have an object, life itself becomes joyless
and inspired. The affections have this peculiarity, that they are
not so much the means of happiness as their exercise is happiness
itself. And not only so, if the y have no object, the liappiness
derived from our other powers, is cutoff. Action and enter
prise fag, if there be no object dear to the heart, to which
those actions can be directed.
Education. —All education is a young man's capital;
for a well-informed, intelligent mind has the best assurance of
future competency and happiness. A father’s best gift to his
children then, is a good education. If you leave them wealth
thy, you may assure their ruin; and at best you only leave
them that which at any moment may be lost. If you leave
them with a cultivated heart, affections trained to objects of
love and excellence, a mind vigorous and enlarged, finding
happiness pure and elevated in the pursuit of knowledge, you
effect an insurance on their after happiness and useful
ness. Unless you bring up the young mind in this way, you
cannot, with any justice, claim for its possessor independence.
Your children must be virtuous, or they will not desire it.—
They must be intelligent to have intelligent .associates, as they
must have habits of industry ar and sobriety to make the compa
ny of the industrious and sober agreeable. It is in your pow
er to bestow this virtue, this intelligence, and those golden
habits. Present them a good model in your own life, and
give every opportunity to cultivate the heart and the under
standing. Spare not expense on your school, and put into
your children’s bands everything that may encourage or as
sist them in their mental or moral improvement.
From the Trenton (N. J.) Gazette.
Adventures of a Printer—A Romance.
By the Cherokee we received a letter dated Ilonolula,
Sandwich Islands, Jan. 1, 1850, from an old friend aud fellow
printer, whose adventures have been so much out of the com
mon order that we extract a part of his letter for the amuse
ment of our readers. The writer left New York in 1846, as
a lull private in Col. Stevenson’s regiment. After the wars
were over, he remained in California, where he was employed
by \ allejo as a carpenter , at the time the gold mines were
discovered. lie of course took his chances at gold digging,
but soon abandoned the business. When we last heard from
him (previous to the letter received on Friday) he was one of
the publishers of the Californian, lie writes that lie soon
abandoned this speculation. He concludes his adventures
for the present, by being wrecked one day on Ilonolula, and
marrying the daughter of the chief of the village on the fol
lowing Sunday. But let him speak for himself.
‘The paper was slow pay in those times, so I sold out my in
terest and gained one or two thousand dollars, which I spent.
Speculated a little, however, and did well—failed in some
things, but made up on others.
‘On the 9th of October last, in company with 7, I left San
Francisco on a visit totlio ‘Beautiful Islands,’ intending after
wards to sail to China, make our way overland to Russia,
where I have an uncle, and thence to England, where I could
take passage for home. On the 2Sth at noon, when we were
within two leagues of the harbor of Ilonolula, it came on to
blow a gale. We stood off, and succeeded in worrying out
the gale, but just as we were entering the mouth of the har
bor it came to blow very hard from the north-west, and in five
minutes we were hard and fast on shore. I rushed to my
chest for my dimes, and had barely time to secure them when
the hull parted, keeled over and filled. I secured a soar, and
clung to it and the dust, like ‘grim death to a deceased Afri
‘After being in the water about three quarters of an hour,
lashed by the surf and bruised by the spar, I gained the shore.
I kissed the earth where I first stopped, and determined never
to leave it. Having 65 pounds of gold dust about my person,
besides three or four hundred dollars in gold coin, I was com
pletely exliaused, and turned in for the night (for night it be
gan to be) under a cocoa nut tree, where I slept soundly until
12 or 1 o’clock, when I woke so stiff with cold, aud sore from
my bruises, that I could scarcely move. To my great joy I
discovered a fire about a half a mile to the west. It proved
to be a village of the natives (Kanakas) who, on learning, by
signs, my misfortune, stirred up the fire, gave me some boiled
pork, bread, fruit, yams and a variety of eating matter. After
I bad disposed of this, I turned in on some mats where I slept
soundly until sunrise when I arose.
