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VOL. 2. PROSPECTUS OF THE SECOND VOLUME OF £he dxcorgui Citizen. 6®hs*i@ks. The 21 volume of the “ Citizen ” will be published on a larger sheet than the first, two or three more col umns of reading matter being given, weekly, than here tofore, on the following terms : One Copy per annum, in advance, $2 00. ti u a “ in hreemonths 2 50. u a “ not so paid, 3 00. Georgia. BY HENRY R. JACKSON. Ye citizens of Georgia! Ye have a noble State, And blest with every element To make a people great. She stretches from the mountain, Through every varied clime, To where the hoar old ocean Makes melancholy chime. From an outgushing bosom, Your wants she well supplies, Iler generous soil beneath your feet; Above—her generous skies. There is no trace of beauty You find not on the brow, With her hills, and floods, and forests, And her fields of mimic snow. Look forth upon her surface ! Could you ask a brighter home ? Yet her life is in its morning still, Her noon is still to come. Within her breast are treasures More precious far than gold ; She needs but zealous spirits Her riches to unfold. Then why should you desert her ? Oh! where in South or West, Can you meet a sweeter realm of earth More generously blest ? Not in the wild adventure, Nor in the restless mind, Does the exile and the rover A true contentment find. All broad may be the forests, All bright may be the streams ; The sun amid the western skies May shine with golden beams; And yet in vain ye’ll wander; Ye cannot all forget That you were born of Georgia, And she your mother yet! Then citizens of Georgia! To the loont, the plough and hoe ! Let the din of toil be loud and long ! ’Tis all that’s wanting now. The hand of earnest kfesr Can make your noble ritawp'jr —- What nature has designed her—• Rich, beautiful, and great! I F, ■om the Cincinnati Gazette.] ToFrederika Bremer. BY MRS. R. S. NICHOLS. From the snow-eapt hills of Sweden, from the Baltic's surging shore, Thou hast come to charm the thousands thou hast charmed so oft before; From the dazzling icy regions of the wondrous mid night sun, Thou, art here to seo what Freedom for this goodly land hath done; R Yet before thee, o’er the ocean, swept the soft BY ELIZA COOK. work, my boy, be not afraid, Look labor boldly in the face, lake up the hammer or the spade, And blush not for your humble place. Hold up your brow in honest pride, 1 hough rough and swarth your hands may be, Such hands are sap-veins that provide lhe life-blood of the nation’s tree. 1 here’s honor in the toiling part, That finds us in the furrowed fields; L stamps a crest upon the heart, Worth more than all your quartered shields. ork, work, my boy, and murmur not, lhe fustian garb betrays no shame; lhe crime of forge-soot leaves no blot, And labor gilds the meanest name. And man is never half so blest As when the busy day is spent, as to make his evening rest A holiday of glad content, God grant thee but a due reward A guerdon portion fair and j ust, And then ne’er think thy station hard, But work, my boy, work, hope and trust! Religious Principle. THE GREAT WANT OF OUR TIMES. BY REV. E. H. CHAPIN. “One thing thou lackest.”—Mark x 21. lie who looks at some vast and complicated piece of machinery, is not only surprised at its wonderful power, or its exquisite beauty as a specimen of art, but at the agreement with which its innumerable parts work for the com mon end. Hivided and sub-divided as it is in to many departments, and presenting at first sight the most intricate combination of springs and wheels and bands, upon closer examination it is discovered to be a great mechanical unity, designed for one purpose, and these various constituents all labor, as if by a common and intelligent will, in the utmost order and accor dance. Each fulfills its own peculiar task, nor transgresses the free operation of another— nothing is lacking, nothing is superfluous—the functions are different but not contradictory— the most insignificant does its part in securing the main object, and all the mazy round with its checks and balances, crossing and re-crossing and interwining, is moved and controlled in the most delightful harmony. 13ut reflection teach es us to assume the existence, somewhere in the machine, of a master power, which causes all these various movements, and secures their efficient and harmonious action, and if we aualy ize the mechanism, we find that it is so. The skill of the artist and the excellence of his in vention, are chiefly displayed in this main prin ciple—in the control which it exerts over the whole work, in the efficacy with which it bears upon each part. The main principle! —the whole organization works well or ill, according to the condition and the influence of this. It will not 1 trust, seem abrupt, or incon gruous, to carry this, as an illustration, into the affairs of man and society. Society is a vast machine, mazy and complicated, composed of innumerable parts and various functions, of cheeks and balances, of propelling and restrain ing powers, all designed to secure the great ends of virtue and happiness. Os course, like all comparisons, this cannot suit every circum stance, or illustrate every detail. Society is no* a collection of automata. It is not controlled, like the sensible mass, solely by the impulse