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VOL. I. ‘u'ias ®s©mq& swjssa 5# published, every Friday morning, in Macon, Ga. on the follow !ng CONDITIONS : If paid strictly in advance - - $2 50 per annum. If not so [>aid - - - -3 00 “ “ Legal Advertisements will be made to conform to the following pro visions of ihe Statute : Hairs of Land and Negroes, by Executors, Administrators and Guard ians. are required by law to be advertised in a public gazette, sixty ‘days previous to the day of sale. These sales must be held on the first Tuesday in the month, between ‘.he hours of ten in the forenoon and three in the afternoon, at the ‘Court House in the county in which the property is situated. Tlie sales of Personal Property must be advertised in like manner for- Vy days. Notice to Debtors and Creditors of an Estate must be published forty days. Notice that application will lie made to the Court of Ordinary for leave to sell Land and Negroes, must bo published weekly for sou months. Citations or Letters of Administration must be published thirty tlays —for Dismission from Administration, monthly , six: months —for Dis mission from Guardianship,/er/y days. jttUcs for foreclosure of mortgage, must be published monthly* for Jour months —for establishing lost papers, for the fall space of three months —for compelling titles from Executors or Administrators where Jt bond lias been given by the deceased, the full spore of three mouths. Professional and Business Cards, inserted, according to the follow ing scale: For 4 lines or less per annum - - $5 00 in advance. “ C lines u u. - - - 7 00 “ “ “10 “ “ “ - $lO 00 “ “ Transient Advertisements will be charged sl, per square of 12 lines or less, for the first and 50 ets. for each subsequent insertion.— On these rates there will be ryjleduction of 20 percent, on settlement, when advertisements are continued:! months, without alteration. All Letters except those containing remittances must be post paid or free. Postmasters and others who will net ns Agents for the “Citizen” may retain 20 per cent, for their trouble, on all cash subscriptions for warded. OFFICE on Mulberry Street, East of the Floyd House and near the Market. ‘(Tljr Corner, [For the Georgia Citizen.] IDOLS OF LODE. No. 3. 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! 184 G. For the Georgia Citizen, SERENADE, 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. May 25,1850. 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 in weight.” n * 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 ried ! “ 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 of it. 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 ble.' 1 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 company “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 not exist. 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 can.’ ‘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 one flesh.’ ‘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.’ Unspeakable Trials. 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 know nothing. 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 trouble. 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 igin : 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 lari-fy. 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* perance Society.” NO. 11.