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VOL. 2. *r 1 “ - “ “ “ Little Emma’s Cradle Song. BY T. H. CHIYERS, M. D. As the Dove with her lily-white wings Overshadows her young in her nest, So, thy mother will watch while she sings To her beautiful babe on her breast, Then sleep, little Emma, my pretty baby dear ! Thou fairest of babes ever born ! Thy father, who loves thee, is watching thee near, And will watch thee all night till the morn. Thy sisters, that once were so bright, Are gone to their home in the sky ; And thy father is watching to-night For fear that his Emma may die! Then sleep, little Emma, my pretty hahy dear ! Thou fairest of babes ever born ! Thy father, who loves thee, is watching thee near, And will watch thee all night till the morn. Yon star on the bosom of Night 3hines bright in the beautiful West; But brighter by far is the Light That now shines on her mother’s soft breast. Then sleep, little Emma, my pretty baby dear ! Thou fairest of babes ever born ! Thy father, who loves thee, is watching thee near, And will watch thee all night till the morn. The Angls are whispering her now — See! sec how she smiles in her sleep ! Be silent! or speak to her low— ■ For fear you might wake her, to weep ? Then sleep, little Emma, my pretty baby dear! Thou fairest of babes ever born ! Thy father, who loves thee, is watching thee near, And will watch thee all night till the morn. Oh! guard her, ye Angels above! Protect her, awake or asleep! For the sake of her father’s dear love Which keeps him awake now to weep ! Then sleep liltle Emma, my pretty baby dear ! Thou fairest of babes ever born ! Thy father, who loves thee, is watching thee near, And will watch thee all night, till the morn. For the Georgia Citizen. STANZAS. BY DR. A. W. BURROWES. Inscribed with affectionate regard to Miss Mary Coxhead of Philadelphia, as a token of esteem for her m a lady , friend aud authoress,— one whose sun is ra pidly rising to a glorious zenith, may it never set in clouds. A. W. B. Goon, thou child of intellect, In poetry and prose Continue long to wield thy pen, From which thy genius flows. Let partial nature's golden gift To thee above the rest Os woman kind; be buried not, In dark oblivion’s breast. Thy name is on the roll of fame ” Like Mars it shines on high—’ - ‘ Should it he dimm’d by brighter/ays Pray never let it die. Remember thou art young in years— Yes, like the dawn of day “ That tips with gold the early bloom Os hawthorn buds in May.’’ As time rolls on, thy sun may rise, Shine brrigV.ter far than now, Thy pen may’ win unfading wreaths ’Of laurels for thy brow. Despair not should thy friends prove false And cause thy heart to bleed, For others will prove friends to thee Yes, frieuds to thee, indeed. But strive—this world is not a waste, A wilderness of care, Green spots are on the field of life And flow’rets blooming fair. Strive on—but oh, let virtue be The guardian of your aim, Let pure unclouded love illume, The path that leads to fame. Macon, Ga N 1851. Who could do Better? A father sits by the chimney post, On a winter’s day, enjoying a roast; By his side is a maiden—young and fair, A girl with a wealth of golden hair; And she teases the father stern and cold, With a question of duty trite and old ; ‘Say, father, what shall a maiden do When a man of merit comes to woo ? And, father, what of this pain in my breast ? Married or single—which is the best V Then the sire of the maiden young and fair— The girl with the wealth of golden hair, He answers, as ever do fathers cold, •Jo the question of duty, trite and old; ‘She who weddeth keeps God's letter; She who weds not, doeth better.’ Then meekly answered the maiden fair— The girl with the wealth of golden hair; *1 will keep the sense of the Holy Letter, Content to do well without doing better /” Oft in tbe Chilly Night. Oft in th 6 chilly night, When bed clothes seem too scanty, Fond memory brings tbe light Os days when we had plenty; Each linen sheet, So white and neat, The quilts that I paraded; The blankets white, Now thin and slight. The comforts old and faded; Thus in the chilly night, When bed clothes seem too scanty, Fond memoryjarings the light Os days when we hed plenty. When I remember all The bod clothes brought from mother’s I’ve seen around me fall, And couldn't purchase others; I feel like one, Who had oeen 4 done,’ By wedding in a hurry. Whose youth was flown, Whose beaux were gone, And she was left to worry; Thus in the chilly night, When hed-clothes seemed too scanty, Fond memory brings the light Os days when I had plenty. Lizzie,’ sa’d a little curley headed boy of some five Rummers, ‘isn’t Sam Slade a busier .’ ‘ Why, Charley?’ ‘Because tbe grammar says, positive buss, com parative buster, and I did see him gin vou stick a j'cdWvc bt?se!’ fainted! From the Ladie’s Keepsake. The Silver Spoon. A DOMESTIC STORY. “ ‘Paltry, miserable jewel!’ Linda, my daugh ter, you astonish me! Would any one, hearing your words, imagine they came from a young girl contem plating the gift of one she loves, and to whom she will be married to-morrow ?” 4 But, n other—a simple pearl ring, when Augusta has such splendid diamonds from her betrothed ! Oh, I wish I had not consented to be married at the same tin e with her!’ *My child, surely you do not envy your sister her gift!’ 4 No, mother—but it is very unpleasant to see one’s self always in the background. lam the eldest, too, and was loved and caressed until Augusta came, and then at onee I was neglected—superceded !’ 4 Linda!’ ‘ I was was told, ‘my no6e was out of joiut!’ I knew not what it meant; but oh, I felt my heart was !’ ‘ My own child, cease !’ 4 We went to school together,’continued the excited girl. ‘She learnt quickly, and gained all the prizes.— We came out as young ladies ; and an uncle left her a nice inheritance, with which she attired herself elegant ly ; while I scorning to accept her bounty, struggled to keep from shabbiness. And now we enter mar ried life together—but still unequal: she, the bride of a wealthy gentleman, while 1 oould only attract a young merchaut, dependent on his patrons lor a scan ty living !’ 4 Oh, my beloved child, your mother's heart is wrung to hear your murmurs! Can you expect a blessing upon your marriage, if thus, on its eve, you sigh for perishable riches, when your Heavenly Father lias giv en you a loving husband and a comfortable home ?’ “‘Comfortable!’—humph!’’ said Linda. ‘Well— well, 1 know this is wrong,’ she added, while a tear rolled down her glowing check. ‘There is no hope ot strug gling against my destiny—for Augusta was born with a silver spoon in her mouth!’ 4 Do not repeat that silly saying! How blind are you to the history of this world and to the truths of another, and to the chances and changes of life, to deem happiness dependent upon wealth and show! Oh, when sorrow comes, as it must come to all, will dia monds, or the world's flattery sooth one throb of pain, or heal the wounds of the heart? In the end, depend upon it, you will find your lots are more equal than you suppose—and confess, it is as possible to be happy in a humble station as in one more exalted.’ Notwithstanding the above conversion, Linda Max well was not an ambitious or envious girl. She pos sessed 3n excellent heart, and was much attached to her mother and sister. When a child, she was plain, but loved by her parents, and eareesed by all, until Augusta was born, and then ‘the baby’ was the delight of all eyes. In after years, the lovely Augusta was preferred—because, as her nurse said, ‘she was born with a silver Bpooriy until Linda almost allowed her self to cousider her sister as a rival. _ Before her mother left the room, Linda felt trifyy ashamed of her fit of envy; and, making her peace with her she kissed the ring, and then put up a humble and penitential prayer to her Saviour, who alone could subdue the evil of her heart, and keep her in the straight path which she wished to pursue. The next morning beheld Clinton-Plaoe crowded with carriages, bringing company to the bridal of Lin da and Augusta Maxwell. When the guests had assem bled, the bridal train entered, and took its station at the end of the back room. All gazed eagerly on, and all thought how splendid x\ugusta looked. She wore the necklace, robe, veil, and jewels which had been pre sented to her by Frederic Darly and his friends —thus making a strong contrast to Linda, in her plain white silk and orange bud. To her husband, Charles, how ever, she looked far lovelier than the glittering Au gusta. The ceremony was over—the brides saluted—and then the company were attracted to the table of wed ding presents, more than half of which brilliant dis play of silver and bijouerie belonged to Augusta—gifts of her new relatives. Thertce the stream passed into the refreshment-room, where was much eating of cake, popping of champagne corks, and drinking healths to the ‘happy couples.’ Cloaking followed; and, as the departing guests passed through the hall, they were presented with boxes of wedding-cake, which piled the silver waiters held by smiling negro servants. Soon all the carriages had driven away except three; one was destined to take upon their bridal trip Mr. and Mrs. Charles Smith, and the other two, Mr. and Mrs. Darlev, servants and luggage. A solemn procession now conies down the stairway : the brides appear in their sober travelling-suits, follow ed by their weeping mother and sad-faced bridemaids. Tears —kisses—and adieus—and Linda sets off to vis it her husband's father, a fanner in New Jersey ; and Augusta, on a tour of pleasure through the southern cities; while her magnificent mansion in Union-Square is preparing for her reception. ******** When next we behold the parties, it is after years have passed, and the life each has led, has had its effect upon their characters. They had been dining with their mother, as was their custom, on Thanksgiving- Day. The gentlemen were still in the dining-room, while the ladies and children and an aunt were seated in a group around Mrs. Smith, as Mrs. Darley had none. One, a sweet girl of twelve, was seated by the side of her grandmother, who held her hand fondly in her’s; while a cherub of three years ssat on a stool beside her aunt Darley, smoothing with her tiny hand aud admiring smiles her aunt’s rich brocade robe. 4 Take care, child —you will soil my dress!’ said Au gusta, drawing away from her sweet niece. ‘Do you know, Linda,’ she added proudly, ‘I gave three dollars a yard for this silk.’ Expensive, was it not ? but that pleases me, as no one but ice of the upper class can wear such.’ As no one made a remark; she went on: *lt is provoking, however, to see how many parvenues there are springing up around the Square, with monev to purchase all they wish ! They dress in vain, I re joice to say, as a certain circle of us have banded to gether, and are determined to keep them out of all genteel society.’ ‘ls that kind ?’ said her mother. Augusta laughed scornfully, and went on : 4 I served one lady nicely. I gathered together a hand of my intimate friends, and, by bribing, secured the pattern-cards of the new Spring sdks, and thus chose out all the best and newest fashioned. We took two or three dresses each—more than we wanted—on purpose to spite our neighbor, Mrs. Newcome. The consequence was, she was obliged to fit herself, and her ugly daughters, with old-fashioned silks!’ ‘That was not ‘doing as you would be done by,’ my child.’ ’Ah, my dear mamma, that motto is not used in fashionable life : there, eaoh strives to excel the other.’ ‘Thank Heaven, I am not in it!’ exclaimed Linda. ‘What, Linda! have you forgotton the scene of the pearl ring and ‘silver spoon’ so soon ?’ inquired her mother, smiling. (This conversation was aside, es Mrs. Darley was still narrating her triumph to her aunt.) ‘A few days after.’ continued Augusta, ‘there was a terrte is the B<jnare. J :b, wearipg of r>y “ !SnliefiHiiient in all things —Jieatral in not jpg.” MACON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, APRIL 19, 1851. new silk dresses ; and I never shall forget the rueful look poor Mrs. Newcome east upon her own dull dress, after glancing at my brocade ! On, it was a glorious triumph !’ Mrs. Maxwell sighed ; and Linda said : ‘ls there nothing more glorious in your life, sister, than shining in anew dress, or mortifying a neigh bor ?’ ‘Oh, it is very well for you, who cannot afford such things, to moralize,’ said Mrs. Darley, pouting. ‘Mr. Smith, by his talents, has secured an independ ence for his family,’ replied Mrs. Maxwell; ‘but, with so many children, it would not be prudent to indulge in dress, if he had the inclination.’ ‘Yes,’ added her aunt,‘her children are Linda’s on ly jewels.’’ A change came over the brilliant face of Augusta, and she gazed at the cherubs with a dull, sad look. ‘Ah, yes,’ she sighed, ‘that is the o.ie dark shadow over my life—the throe in my heart! Ah, Linda,’ she said, aloud, ‘it is my lonely state that drives me to fash ion and folly! Our lots are more equal than we once supposed. I have wealth and luxury, but am child less. My husbahd regrets this bitterly ; and from oar lonely mansion we are driven abroad for society.’ Gay voices interrupted them, and, the doors opening, Mr. Darley enme in, with his arm around a fine young lad of sixteen. Mr. Maxwell and Charles Smith fol lowed. ‘Oh, Augusta !’ exclaimed Mr. Darley, ‘wo have a son now ! Charles has promised that I shall adopt his boy, James, who will live with us, and take my name! How nice, is it not ?’ ‘Not so fast, Darley ! I said, if his mother consent ed. ‘ Consent, my dear! —how can you think of such a thing ?’ said Linda. While the gramnother and aunt were expressing their surprise, Charles leaned over to his wife, and whis pered : ‘Pray,love, do not refuse! Think what an advan tage to receive such an education as his rich uncle can give ? We can see him every day. He will oe his uncle’s heir! ‘Charles, my love, say no more! I cannot consent! James has been happy without riches, lie has good instruction, and escapes the snares wealth may bring. Enjoying, as he does, perfect happiness in our family, all the gold of California cannot better him.’ ‘You are right, wife, as you always are! I think Frederic’s opportunity, or your good mamma’s,will have taken from me my discretion; and with you I say, hap piness lies not alone in wealth.’ Meanwhile, Mrs. Darley had withdrawn to the win dow; and, shaded by the curtains, no one heard the heavy sighs that shook her frame, nor saw the bitter tears which her costly handkerchief could not stem. ