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VOL. I. &\)£ (Scoria (Citizfw ■ puMiihcd, every Saturday irtortiing, in Mncon, Ga. on the follow CONDITIONS : If paid strictly in advance * - $2 50 per annum If not so |>aid - - * 300 ** “ Legal Advertisements will be made to eonfotui to the following pro isions of the Statute: — Males of Land and Negroes, by Executor*. Administrators and Guard mi*. are required by law to be advertised in a public gazette, sixty day* previous to the day of sale. These sales must be held on the#r-t Tuesday in the month, between lie hours of ton in the forenoon and three in the afternoon, at the Court Mouse in the county in which the property is situated. The sale* oi l’ Oonal Pretty must be advertised in like manner for d*v, Mattes te IK-bt .r; and Creators of an Estate must be published forty italic* that ap-licttion Will be made to the four, of Ordinary for I WW to se I stud ire Negroes, must be puuhshed weekly for four “A- Letters of Administration must be published thirty days f n f HisntMS'db Tfam Administration, Monl/tffi six months lor Dis WtUaioß frot-i GuaHianslup,/*r/y days. Rules fr’ foreclosure of mortgage, must be published monthly, for mur muntlf’ for establishing lost papers, fur the full space of three ■ejsnths— f- 1 campoHing titlesfrom Executors or Administrators where ; a bond ha* been given by the deceased, the full space of three months. ‘(•rWessmiial and business Cißiis, inserted, according to the follow- K fnt Acab* i (* T 4 lines or l> per annum - - ©a 80 in advance * C lines “ “ “ * * , 00 “ to .. to u . . $lO 00 “ ** j'jj-Transient Advertisements will be charged $ 1, per square of 12 bun* or less, for the first and 50 cts. for each subsequent nsertion. —’ om these rates there will be a deduction of 20 percent, on settlement yt hen advertisements arc continued 3 months, without alteration. g vii Letters except those containing remittances must be posfj peal at free. Postmasters and others who will act as Agents for the “Citizen’ may retain 20 per cent, for their trouble, on all cash subscriptions for warded. OFFICE on Mulberry street, East of tin; Floyd House and near the Market. MSBwaiapaawwni n “rr'mgßaawMß—■ Carits. KKUiN & KELL, Attorney* nl Law anil Central Land Agents, Atlasila, ,Ga., Will praolire in DeKull) und adjoining counties; and in tl* Supreme < ‘mirt at I lecutur. — \\ ill also visit any part ol lit* country tor the settlement of claims, without suit. IBountylßounty !,ani Claims prorkcuted with despatch. Office on White Had St., over lJr. Denny’s Drug Store. A. *. KKI.L AM. M. A. BELL. S. & R. P. HALL, Attorneys at Lair , Macon, Georgia. IJRU.TICE in llibb. ('rawford. Houston. Epson, Monroe, Macon, Dooly, Tw iggs. J,uies and Pike counties; and in ttie Supreme Court at Macon. Decatur.Talbotton and Americus. ry< bru t ovtk SiuTT, Caruart Si. Co.’s Storu. April 4, 1850. 2—ly Win. R. deGIIAFFENREID, Attorney & Counsellor at Law. MACON, GA. f~\ . i OFFICE HTEET. NEARLY OPPOSITE WABIIINIJTO.M - ‘ v ’ March SI, 1859. I—lv JOHN i: MILLEK” ATTORNEY AT LAW, SAVANNAH, GEORGIA. Jhrp 28th, 1850. 14—ly P. 0. ARRINGTON, Attorney at Law and Notary Public, Ogl*tl?nrpe, Nine on Cos., dec 1 4 G B o It G I A . 38—!f PA VSB &£lP f p s AND NOTARY PLIILIO, —MACON, GEO. C'IOMMISSIONEU OF DEEDS, Sic., for the States of J Alabama, Louisiana, Mississippi, Texas, Tennessee, Kentucky. Virginia. North Carolina, South Carolina, Flori da ..Missouri, New York, Massachusetts,Connecticut,Peun •rlvwiia, Ohio, Indiana. Illinois, Arkansas, Maine, Ac. Depositions taken. Accounts probated, Deeds and Mort age* drawn, and all documents and instruments of writing prepared and autheulicated for use and record, iu any T of the above Slates. Residence on Walnut street, near the African church. i'r Public Offic; adjoining Dr. M. S>. Thomson’s Botan ic Store — -opposite Floyd House. M.9-COU, .June 28, IfoD 14—ly RE3IEMBER! A\Td!.l'.N ill your.extremity that Dr. M. S. THOMSON is > V still in Xtlacon. Georgia, and when written to, sends Medicine by mail to any part of the country. Dont give up all liope without consulting him. June 7, 1850- 11—ts Cjje s Conan; For the Georgia Citizen. To my Father. BY J. W. CLILFFORD. I dream’d I was a happy child, So free from thought or care, A thing so careless, cay and wild A creature light as air. 1 thought the world so very fair, I wondered who could die, And ask’d the question of the birds, As they went flittering by. And then a change came o’er my dreams, I was no more a child, But a young and joyous boy, Thoughtless gay and wild ! Methought I mingled with the crowd When pleasure held the sway, Ah ! far too happy was I then, No cloud