‘After I had made my toilette 1 was introduced to the chief
of the village. He is of high rank and much respected. His
name isKanni, and he is related totlio King of the Island.—
He is very polite, speaks English fluently, offered me some
land, and his daughter in marriage, if I would live with his
tribe and instruct them as fur as 1 was able, in the arts of civ
ilization. I thanked him for his offer, and told him that I
would Think over the matter.
‘After this interview I went down to the beach, accompa
nied by a party of the natives, to look after the wreck, but
nothing could be seen save tlie spar on which I came ashore.
V\ hen I discovered the sad result of the storm, I sat down on
the beach and wept like a child. I had lost the only friends
that I have had since I left my home. But tears are of no
avail, so I made up my mind to bear it, and to accept the offer
of the chief and become liis son. I accordingly, on my re
turn to the village, informed the chief that I would accept his
offer. He immediatoty introduced me to the fair one. Her
name is Niara [Mary.] She is of a light copper color, 11
years old, o feet 4 inches high, small hand and foot, black hair
and eyes, and above, all, very affectionate. Her dress con
sisted of a faded blue satin skirt, coming no lower than the
knee, moccasins and leggings, and a curiously wrought head
dress. She was by no means bashful, and none too modest.
She sat on my knee and kissed me, and when I asked her if
she would marry me, she said yes, without the slightest hesi- 1
tatiou, and expressed a wish that the ceremony should hike ‘
place on the following Sunday, saying that a missionary would
be there on that day. This I agreed to, when she rewarded
me with a kiss, and ran off” to her father.
‘The following day I visited the capital and purchased the
wedding dresses for my lady and myself, together with some
presents for the bride, and on Sunday, ‘we twain were made
‘On Monday, my father-in-law, set several men to work at
getting out eoeoa-nut logs to build my house, and in the course
of ten days a very substantial dwelling, 40 feet front, 25 feet
deep, and 25 feet high, was completed. This is the only build
ing of the kind in the village, all the others being built of
reeds and mink The chief is very much pleased with it, and
I hope that within a year the whole village will be of log !
houses. I have offered to furnish axes and other tools, and I
think the natives will build themselves better houses.
‘I am perfectly contented with my situation, and think that
mine is a peculiarly happy lot. After so long a struggle with
the world—‘poor as a rat"—sticking type for a living—to be I
cast ashore witii a pocket full of rocks among friendly savages .
in this lovely climate.
‘I am still a good Whig, and if my second girl turns out to :
boa boy, he shall be called Henry Clay. By the way, I think
of agitating the project of the annexation of his Ilighwaain
majesty's dominions to the United States.’
How often do we hear it remarked of this and tliat friend,
“how old they grow.” Perhaps this phrase more particular
ly applies to the female sex, who, in America, at an early age
lose the brilliancy of their complexions, and have recourse to
the hair-dresser, the dentist, and “water-cure establishments,”
to restore what has suddenly left them of native charms. We
might here paraphrase upon the climate, and domestic
habits of girls, their aversion to in-door exercise, and to the
open air, with 3 brisk walk which would circulate their blood
and cause a return of natural appearance—but this is not all
the trouble. There are hidden trials of which the world
Sophia grew pale—her lips were ashy white, her cheeks
were like the lily, aud her ears were of consumptive white
ness, which always indicates physical difficulties.
Every one enquired, What ails the poor girl? Is she dys
peptic ? Has she a cough ? Is she billious ? No, but she has
a heart difficulty, which so depresses her spirits that her whole
system pays the penalty. Not long since she saw a “nice
young man”—she made his acquaintance—he grew more and
more attentive, and after repeated walks on tlie Sabbath, he
ventured to call at her father's house.
lie did not suit “papa;” he knew he had no business hab
its, his origin was obscure, and the poor fellow in vulgar ad
age, “found himself in the wrong shop.”