of external force—in it are intelligent wills, vio lent passions, discordant opinions, and diversi fied powers, flowing and throbbing unceasingly. Still, Society is an attempt to associate these in one harmonious and beneficial whole —in one piece of socud, fe meehauism—and if more difficult than an ordinary machine, the more beautiful is the combination That shall bind these various wills into one £ dant purpose, that shall restrain this lawl£*£ S #dual Join in common liberty, and guarding innumerable agents Loin collision shall secure the threat effect gamZatton. ‘~’ w ” This being so, analogy teaches us to seek in society, and, if 1 may so express it, in the me chanism of individual character, some master principle , which shall control the whole organ ism. Every true State, every perfect society, every community in which are secured the great ends of association, will always be guided by this central and master principle. We may have society in some shape without its free ope ration, since the history of the past and the observation of the present, teach us that society exists now full operation. Moreover a man is not.j£%Yiy a machine—he is a living and cop has in himself a pro ; Uut, f° S° 110 farther, let me taf most appropriate illustration of my id ublic. 1 say that just in proportion as the Members of a Republic wander from the control of this master principle, will it become anarchical—and just in proportion as they obey its control, will that Republic present to the world the realized ideal of a perfect State.— Below all parchment charters —below all laws and institutions, and boasted bulwarks of lib erty, there must be one cifidp, controling prin ciple, running through the hearts of the people, or the pillars of your Republic are reared on the crumbling sand. Surely, then the matter is of interest sufficient for us to ask—what is this principle, what must be the mode of its operation ? 1. What then is this principle? I answer promptly —it is Righteousness —it is Religion. 1 do not speak in cant language—l do not dole out this lesson merely because it is my calling to talk of religion—i say it from deep and sol emn conviction —as a republican and a freeman, who believes that all God’s agents are for hu man welfare—that nothing is meant to clip or to narrow the lawful operation of any other thing—but that all are given that all may move in perfect harmony aud in perfect liberty. This, I say then, is my solemn conviction. We must look for the well being of a republic to the control of a religious principle, that shall sup port its constitutions. These cannot, of them selves secure liberty, virtue and happiness. They do not create good dispositions—they are, rath er, the expression of those which already exist. They embody, perhaps, the best wisdom, or virtue, or patriotism of the age, but in all men there must be the same disposition and com prehension or virtue and wisdom and patriotism, or else the law and the institution will appear as external and arbitrary things, oppressive or unnecessary, and will be insecure iu their exist ence, or partial in their effects. It is, perhaps, needless to say that the well being of a republic does not consist merely in its acquisitions, in its vigorous trade, its fruit ful agriculture, or its prosperous commerce.— These may be manifestations of its power, its wealth or its success, but deeper than these must lie the source of its true welfare and per manence. These may decorate a nation that is diseased at its vitals, or hide with their spe cious luxuriance the seeds of anarchy or cor ruption. The foundation of a republic must be right eousness —its acts must be according to the eternal principles of goodness and truth ema nating as it does from the people, the popular heart must be sanctified, liberalized, aud virtu ous. 11. And this leads me to consider the mode in which this principle of righteousness must operate- The source of national virtue and true national prosperity, is in the hearts of individu als. A-republic will be free and pure and just, in proportion as the heart of each member is free or pure or just. Out from the hearts of men proceed laws and institutions —proceed the dispositions which shall maintain these laws and uphold these institutions. These are but our representatives — the soul of them is found “ in nil tilings —JWrnl in nntljing.” MACON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, APRIL 5, 1851. in the character of the people. Theoretically, the parchment and the statute book stand for our authorities and our constitutions, but prac tically these will be found in the hearts of the people. Our printed maxims may be freedom, toleration and love—but i| bigotry, oppression and persecution are the order of the day, these are our practical laws, and the printed maxims are but shame and nullities. You may rear the gallows on every hill-top, and erect a prison in every township, but if the hearts of the people are set for theft or murder, these will only serve to show the inefficiency of our laws. The glorj of a republic is the elevation of individual char acter—the development of each man of the capacity for self-government. Government is not the best result of society; prevention of crime is not the best result of society. These are incidents that expose its imperfection. In wrenching the sceptre from kings, and the cor onet from oligarchies, we justify ourselves by proclaiming the dignity of man—but in what does that dignity consist ‘<! It consists in his accordance with the eternal principle of recti tude', in his practice of goodness for goodness’ sake; in short, in his moral excellence. Thta gives to the poorest serf a real elevation; this makes him a man; this proves him capable of self-government; this binds his brow with a coronet whose hereditary descent is from God, and puts into his hand a sceptre whose domin ion is the soul. Thus, my friends, we find that the moral ex cellence of each man, is so much for the welfare and glor} T of the republic. The principle of righteousness of which I have spoken, must dwell in individual hearts, must be the master principle of every soul, if we would have a community in which all things shall move in harmony and prosperity; in which every inter est shall flourish, and everj r virtue abound; in which vice shall have no shield, and crime no fuel; in which shall be the conservative power and the progressive principle; in which shall be the manifestation and tlie practice of living and essential goodness. Whatever else we may have, if we have not the principle of right eousness flowing from the individual heart as a fountain, out into our conduct as a people, then indeed may it be said of us— u one thing thou laclcestf yea, and the most important thing of all—that which is the master principle that secures the order and the welfare of the whole social mechanism. I have said this much, my friends, for this reason—l believe that the want of religious principles, is the great want of our times. High as is our eminence among the nations, wide spread and various as are the seeds of our prosperity, glorious as are the memories of our history, free and happy as are our institutions, still I think that no man can look around him, no man can look below the tide of circumstances in our country, without feeling that this one Lthing we lack— religious principle. ®J.ook at the fearful amount of crime that pre gjpQs through our country. Every reflecting niust he startled by the frequent recur ring among us, and the peculiar horror, of deeds of blood and violence. One follows another in rapid succession. The community has scarcely settled down from agitation of one matter of excitement, before it is stirred by the waves of another. The daily journals are blot ted with the cruel and disgustiug details. These crimes are committed so openly too —in the very glare of day-light—in the hearts of crowded cities. I know that all times and all nations have been stained with such transactions. I3ut that is not to the point—l say, that wherever or whenever they occur with such frightful frequency, and with such open boldness, there, in the midst of that people, is a sea: ... >f religious principle. Examine the political aspects of our time.— They are enough to make the patriot heart-sick. How often are integrity and honor bartered for the bribes of office ? With what ingenious sophistry does the demagogue labor, to show that he has acted from the high motives of public welfare and of truth! How thickly fly the barbed arrows of calumny ! How vulture like does the fiendish spirit of party tear at the hearts of its victims, rending open the sancti ties of domestic life, and maliciously exposing frailty and every sin ! It is not the good of the country that animates the hearts of our legis lators, (of course I speak in general terms,) at least the good of the country is not the upper most idea. It is the triumph of party. The hours that should be devoted to the public wel fare, are spent in manoeuvers, in endeavors to check-mate the opposition, in studying by wit or by sophistry, or by legal technicalities, to gain a party point. The whole scene is a trial of political strength, a party pull; aud lie who pulls the longest and the strongest is the victor. I say again, I speak in general terms, and he who looks with a candid eye upon the political aspects of our country, will acknowledge that I have not over-colored the picture. AVe need a deeper religious principle in the hearts of our politicians—a principle that shall advance the interests of our country, that shall value honor and patriotism and capacity, above all market able and hollow service. Until we have this, we must expect to see the same scenes of ex citement, corruption and demagogueism acted over and over again. Without this principle we lack one thing —we lack the main thing. And now, my friends, it behooves us as indi viduals, to consider the part and the responsi bility we have concerning these national evils. The nation is not an abstract personality; is not some willing aud reflecting being, apart from you and me, and the mass of individuals who form what is termed the people, llemem ber that our national sins flow from the sins of individual hearts. Do we, my friends, do we contribute in any respect to swell the amount? Religious principle operating through individu al hearts —this is the great want of our times; this is the sure spring of a nation’s true welfare and prosperity. Take that religious principle, each one of you. Carry it with you into the store, the street, the shop, the field; carry it in to every association, into every transaction— feel, wherever you may be, that the eye of God is upon you —that the great law of human ac tion is love, love to Him and to all men. Do not imagine that we, as individuals , are in no way accountable for national sins—for social evils. We are accountable for them. Inasmuch as we yield to the tide of sin that rushes through the laud, inasmuch as we falter from strict duty, from true Christian love, from the law of eternal and unbinding morality; in all the transactions of our lives—insomuch we are accountable for national sins; and more— iuasmueh as we fail to shed around us a healthy religious influence, an influence that shall wean men from wrong by its exhibition of right—an influence that must go down and pierce the very core of the social organization, ere our laws shaii be fully revered and our institutions become safe—l say, inasmuch as we, in our several spheres of action, fail to exert a true moral influ ence, insomuch we are accquntable for the social evils that throng and darken around us. I ap peal to each one here, then. 1 say —in the name of our common country; in the name of all its memories of past effort, of all its hopes of future exaltation, of all that will make it truly great and prosperous; resolve as individ uals that you will desist from sin, that you will shed abroad an influence for righteousnesss.— Remember your individual responsibility in this matter. It is a truth—a solemn truth; and let it ring in your ears and sink into your soul. As you would die j 'of your country, as you would be borne urtfh her shield ere you would surrender and her honor, so live for her,jpreseiltinj®e true defense and glory of a repubb’ ~ and disciplined by righteousness. \ The Cousins. BY MISS MITFORD. Towards the middle of the principal street in my native town of Cranley, stands, or did stand, for I speak of things that happened many years back, a very long fronted, very re gular, very ugly brick house, whose large grav elled court flanked on each side by offices reach ing to the street, was divided from the pave ment by iron gates and palisades, and a row of Lombardy poplars, rearing their slender col umns so a to veil, without shading, a mansion which was evidently considered by its neigh bors as holding the first rank in the place.— That mansion, indisputably the best in town, belonged, of course, to the lawyer ; and that lawyer was, as may not unfrequently be found in small places, one of the most eminent so licitors in the county. Richard Molesworth, the individual in question, was a person obscurely born and slen derly educated, who by dint of prudence, in dustry, integrity, tact, and luck, had risen through the various gradations of writing clerk, managing clerk, and juuior partner, to be himself the head of a great office, and a man of no small property, or importance.— Hali’ of Cranley belonged to him, for he had the passion for brick and mortar often ob served amongst those who have accumulated large fortunes in totally different pursuits, and liked nothing better than running up rows and terraces, repairing villas, and rebuilding farm houses. The better half of Cranley called him master, to say of six or seven snug farms in the neighborhood of the goodly estate and manor of llinton, famous for its preserves and fisheries, or of a command of floating capi tal whicllborrowers, who came t#him with good had prospered through life; and, in profession too offer obnoxious to an impHKause sweeping, there was a pretty Universal feeling amq’’ \all who knew him that his prosperity was Reserved. A kind temper, a moderate use of power and influence, a splendid hospitality, and that judicious liberality which shows itself in small things as well as in great ones (for it is by two-penny savings that men get an ill name,) served to ensure his popularity with high and low. Perhaps, even his tall, erect, portly figure, his good humored countenance, cheerful voice, and frank address, contributed something to his reputation ; his remarkable want of pretension or assumption of any sort certainly did, and as certainly the absence of .every thing striking, clever, or original, in his conversation. That he must be a man of per sonal as well as of professional ability, no one tracing bis progress through life could for a mo ment doubt; but, reversing the witty epigram on our wittiest monarch, he reserved his wis dom for his actions, and whilst all that he did showed the most admirable sense and judg ment, lie never said a word that rose above the level of the merest common place, vapid, in offensive, dull and safe. So accomplished, both iu what lie was and in what he was not, our lawyer, at the time of which we write, had been for many years the oracle of the country gentlemen, held all pub offices not inconsistent with each other, which their patronage could bestow, and in the shape of stewardships, trusts and agencies, managed half the landed estate in the county, lie was even admitted into visiting intercourse, on a footing of equality very uncommon in the aris tocratic circles of country society —a society which is 4 for the most part, quite as exclusive as that of London, though in a different way. For this he well suited, not merely by his own unaffected manners, high animal spirits, and nicety of tact, but by the circumstances of his