hung o’er my way. Anon there came another change, And sad was it to mark, Myself on a tempestuous sea, With none to guide my barque. Hie gaping crowd that stood silent by, Nor spoke of danger near, ’Till one strong arm came boldly forth, My fragile barque to steer. And then, alas! what sorrow come, ’Twas when that brother dear, Was called from earth—to Heaven —his home, His faithful heart was near. To cheer my sad and aching heart, When oft with grief ’twould swell, ’Twas his dear voice, taught thebless’d word, “ He doeth all things well.” Then soon I learn’d to find deceit, ’Mong those I prized most dear, But pass'd them by with calm contempt, One smile, I knew sincere. That smile, that calm and gentle smile, To my poor heart was given, To guide my wandering steps below, And bring me home to heaven. Her gentle smile 1 see no more, She sleeps beneath the sod, But that calm smile was on her lips, YY hen she went home to God. And since she’s gone, I’ve learn’d to prize A smile—a gentle word, For I am very very lonely now, Like some mis-mated bird. But when I bent myself to pray, No word rny grief could tell, Ah ! then twas hard for me to say, lie doeth all things well.” My dream is past, and with it fled, Hopes that ’round iny path were thrown, She now is slumbering with the dead, And I am left alone. For the Georgia Citizen. Lines on seeing a Ship under Heigh. A on gallant ship that stems the wave, That proudly rides o’er the billow foam, Brings to my mind thoughts of the brave, Who for our country’s cause doth roam. Who boldly braves the tempest strife, And goes where thundering cannons rattle, Who, for our sake doth risk his life, And fearless braves the blood red battle? Who blythely sings on the giddy mast, Y\ hilst rocked on the ocean’s bursting tide : \\ ho fears no future, heeds no past. But casts a fond look on the ocean wide? Thou blest be our Tart —Columbia’s boast— May they forever be protected, May they for ever rule the roast, And never, never, bo neglected. SAILOR. From the Louisville Journal. The Lyre of Time. MIDNIGHT, JAN. 1, 1851. God has crushed Another chord from out the mighty harp Os sounding ages—and its dying wail Is stealing on the midnight, fainter far Than Echo self, the shadow of a sound. The birth of Time was music when the stars, God’s high orchestra, pealed the overture To young Creation’s drama—and the hour Y\ hen “Time shall be no more,” will die away ’Mid trumpet-thunders marshalling in hosts • From every realm, the armies of the Lord ! Flie silver chord is loosed. The parting year \ V\ ilh all Us wit nuAoely,* Its mingled harmony of joy and woe And constant chorus of continued change, Is hushed forever; while the Lyre of Time, Now strung anew by the Omnipotent. Awaits his breath to swell the symphony High flaming o’er the Future’s folded page. Old sliattered harp-string! crushed the silence now Thy many-braided music—cold and still Thine ever-pealing anthem ! Rapture swelled Awhile thy rich bird-carol—sorrow sighed— Ilate, hoarsely howling, blended with the lute Os Love’s low murmur, as it wept from thee Like dew on lily leaflets. Here the gush Os festal freedom mingled in the strain Os holy adoration, and the wail Os dying dirges crept along the chime Os choral bridal bells ; a boding tone 4 Met panting passion's rolling rhapsody— And harrowing voices from the shrieking shades Smote sharply on the pealing pwan proud Os haughty victory. ’Mid them all arose The frantic yell of Dissolution dire— And Freedom trembled in her mountain hold— ller banner wavered on its craggy height : Her eagle faltered on his pinion bold, A n<l screamed with terror thro’ the rushing night— Until the fearful chant swept widely on, And died above the grave of Washington! God has made A wilderness of worlds; His will and strong Creative Spirit shook ten thousand worlds, Like golden dew drops from his waving wing, To roll in beauty thro’ abysmal space. And chant thechorus of Ilis Love divine, lie made the “ Milky Way ” to span the sky. A pearly bow of promise, every drop, That sparkles there, a singing, singing world ! lie woke the music of tfie Northern Harp— The wild weird chiming of the Pleiades — And bade the arches of a Southern sphere Reverberate their hallelujahs high. When proud Orion rears his crested brow And bares his burning falchion thro’ the night— Or red Arcturus with his foot of flame, Give chase eternal to the monsters grim That circle round the Pole ; there, like a fierce And maddened glory, streams the comet-star — A laurel victor, sweeping through the blue Triumphal arch of Heaven, with crimson flags Os Borealis floating o’er him. From The swift-wing meteor on his barb of flame, Careering down the cloudy paths cf air, To some faint fire-mist, darkling on the verge Os blank infinitude, the blended hymn Is universal Love! The mighty One, Who sweeps the lyre of Ages, and commands The praises of ten thousand singing worlds, Creates the stars of Union, and attunes The lofty harp of Liberty. Shall wc— Proud children of the storied brave—the free, Behold our banner, blazoned by the breath Os glory, sullied by a slave ?—our stars Os Union tossing wildly to and fro Upon the wave of faction, as they were But shining shadows, not eternal orbs Forever circling through the boundless heaven Os everlasting purpose 1 Or shall we Hear “ dissolution ” sounded, and forbear To brand the traitor-heart that dared forget The bond for which our fathers fought and bled ? Cursed be the traitor ! doubly, trebly doomed— The pit of Discord for her victim yawns. Then, back recoiling, shudders to receive His heart, a fouler and a fiercer hell! God save the Union! give the dawning year This proud baptismal anthem—let its last Dissolving sigh be—Union undissolved. New States, with stary emblems, one by one, Come stealing through the Future’s twilight dim, Like orbs of evening from its dusky sky, “Jnkpntircnt itt all tljings—Neutral iu Nctljing.” MACON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, FEBRUARY” 1, 1851. To take their place at last with those that tread 1 heir high unwearied and unvarying round, Before the golden gates, and battlements Os paradise. The harp,of liberty Shall Sound amain, till Death himself expire, Till God has made us free, immortally, And Time is dust upon his broken lyre. Thrice raptured moment! if all blest like thee Are heaven’s bright centuries, how brief will be Its countless ages of eternity! The Fawn of Pascagoula. Shall I toll you a story of real life as romantic and affecting as any you will find in fiction? Well—lis ten! Every citizen of Mobile is familiar with the sight of the Indian girls who are in our streets in the winter. \\ ith their bundles of lightwood upon their backs, they mark the advent of cold weather as regularly as the mocking-bird and the cardinal chronicle the approach of spring. They peddle their small parcels of pine from door to door, and all are familiar with the soft quick petionary voice in which they exclaim “Chumpa,'’ as they offer their cheap burdens for sale. These Indian girls, it is well known, belong to cer tain Choctaw families who refused to emigrate with their tribe beyond the Mississippi, andyet linger upon their aboriginal hunting grounds on the waters of the Pearl and the Pascagoula. Though they thus exhibit an unconquerable attachment to their native soil, they have yet refused to adopt the habits, lan guage or pursuits of the whites by whom they are surrounded, and are pervious & indifferent to all the inducements of civilization. They persist in lead ing a species of savage gipsy life—the men sus taining themselves by hunting, and the women, by vending whortle berries, and other wild fruits in the summer, and bundles of pine in the winter. With these simple productions, they visit Mobile semi-an nually, and live in camps, constructed of bark boards or the limbs of trees T his has been their custom from time immemorial, and yet continues. These Indians are generally a miserable and ig norant race, but with all the degradation, they pos sess some of the virtues in a singular degree. The women are proverbially chaste and modest, and of all the young girls that annually visit our city, none have been known to depart from the paths of recti tude. A strong interest therefore surrounds these blandishments of their station, and they pass unharm ed through tli* streets of our city. Many of them are quite handsome, and posses, beneath their rustic garbs —the calico gown and the red blanket—con siderable graces of manner and appearance. As they invariably refuse to talk English, very little con versation can be had with them, and that rij- Tcieifte bargains'wbfen they ucsfo make, “cher armk and “ PicaynnC are almost Tftd’ only wording intfj they employ in their intercourse with our outjQjj habitants. Still, they are not re served in tk Bt .’ movements where they wish to make a bargain, and enter the different houses of the city, stores, dwellings, and offices, without ceremony, hesi tation or announcement. Who has not beeu star tled many a morning, by a voice, at the chamber door, exclaiming “Chumpa?” The stoical demeanor of these Choctaw maidens has often lead to the impression that they are desti tute of natural sensibilities and sentiments of their sex. They have the bright, flashing eyes, well de veloped, symmetrical, and inflexible forms, beautiful small hands and feel, and show, in their love for bril liant articles, of dress, rings, beads, and other per sonal decorations, the taste and vanity of their civi lized sisters, is it possible that they are destitute of those delicate sympathies and tender affections which have marked women in all other classes and condi tions of life? This question has doubtless suggest ed itself to many, as an interesting problem of char acter. In one instance, at least, an attempt—per haps a heartless one —was made to solve it, and it is to that the story which I have to tell refers. It came to my knowledge in all its details, but I will attempt to narrate it in such a manner as not to de tain the reader with particulars which ho can ima gine for himself. Among the Choctaw gipsies, who visited Mobile” in the whiter of 1846, was one of unusual beauty a.ud attractions. Altlio’ scarcely developed into wo manhood —not more than seventeen “suns” having kissed the rich bronze of her cheek —she was yet tall, round limbed, straight, and graceful—a ve rv model of feminine form. Her features, more prominent and regular than is usual with her tribe, were delicately sculptured and the erect attitude of her head, with her large fawn-like eyes and abund ant coal-black hair, always neatly plaited in massive folds gave to her appearance an air of superiority such as the youthful Pocahontas is said to have pos sessed. Her dress was extremely neat, though with a large number of silver and wampum ornaments, and her small feet, which any of the fair promenaders on Dauphin might have envied, was invariably dressed in mocains ornamented in the most fanci ful style with many colored beads. As she walked about the streets of Mobile, arrayed in this way, with her parcel of pine swung across her shoulders,'she attracted the attention of all spectators, for her beau ty, though she would hold converse with none ex cept in the few words, by which she endeavored to dispose of her burden. Much interest was naturally felt in this young girl, and many efforts were made to learn something of her character and history. Nothing further could be gleaned, (and this was told by “Captain Billy,’’ a drunken Choctaw, frequently seen, in garrulous moods, in our streets) than that she was the daugh ter of an Indian chief of much note who died ma ny years before, leaving her an only infant child, with her mother, in their cabin on the Pascagoula. Iler singular beauty had made her quite a belle with the young Choctaw warriors, but she was very shy, s*nd was called in tire Indian tongue, the NN ild F.. nos Pascagoula. She supported her mother who was very old, and herself, by her traffic in ber ries and lightwood.” Her personal charms made her one of the most successful dealers in those articles, and every one particularly the young men of Mo bile, were glad to give the preference in their pat ronage to this young and attractive creature. Many were the efforts made to gain her smiles, and enlist her in conversation, but they were all in vain. She would go her daily round, and enter with perfect unreserve, the rooms or offices of her patrons, de posite her little load of pine, receive her dime, and then quickly retire with the sticks in her hands to procure another parcel. Things glided on in this way for some months, during the winter of which I speak. At last an event occured, which tested the stoicism & character of the young Fawn of Pascagoula. Among those whom she daily supplied with lightwood, was a lawyer rc isding m an office in the second story of a building on one of our principal streets. Admiring the beau ty of this timid visitor, and feeling a strong interest iu her, lie determined to see if he could not, by kind ness of manner, deferential notice, and elegant pre sents, win the heart of this simple child of the woods. Though his motive was mainly curiosity, his pur poses were not bad, and he had no idea of doing anv injury to the object of his experimeut—by paving her these attentions, which had been found potent to enchain the admiration, and win the love of more and accomplished maidens, lie was a /man of uncommon personal beauty, and singularly fascinating manners, and all these lie brought to bear, as well as ho could, to effect his innocent, and, as he thought harmless flirtation. It is needless to detail the arts resorted to by 11. Howard to win the heart of the Fawn of Pasco goula. He began in the most modest and deferen tial manner; he purchased from her much more frequently, than he needed, supplies of fuel, paid her larger sums than she asked, and made her presents of trinkets, pictures, and little ornaments of dress, and