But he had touched a thrilling chord in Miss Sophia’s heart,
and she has felt rebellious towards her parents since they treat
ed him so coldly; and although her pride keeps her from
openly avowing her attachment, yet it is there, sapping the
very vital principles upon which her life depends. As the
spring opens, her health fails; physicians are called, journeys
recommended, and yet nobody exactly understands her case,
although the medical advisers tell you they have many such
cases. All this arises from an unspeakable trouble.
And there sits my emaciated friend, Mrs. T. No apparent
disease has yet manifested itself, bnt she walks feeble, and
looks ill. It evidently proceeds from some mental cause—
\\ hat is it ? Her children are all promising, her house presents
a delightful abode to the visitor’s eye, and yet there is a gnaw
ing worm in her husband's habits, which, unknown to the
world, is not concealed from her Argus eyes. lie has a se
cret habit of tippling, and one or two other vices, which weigh
like an incubus upon her spirits. He comes in late at night,
and her sensitive nature foresees a wreck in the future which
she dreads the world should know. Is not this an unspeaka
ble trial to a wife and mother ? Is it any wonder she grows
old, looks faded and care-worn ?
And yet another rises before me. It is a man who, ten years
ago, appeared scarcely in liis prime—now, his brow is fur
rowed, his liair is gray, he has lost that hopeful expression
which betokens a heart at ease, and seems painfully oppressed
with some sad foreboding. Tlie world wouders at the altera
tion ; his business is good, his home happy—why should he
appear thus ?
a The secret is not yet out, that the mother of his children is
intemperate, and under the plea of sickness, is oftener absent
from the fireside this year than the last. Poor man ! AVhat
can he do ? His domestics will not bear her irritable temper,
his children wonder mother is so “cross,” and where, alas,
can he find a panacea to prevent such annoyances from mak
ing him U-k haggard ? Truly, truly, his is an unspeakable
Then there are a host of other trials—-jealousy, vexatious
men, and fault-finding women, not to speak of a score of visit
ors who throogyour house for their own convenience, causing
unlooked for troubles, and breaking in upon the peace of your
household—and yet who can proclaim all these wearing an
noyances? Verily, we “do grow old,” and we have cause
enough to make us so. And then to the above catalogue,
when we add some form of disease either wearing in its effects,
or liable to a hasty termination, or leaving us a prey to hypo
chondriac fears, and making the imagination our own tor
mentor, we need not look for other than sunken faces of sal
low hue, forms of leanness, and marks of early deereptitude.
‘But,” whispers my inward monitor, “if such were not thy
earthly condition, woulds't thou be willing ever to exchange
it ?” That trials are oft disguised blessings, my heart responds
—but should we not discriminate between those we bring up
on ourselves,.and those which no forecast of ours could pre
vent ?— Yankee Blade.
The first Poetry \\ritten in America.
A correspondent of the Bangor Whig thus claims for •
popular nursery hymn, tlie honor of being the first poetic ef
fusion ever produced on American soil:
The first poetic effusion ever produced on American soil,
originated in a circumstance which was handsomely explain
ed by one of tlie full bloods of the Jibawa, or (as we call them)
the Chippcwas. All those who liave witnessed the perform
ance of flu‘ Indians of the Far West, recently in our State,
must recollect the cradle and the mode in wliich tlie Indiana
bring up their children. Soon after our forefathers landed at
Plymouth, some of the young people went out into a field
where Indian women were picking strawberries, and observ
ed several cradles liung upon tlie bouglis of trees with infants
fastended upon them—a novel and curious sight to an v Euro
pean. A gentle breeze sprung up which waved tlie cradle to
and fro. A young man, one of the party, peeled off a piece
of birch bark, and upon the spot wrote tlie following, which
lias been re peated a thousand times by thousands of Ameri
can matrons, very few of which ever knew or cared for its or
Lul-a-by baby upon the tree top,
M hen the wind blows tlie cradle will rock ;
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,
And down come lul-a-by baby and all.