domestic arrangements. After having been married, Mr. Molesworlh found himself, at near ly sixty, a second time a widower. llis first wife had been a homely, frugal, managing woman, whose few hundred pounds and her saving habits had, at that perioij of his life, for they were early united, conduced in their several ways to enrich and benefit her equally thrifty but far more aspiring husband. She never had a child ; and, after doing him all possible good in her lifetime, was so kind as to die just as his interest and his ambition requir ed more liberal housekeeping and higher con nexion, each of which, as he well knew, would repay its costs. For connexion accordingly lie married, choosing the elegant though portion tionless sister of a poor baronet, by whom he had two daughters atintervals of seven years; the eldest being just of sufficient age to succeed her mother as mistress of the family, when she had the irreparable misfortune to lose the ear liest, the tendcrest, and the most inestimable friend that a young woman can have. Very precious was the memory of her dear mother to Agnes Moleswortli! Although six years has passed between her death and the period at which our little story begins, the affectionate daughter had never ceased to lament her loss. It was to his charming daughters that Mr. Molesworth’s pleasant house owed its chief at traction! Conscious of his own deficient edu cation, no pains nor money had been spared in accomplishing them to the utmost height of fashion. The least accomplished was, however, as not unfrequently happens, by far the most striking; and many a high born and wealthy client, dis posed to put himself thoroughly at ease at his solicitor’s table, and not at all shaken in his pur pose by the sight of the pretty Jessy—a short light, airy girl, with a bright sparkling coun tenance, all lilies and roses, aod dimples aud ’ smiles, sitting exquisitely dressed, iu an Cl-"--- morning room, with her guitar in her lap, her harp at her side, and her drawing table before her, —has suddenly felt himself awed into his best and most respectful breeding, when intro duced to her retiring but self possessed elder sis ter drest with an almost matronly simplicity,and evidently full not of her own airs and graces, but of the modest and serious courtesy which beseemed her station as the youthful mistress of the house. Dignity, a mild and gentle but still a most striking dignity, was the prime characteristic of Agnes Molesworth in look and mind. Her beauty was the beauty of sculpture, as contra distinguished from that of painting; depend ing mainly on form and expression, and little on color. There could hardly be a stronger contrast than existed between the marble puri ty of her finely-grained complexion, the soft ness of her deep grey eye, the calm composure of exquisitely moulded features, and the rosy cheek, the brilliant glances, and the playful ani- of Jessy. In a word, Jessy was a pret- Agnes was a beautiful woman. Os These several facts both sisters were of 0001*50 perfectly aware; Jessy, beeause every body told her so, and she must have been deaf to escape the knowledge; Agnes, from some process equally certain, but less direct; for few would venture to take the liberty of addressing a per sonal compliment to one evidently too proud to find pleasure in anything so nearly resembling flattery tts praise. Few, excepting her looking-glass and her father, had ever told Agnes that she was hand some, yet she was conscious of her surpassing beauty, as Jessy of her sparkling prettiness ; and, perhaps, as a mere question of appearance and becomingness, there might have been as much coquetry in the severe simplicity of at tire and manner which distinguish one sister, as in the elaborate adornment and innocent showing oft’of the other. There was, however, between them exactly such a real and inter nal difference of taste and of character as the outward show served to indicate. Both were true, gentle, good, and kind; but the elder w r as as much loftier in mind as in stature, was full of high pursuit and noble purpose; had aban doned drawing, from feeling herself dissatis fied with her own performances as compared with the works of real artists; reserved her mu sical talent entirely for her domestic circle, be cause she put too much of soul into that deli cious art to make it a mere amusement; and was only saved from becoming -a poetess, by her almost exclusive devotion to the very great in poetry —to Wordsworth, to Milton, and to Shakspeare. These tastes she very wisely kept to herself; but they gave a higher and firmer tone to her character and manners; and more than one peer, w hen seated at Mr. Moles worth’s hospitable table, has thought within himself how well his beautiful daughter would become a coronet. Marriage, however, seemed little ip her thoughts. Once, or twice, indeed, her 1 kind father had pressed on her the/Orilliant establish ments that had offered—but her sweet ques tions, “Are you tired of me? Do you wish me away ?” had always gone straight to his heart, and had put Jiside for the moment the am bition of his nature even for this his favorite child. Os Jessy, with all her youthful attraction, he had always been less proud, perhaps less fond. Besides, her destiny he had long in his own mind considered as decided. Charles