accommodated himself in every way to her ap parent wishes. These things continued for some weeks, and at last l>egun to have obvious effects. The Fawn tarried longer in her visits at his office than elsewhere; she always came there first, and took an evident interest in his attention. At length she be gan to answer his remarks in such few words of Eng lish as she could command and to look upon his handsome and facinating countenance with pleased smiles and earnest continued attention. The spell evidently began to work! Henry Howard under stood the secrets of woman’s heart well; but here he had to deal with an untutored Indian girl, timid as a bird, and whose springs of emotion and sympa thy could not bo determined by the ordinary standards of feeling. Do not think that I am depicting thoso subtle arts of fascination by which the rattie-snake lures and captivates the humming-bird. There was no purpose of evil in the heart of the young attorney. He was practising with a simple savage heart, those tricks and elegancies of intercourse, which recognized as legimate in civilized society. He wishes to see if the same affections could be developed in the beaded beauty of the forest, as are to be found with the po lished belle of the ball-room and the boudoir. The probabilities were, that the experiment would not succeed —a casuist would therefore think it harm less. Months had passed in this way, amt Henry How ard at last determined to make a more obvious de monstration of his love, to the Fawn of Pascagoula. One cold morning in February, just as he had fin ished his toilet, he heard a light step at the door, and a well-known voice, as the speaker entered, play fully exclaiming “chumpa, chumpa V r Arrayed in her most Jful. dress, with a band of silver a .r,frnJ long necklaces of beads falling .. . her eck, the Fawn stood before hnn She threw N {ll of pine upon the hearth, and looked smilV 1 his face. In his most graceful manner he approached nor and took her hand in his. Suddenly lie encircled her waist with his arm, and, drawing her to him, lie imprinted uport her lips, a long and fervent kiss. Modestly she looked into his face, with a slight expression of surprise, but not dissatisfaction ; it then lie poured forth to her warm it urgent words of love. Neither were these coldly spoken, for the young aud ardent admirer had been no little interested in the object of his attentions.— As lie was about, however, to repeat his kisses, the now startled Fawn, by a quick movement, unloosed herself from his embraces, and glided across the room. “Stand off, Mr. Howard,”she exclaimed in better English than he had ever heard her speak before, “me good friend, to kind gentleman—but no love 1 The Fawn must marry her own people. She love young warrior up on Pascagoulia T He have heart and skin, the same color! Mobile man not good for Choctaw girl. Me go to my home —to Choctaw Chief’s cabin—to-morrow. Good bye ! Me love you much, —you so kind—but no wife!” As she said this, she drew her red blanket as proudly aboilL her, as ever a fashionable belle donn ed her mantilla at a ball, and glided from the door. Struck as motionless as a statue, the elegant Hen ry Howard, the Mobile dandy, stood gazing at the door through which the young Choctaw girl had vanished! Ilis lips were slightly parted, his eyes widely open, a look of wonder and doubt upon bis handsome face! “By Heavens!” he exclaimed, “Is it possible ! Caught in my own trap! Jilted by an Indian!— Well, it’s a good joke it all right! But, by Tecumseb, and Pushmataha! I must take care that belles of Mobile do not find out the story. Let who will, hereafter experiment upon Choctaw character, to discover whether these Chumpa girls have not like affections with other people, I, for one, am satis fied. This Fawn of Pascagoula has, for months tak en all my presents and delicate attentions with the timid gentleness of a nun, —and now has given me the sack as completely as it could have been done by any fashionable coquette in a gilded saloon, by the light of a chandelier. Well, that’s something rich ! Bravo! Henry Howard! Recollect hereafter, as Thomas Moore says : “Whato’er her lot, she’ll have her will, And Woman, will be Woman still.” The Family that Never Read a Newspaper, The second night after I left your city, I put nj> at a large brick tavern, known as the house. The proprietor in an swer to some interrogatories, informed me that lie owned over 400 acres of land, and raised the present season 900 bash els of wheat, 650 bushels of oats, and expected to harvest 1500 qushelsof corn ; that he owed no man a dollar; ("and j that he never took a newspaper in his life;) I had the curiosity to learn how a family kept up with the current news of the day, when deprived of the only means of obtaining it. Soon after I entered the family circle, which consisted of the parents, and six children, the eldest a daugh ter, on the shady side of twenty-five—the mother commenced with : 1 Mister do you know whether the great Mr. Webster is hanged yet * Y r es, Madam.’ ‘Wall,’said the daughter, ‘I allow he’ll not make any more of them spelling books.’ ‘ I suppose not.’ ‘ I’ve lived so long in the world.’ said the mother, with a deep sigh, ‘ and I never seed any body hanged yet! I al ways thought I’d like to see one hanged, but it never hap pened to come right, and I’m gitting so old now, I don’t spect I ever will. I’ve seed the sarcus and caravin and sick kind of shows, but I’d ruther see one fellow hanged than fifty of them shows.’ ‘ Stranger,’ said the daughter, ‘ there’s going to be an ani mai show to-morrow down hero about six miles, maybe you’d like to lay over aud go down. Brother Jeincs says- they’ye got two snakes there, the same as what can swallow an ele phant, and I don’t believe there ever was any sieli snakes— do you ?’ ‘ No, Mis*.’ ‘ Wall. then, the jngraphv folks lies jist like other folks!’ ‘Mother,* said Jemes, ’you don’t know nothin? you’re talking about. Don’t the United States make the jographies ? What’s the use of their putting lies into ’em ? They make ’em every ten years, they are going to mako an other in a few days. They send men out all over the coun try to find out every tiling—that’s what that chap was here for tother day, asking so many tarnal questions about.— Stranger, your supper’s ready.’— lndiana State Sentinel. %n\\}s Drjmrtinent I'm Afraid. BY T. S. ARTHUR. ‘l’m afraid,’said a little boy, turning back, with a look of alarm, from a stately ox that stood in the path along which his father and himself wero walk ing. ’ Why are you afraid, Henry V asked Mr. Gray. ‘l’m afraid of his horns, lie’s going to hook O mo: ‘ No, he won’t hurt you. Hero, take this stick and go and drive him off the path.” ‘Ono— no. Fm afraid.’ And the child clung to liis father’s side. Mr. Gray was a thoughtful man, and a man of sense. Ho understood well the influence of early states and impressions on the mind and moral feel ings in after life. He knew that the character of a child needed great care in guiding it to a right de velopement. lie knew that temperance, fortitude, and courage, wero cardinal virtues in the man, and that the seeds of these must be sown in the young mind, if the germs were not already there. ‘'Did an ox ever hurt you, Henry ?’ W almlv asked. ‘'No sir.’ ‘‘Then what makes yon afraid of him ? r ‘lie looks as if he would hook me.’ ‘But I know that lie will not do it. Here, take my stick and drive him away.’ Henry had been taught obedience. By the man ner in which his father now spoke, he knew that he was really in earnest. ‘ Indeed, papa, I’m afraid,’ urged the timid boy, looking up with a quivering dp and) an imploring eye. ‘ Afraid T My little boy afraid!’ Mr. Gray spoke as if ho were greatly surprised. ‘ I douT want my Henry to be afraid.’ ‘ But I’m afraid, papa. I know He will hurt me with his horns. See ! how lie shakes Firs head.— There he is coming!’ and he clung closer to his fath er's side, as the ox took ono or twi* steps forward. ‘My boy ■y-fa coward.’ 1 his was said ’Ay Mr. Gray in a voi- vexpressive of sorrow and displeasure Tnctjfoiito, v*r LotilCtii|tl, Tc— sion was all that he desired. The fear of his fath er’s displeasure and contempt, (this last word is ra ther too strong; but it best expresses the idea wish ed to be conveyed,) became more active than mere bodily fear. ‘ Then take my cane and drive that ox away from our path.’ He spoke with some sternness. Henry was still afraid, but moral fear was more active than physical terror. He hesitated only for a moment; then taking his father’s cane, and lift ing it in the air, lie moved towards the state ly beast. The ox seemed disposed at first, to disregard the threatening attitude of the boy.— lie dropped his head and shook it violently. Henry trembled, and looked back into the face of his father, but that face had not relaxed a inusele. He took one more step forward, brandishing the cane. The ox still remained firm ; but it was only for a moment longer—quickly turning his head’, he started from the path and ran oft - to a distance. Delighted to see so large and strong a boast run from him, Henry laughed and shouted aloud. ‘Didn’t I make him go, father?’he cried as he handed back the cane, ‘Ain Ia coward?’ ‘ No, not now. You arc my brave little boy,’ said Mr. Gray with an encouraging smile. ‘ I'll drive ail the oxen wherever I please, now shan’t I ?’ ‘ Yon can always drive them away when they are in wrong places. But it would be cruel to drive them about and worry them when they are in the fields/ After walking along for a short distance, another ox was seen standing in the path, lie was black, and had. to the eye of Henry, an angry threatening look. Ilis fears returned, and he was about shrink ing behind his father, when the thought of being called a coward, re-inspired him. ‘ Here, my son, drive that beast away.’ The boy could no longer hesitate. lie took the cane held out by his father, and brandishing it in the air, ran towards the ox. The animal did not seem at all inclined to move, but dropped Ms head, and shook it angrily. Henry started back, and look ed around at his father. ‘ Try again. Don’t be afraid,’ urged Mr. Gray. Henry made another effort, but with no better success. ‘ He won’t move, father.’ ‘ Yes he will. Go up close to him, andstrike him with the cane, if he does not move/ ‘ I’m sure he will hook me/ ‘ Keep away from his horns, but strike him. lie won’t hurt you.’ Thus urged, the little fellow ran forward, with a shout, and made an attempt to strike the ox; but the stubborn animal had no intention of permitting matters to go so far as that. He wheeled around, quickly, and darted oft’ before Henry's blow could fall. ‘That’s mv brave bov,’ Mr. Gray said, approving ly. ‘I knew the ox wouldn't hurt yon.’ Henry was much pleased with his second proof of his superiority over dumb animals. ‘ Didn’t I make the big ox run ? Didn 11 father?’ he shouted in great glee. After that he would go up to an ox or a cow with out fear. This was Mr. Gray’s first Itsson in courage to his ; boy. He saw that he was naturally timid, and felt 1 that it was all important that this weakness should be counteracted, and bravery eneouraged. He well knew, that, to pass safely and usefully throngh the world, courage was essential. Goerage to brave any j moral consequences in doing right, or any physical danger, when duty called. And he wished his chil drm to have those characteristics of mind which would make them useful in all the varied positions in life that thej might be called upon to occupy. Henry was only four years old, when this first les son was given, but the effect upon his character was indelible. It. enabled Mr. Gray to followup, suc cessfully, his desire that his boy should become fear- loss of danger, where duty called with an impera tive voice. At the age of eight years, Henry had gained so much over his natural weakness, that on one occasion, ho promptly sprung into the water, when a companion had fallen in, and saved Iri* life ’ at the risk of his own. Os mere recklessness, he was never guilty, for he ’ still had remains enough of natural timidity, and dread of bodily pain to hold him back from danger, if there were no call for him to expose himself. But so judiciously had his hither cultivated his higher faculties, that the calls of humanity or duty were a! i ways imperative. This makes the tiuest chara ter when well developed. A man whose firmness, de cision, perseverance, courage, are not mere natural qualities, but spring from a deep moral sense, is the noblest and most useful of men. lie is never urged on by blind impulse, or mere recklessness of danger. He acts with firmness, decision and eonrage, just at the right time, in the best nianuev, and at the true crisis. Such a man wa Henry Gray, on reaching the years of maturity. At the age of twenty-three he married, and mov ed to a distance from his native place, llis new’ home stood near the bank of a large river. He liv ed there for ten years, and had four children, who were springing up around him, and giving light to his households. One day, übout this time, a most terrific storm arose. The bosom of the broad river, that had, for hours, been sleeping in the bright sun beams, was lashed ii.to wild fury by the hurricane that swept over it. 4 See, Jane,’ said Gray to his w ife, snddonlv, as they stood looking out of a window, ‘isn't that a sloop coining round the point oj posite ? Yes, it is: and the wind is driving her madly along. If the belsman is not careful, she will be thrown on to that reef of rocks, when, in such a storm, she will be daslied to pieces, and all on board lost.’ The ere of his wife turned to the point mention ed by her husband, and shuddered to see a vesseL under bare poles, careering along under the power of the rushing winds swifter than if all her canvass had been spread to a strong breeze. She was driv ing towards a sunken reef, on which several sloops had been lost within a few years. ‘By my life, Jane, they will be dashed to pieces?’