The above facts were taken some years since from the ar
; chives of the historical society in Boston.
The best Sermon ever Preached.
We copy, says the Loudon Christian Times, the following
anecdote from Mr. James Everet’s “Methodism in Manches
ter and its vicinity”—Dr. A. Clarke, in the course of a con
versation with the writer, communicated the following char
acteristic anecdote of Mr. Edward Perronet. He remarked
that Mr. \\ esley had long been desirous of hearing Mr. Ed
ward Perronet preach, and Mr. Perronet awate of it was as
resolutely determined he should not, and therefore studied to
avoid every occasion that would lead to it. Mr. Wesley was
preaching in London one evening, and seeing Mr. Perronet in
the eliapel, published, without asking his consent, tliat he
would preach there tlie next morning at o’clock. Mr. Per
ronet had too much respect for the congregation to disturb their
peace by a public remonstrance, and too much respect for Mr.
\\ esley entirely to resist his bidding. The night passed over;
Mr. Perronet ascended the pulpit under the impression that
Mr. V esley would be secreted in some corner of the chapel,
if lie did not show himself publicly; and after singing and
prayer, informed the congregation that he appeared before
them contrary to liis own wish—that he had never been once
asked, much less his consent gained, to preach—that he had
done violence to his feelings to show liis respect for tlie pub
lisher ; and now that he had been compelled to occupy the
place in which he stood, weak and inadequate as lie was for
the work assigned him, he would pledge himself to furnish
them with tlie best sermon tliat ever had been delivered.
Opening the Bible, he then proceeded, with the utmost grav
ity and with great feeling to read our Lord’s Sermon on the
Mount, which he concluded without a single word of his own
by way of note or comment. lie closed the service with sing
ing and prayer. No imitator lias been able to produce equal
effect and perhaps for this reason—the ease is one which under
similar circumstances, ought not to be imitated.
( haritV.—Night kissed the young rose, and it bent soft
ly to sleep. Stars shone, and pure dewdrops hung upon its
bosom, and watched its sweet slumbers. Morning came with
its dancing breezes, and they whispered to the young rose,
and it awoke joyous and smiling. Lightly it danced, to and
fro in all the loveliness of health and youthful innocence.
Then came the ardent sun-god, sweeping from the east, and
he smote the young rose with his scorching rays, and it faint
ed. Deserted and almost heart broken, it drooped to the dust
in its loneliness and despair. Now tlie gentle breeze, which
had been gamboling over the sea, pushing on the home bound
bark, sweeping over hill and dale—by the neat cottage and
still brook—turning the old mill, fanning the brow of disease,
and frisking the curls of innocent childhood—came tripping
along on her errands of mercy and love; and when she saw
the young rose she hastened to kiss it, and fondly bathed its
forehead in cool, refreshing showers, and the young rose re
vived, and looked up and smiled in gratitude to the kind breeze;
but she hurried quickly away ; her generous task was per
formed, yet not without reward ; for she so<® perceived that
a delicious fragrance had been poured on her wings by the
grateful rose ; and the kind breeze was glad in heart, and went
away singing through the trees. Thus true Charity, like the
breeze, gathers fragrance from the drooping flowers it refresh
es, and unconsciously reaps a reward in the poformance of its
offices of kindness, which steals on the heart like rich perfume,
to bless and to cheer.
Men of genius are often dull and inert in society; as the
blazing meteor, when it descends to earth, is only a stone.
Tea is a favorite beverage with politicians, that is popu
Do all things with consideration, and when thy pith to act
right is most difficult, feci confidence in that power alone
which is able to assist thee, and exert thy own powers as far
as they go.
“Digby, will you have some of this butter ? ” “Thank you
marrn, I can’t take anything strong, I belong to the Tew*