Woodford, a poor relation, brought up by his kindness, and recently returned into his family, from a great office in London, was the person on whom he had long ago fixed for the hus band of his youngest daughter, and for the immediate partner and eventful successor to his great and flourishing business—a choice that seemed fully justified by the excellent conduct and remarkable talents of his orphan cousin, and by the apparently good understanding and mutual affection that subsisted between the young people. This arrangement was the more agreeable to him, as providing munificently for Jessy, it allowed him the privilege of making, as in law r ver phrase, “an elder son” of Agues, who would, by this marriage of her youngest sister, be come one of the richest heiresses of the coun ty. lie had even, in his own mind, selected her future spouse, in the person of a young baronet who had lately been much at the house and in favor of whose expected addresses, (for the proposal had not yet been made—the gen tleman had gone no farther than attention) he had determined to exert the paternal authority which had so long lain dormant. But in the affairs of love, as of all others, man is born to disappointments. “Z’ homme propose , et Dieu Dispose ,” is never truer than in the great matter of matrimony. So found poor Mr. Molesworth, who—Jessy having ar rived at the age of eighteen, and Charles that of two-and-twenty,—offered his pretty daugh ter and lucrative partnership to his pen nylcss relation, and was petrified with aston ishment and indignation to find the connexion very respectfully but firmly declined. The young man was very much distressed and agitated; he had the highest respect for Miss Jessy; but he could not marry her—he loved another; and then he poured forth a confidence as un expected as it was undesired by his incensed patron, who left him in undiminished wrath and increased perplexities. This interview had taken place immediately after breakfast; and when the conference was ended, the provoked father sought his daugh ters, who happily unconscious of all that had occurred, were amusing themselves in their splendid conservatory —a scene always as be coming as it is agreeable to youth and beauty. Jessy was flitting abont like a butterfly amongst the fragrant orange trees and the bright gera niums; Agnes standing under a superb fuschia that hung over a large marble basin, her form and attitude, her white dress, and the classical arrangement of her dark hair, giving her the look of some nymph or naiad, a rare relic of Grecian art. Jessy was pratling gaily, as she wandered about, of a concert which they had attended the evening before at the county town. “I hate concerts !” said the pretty little flirt. “To bolt upright on a bad bench for four hours, between the same four people, without the pos sibility of moving, or of speaking, to any body, or anybody’s getting to us! Oh ! how tiresome it is!” “ I saw Sir Edmund trying to slide through the crow and to see you,” said Agnes, a little arch ly ; “his presence would, perhaps, have miti gated the evil. But the barricade was too complete; he was forced to retreat, without ac complishing his object.” “Yes, I assure you, he thought it very tire some) hs IP9 s b when we were coming out. And then the music 1” pursued Jessy; “the noise that they call music! £ir Edmund says that he likes no music except my guitar, or a flute on the water; and I like none except your playing on the organ, and singing Han del on a* Sunday evening, or Charles \\ ood ford’s reading Milton anil bits of Ilamlct.” “Do you call that music ?” asked Agnes, laughing. “And yet,’’ continued she, “it is most truly so, with his rich Pasta-like voice, and his tine sense of sound ; and to you, who do not greatly love poetry for its own sake, it is doubtless a pleasure much resembling in kind that of hearing the most thrilling of melo dies on the noblest instruments. I myself have felt such a gratification in hearing that voice re cite the verses of Homer or of Sophocles in the original Greek. Charles AY oodford’s reading is mu^ic.” “It is music that neither of you are likely to hear again,’’ interrupted Mr. Molesworth, ad vancing suddenly towards them; “for he has been ungrateful, and I have discarded him.’’ Agnes stood as if petrified ; “Ungrateful, oh! father ?’’ “You can’t have discarded him, to be sure, papa,” said Jessy, always good natured; “poor Charles ! what can he have done ?” “Refused your hand, child,” said the angry parent; “refused to be my partner and son-in law, and fallen in love with another lady ? What have you to say for him now 1” “Why really, papa,” replied Jessy, “I’m much more obliged to him for refusing my hand than to you for offering it. I like Charles very well for a cousin, but I should not like such a hus band at all; so that if this refusal be the worst that has happened, there is no great harm done.” And oft’ the gipsy ran: declaring that “she must put on her habit, for she had pro mised to ride with Sir Edmund and his sister, and expected them every minute.” The father and his favorite daughter remain ed in the conservatory. “That heart is untouched, however,” said Mr. Molesworth, looking after her with a smile. “Untouched by Charles \\ r oodford, undoubt edly,” replied Agnes, “but has he really refus ed mv sister ?” ‘Absolutely.’ ‘And does he love another ?’ ‘He says so, and 1 believe him.’ ‘ls he loved again ?’ ‘That he did not say.’ ‘Did he tell you the name of the lady 1’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Do you know r her V ‘Yes.’ ‘ls she worthy of him V ‘Most worthy.’ -‘Has he any hope of gaining her affections l Oh! he must! he must! What woman could refuse him?’ ‘He is determined not to try. The lady whom he loves is above him every way; aud much as he has counteracted my wishes, it is an honorable part of Charles Woodford’s con duct, that he intends to leave his affection un suspected by its object.’ Here ensued a short pause in the dialogue, •luring which Agnes appeared trying to occu py herself with collecting the blossoms of a Cape jessamine and watering a favorite ger anium; but it would not do; the subject was at her heart, aud she could not force her mind to indifferent occupations. Bhe returned to her father, who had been anxiously watching her motious aud the varying expression of her countenance, and resumed the conversation. “Father! perhaps it is hardly maidenly to avow so much, but although you have never in set words told me your intentions, I have yet seen and know n, I can hardly tell how, all that your too kind partiality towards me has designed for your children. You have mistaken me, dearest father, doubly mistaken me; first, in thinking me fit to fill a splendid place in so ciety ; next, in imagining that I desired such splendor. You meant to give Jessy and the lu crative partnership to Charles Woodford, and designed me and your large possessions to our Wealthy and titled neighbor. And with some little change of persons these arrangements may still for the most part hold good. Sir Ed mund may still be your son-in-law and your heir, for he loves Jessy, and Jessy loves him. Charles Woodford may still be your partner and your adopted son, tor nothing has chanced that need diminish your affection or his merit. Marry him to the woman he loves. She must be ambitious indeed, if she be not content with such a destiny. And let me live on, with you, dear father, single, aud unwedded, with no thought but to contribute to your comfort, to cheer and brighten your declining years. I>o not let your too great fondness for me stand in the way of their happiness ! Make me not so odi ous to them and to myself dear father! Let me live always with you, and for you—always your own poor Agnes!” And blushing at the earnestness with which she had spoken, she bent her head over the marble basin, whose waters reflected the fair image as if she had really been the Grecian statue to which, whilst she listened, her fond father’s fancy had com pared her: “Let me live single with you, and marry Charles to the woman he loves.” “Have you heard the name of the lady in question? Have you formed any* guess who she may be ?” “Mot the slighest. I imagined from what you said that she was a stranger to me. Have I ever seen her?” “You may see her—at least you may see her reflection in the water, at this very moment; for he has had the infinite presumption, the admirable good taste, to fall in love with his cousin Agnes.” “Father!” “And now, mine own sweetest, do you still wish to live single w ith me ?” “Oh, father! dear lather!” “Or do you desire to marry Charles to the woman of his heart?’’ “Father ! dear father ?” “Choose, my Agnes, it shall be as you com mand. Speak freely. Do not cling so around me, but speak !” Oh ?my dear father! Cannot wo all live together? I cannot leave you. But poor Charles—surely father, we may all live to gether!” And so it was settled; and a few months prov ed that love had contrived better for Molesworth than he had done for himself. Jessy, w prettiness and her title, and her fopperies, was the very thing to be vain of—the very thing to visit for a day; but Agnes and the cousin whose noble character and splendid talents so w ell deserved her, nu>de the pride and the hap piness of his home. Truth. —Humbuggery is a towel for wiping the face of the country! The Three Sons. BY REV. B. B. IIALLOCK. 1 It is said that a pious man of old, living in the East having three sons and an immense fortune, made the following proposal to his sons w hen they were grown to manhood . “Go,” said he, “my sons, from my roof for one month, and return; he that performs dur ing his absence, the best aud noblest deed, small receive the one half of my estate, and the oth er half shall be divided between the other iwo brothers.” They went and returned at the stipulated time. The eldest began the story of his month's philanthropy. “I was walking along the banks of one of our native streams, and I beard the shrieks of a fe male. 1 hastened to the spot whence the cry proceeded, *nd to I it was a mother in the very act of leaping into the flood to sas r e ber boy, an only child of four years old, who had unfortunately fallen in, and the waters were choking the avenues of life. Had the mother made the desperate leap, they both must have perished together. 