. Gray ejaculated, as he saw the unfortunate vessel rapidly approaching the rocks. As he spoke, he turned from the window, and took three or four strides across the room towards the door. 4 Henry ! What are you going to do ?’ exclaimed Mrs. Gray; springing to his side, and taking hist hold of his 31111. 4 1 am going to prepare to save, if possible, some of tlie unfortunate people on board that sloop, if she should strike the reef,’ was his calm but’ resolute reply. ‘ No—r.o, Ilenry. You must not put your life in danger! I will not let you go!’ This was spoken mildly, and with a countenance suddenly pale with e~t v Jane,’ said Gray, looking steadily into his wife’s fact-, ‘ w hen the cjy of humanity comes to our ear, and there is a clear probability of giving relief, we cannot hesitate on grounds of personal danger.— When duty calls, let us fearlessly obey. The great Sustainer and Preserver, will sustain us. If in ray power to save, by a timely and well directed eft'ort, a single individual of that boat’s crew, do you not think me bound to make the attempt I’ Mrs. Gray did not reply. But she still clung to his arm. ‘Suppose your own brother were in that vessel V The grasp of Mrs. Gray’s fingers slightly relaxed. ‘‘Would you say to me, 4 Make no effort to save him ?’ ’ ITer hand fell to her side. ‘Jane,’ —Mr. Gray spoke earnestly—‘l will nev er risk mv life wantonly. Donut fear that.. I know nothingof the feeling called 4 fool-hardiness.’ If I go into danger, it will be to save others, and who ever in the earnest effort to save others from destruc tion, is, himself, wonderfully protected. Few, very few, lose their lives, when unselfishly seeking to res cue a fellow creature from impending death.’ Mrs. Gray understood her husband, and she no longer opposed him. To do so, she was well aware, would have been useless. But her heart sunk heav ily, and beat with a troubled motion. She turned to the window, as he left the house, while the storm was raging with unabated fury. Casting her eye towards the hapless vessel, she shuddered to see that it was driving madly on towards the most dan gerous point in the river, where just beneath the foaming surface, lay a broad reef of rocks. There were not five minutes between that sloop and de struction. Next she perceived her husband running at full speed towards the shore, w here lay tossing on the agitated waters a little boat, in which she knew, too well, that he would trust himself to the great peril of his life. And he did thus, without an in stant’s hesitation, trust himself upon- the bosom of the tossing billows. She saw him hurriedly unfas ten the boat, and, springing into it, as he drove it far from the shore with a muscular arm, seize the oars and pull courageously out from lnmd. Ti. heart of the wife sunk within her, as she stood fixed to the spot, and saw the frail’ craft rising now upon a foaming'wave, and now diving down as if it would sink in the waters, while her husband’s arm. seemed feeble as a child’s, as lie plied eagerly the oars, strug gling to reach a point in the river nearly a -quarter of a mile distant. * * The wind seemed to sweep along with redoubled violence—the rain f •!! in a deluge of water, and the broad sheets of lightning spread themsoh'es out in rapid succession on the quivering air, and were quick ly followed by tremendous and almost - -incessant crashing of thunder. Every moment the distance between the tiny boat and the shore increased ; but the strained eye of Mrs. Gray could still distinguish the form of her brave husband, steadily bending to BfS oar< But long be fore he could reach the spot he feared wbuld prove fatal to the sloop, she had rushed madly upon the roeks ami was almost instantly dashed in pieces.— Mrs. (rray saw this, and could not restrain a cry of anguish, even amid her fears I’m’ her husband. Henry Gray labored now with almost super hu man strength ; aided by the wind, that was driving against the stern of his light craft, he almost flew over the survace of the water, leaping from wave top to wave top, like a sea-bird on the wing. But long before he could reach the fatal spot, six of those who trod that vessel s deck, were sleeping their last long sleep far down the rocky depths “of the river. Three men, who were clinging to fragments of. wood, he saved, and with his precious freight turno<].way,from the fatal spot and pulled for the shore. The darkness of the night was falling gloomily around when Gray, his duty done, commenced his return to land. The *ien he had picked up, from fe-aror exhaustion, reclined passively in his bbat, and appeared incapabfe'of affording him ay assistance, NO. 40.