1 bade her and I plunged into the roaring current. By hard struggling and mighty efforts, I saved the drowning cluld, and restored him to-the arms of the frantic, but now enraptured mother.” “Thou hast indeed done nobly, my son: the pen of immortality shall cherish thy memory with tears of gratitude. My son, what hast thou to say l” “Father,” said be, “in my jour ney, I found an old man lying on his conch, feeble aud decrepid; he could not walk nor rise up. Two little children were left with him; the parents had gone to a neighboring; town, about ten miles distant; the old man was sigh ing heavily, and the children wept bitterly The bleak winds murmured through the trees, the ground was covered with snow, the cold was piercing and terrible. ‘Aud will your parents return to night,’ 1 inquired of the lad, as he stirred up the little fire on the hearth which his flowing tears might liave quenched. ‘They liave been gone four days,’ was the reply, ‘and we are starving and can neither get food, nor go for father and mother!’ I hurried back to the nearest house I had left to obtain food for the famishing ones, and information of the par ents. The former 1 procured, but of the latter 1 could obtain no tidiugs. I went in search of them and when within a mile of the village, I was informed to my astonishment that the. j hud been found dead, having perished in the. 1 suow! I need only say these orphans and the more helpless old man are to share ha. my patri mony, whatever it may be.” The father burst into tears, and could only say “The youngest brother.” The youngest sou now began: “On my return homeward, having almost despaired of accomplishing niy wishes, I found a man prostrate and bleeding on the cold ground; he was my bitter, deadly enemy ! He must have perished in a few hours, had there been no assistance. I took him to a hospitable shelter, and he is rapidly recov ering.” “My dear boy,’’ said the father, “to thee, to thee, belongs the reward L Were it the world, thou sliouldest have it. Tho* Itast sanctified humanity, and spread the antepast of heaven. Thy brothers have done well, uobly; bnt thou hast acted God like! Thine is tlie spirit of heaven; half my wealth is thine, and well may l trust it to such a son.” Carry a thing Through. Carry a thing through. That’s it, dbuT do anything else. If you once fairly, soundly, wide aw akely begin a thing, let it be carried through, though it cost your best comfort, time, energies, and all that you can command. We heart ly abominate this turning backward, this weary ing and fainting of soul and purpose. It be speaks imbecility of mind, want of character, courage, true manliness. Carry a thing through. Don’t begin it till you are fully prepared for its accomplishment. Think, study, dig till you know your ground, see your way. This done, launch out with all your soul, heart, life, and fire, neither turning to right or left. Push on giantly—push as though you w ere born for the very work you are about beginning; as though creation had been w aiting through all time for your especial hand and spirit. Then you’ll do something worthy of yourself and mankind. Carry a thing through. Don’t leap and dally from one thing to another. No man ev er did anything that way. You can’t. Tie strong minded. Be pluc’kish, patient, consis tent. Be hopeful, stern aud manly. When once fairly in a work don’t give it up. Don’t disgrace yourself by being oa this one thing to-day, on that to-morrow* and’ on another next day. We don’t care if you are the most active mortal living; we don’t care if you. labor day and night, in season and out, be sure the end of your life will show nothing if you perpetu ally change from object to object Fortune, success, fame, position, are never gained bnt by piously, determinedly, bravely sticking, growi ing living to a thing till it is fairly accomplished. In short you must carry a thing through if you would be anybody or anything. No mat ter it it is hard. No matter if it does co6t you the pleasure, the society, the thousand pearly gratifications of life. No matter for these.— Stick to the thing and carry it through. Be lieve you were made for the matter, and that no one else can do it all. Put forth your whole energies. Stir, wake, electrify yourself and go forth to the task. Only once learn to carry a thing through in all its completedness and pro portion, and you will become a hero. You will think better of yourself—others will think better of you. Os course they will. The world in its very heart admires the stern, determined doer. It sees in him its best sight, its highest object, its richest treasure. Drive right along then w ith whatever you undertake. Consider vourself amply sufficient for the deed. You’ll be successful, never fear.— Waverly Muyazint. All Abont a Kiss. FROM THE GERMAN, BY OODFREY GRArLOCK. ‘The melting juncture of four rosy lips.” The Naturalist.— A kiss is the bringing into jux taposition two contrarily-charged poles by which it, like an electric spark, is elicited. The Moralist. —A kiss is the token of the most intimate communion of love, and is therefore only to be permitted in the married. Tub Physician.— A kiss is the art of so moving tho labial muscles that the lips are first brought suddenly together, and then explosively separated; so that after all a kiss is only a;i artificial spasm. The Philologist.— Kiss is an ornamato-poetic word § in which the eurtucss the of thing is represented by tlan brief sound of the word. The A.\tiq,i arian.—Kissing is a custom handed down to us from the Greeks and Romans, of the tru 5 signification of which we are not perfectly clear ~ NO. 1.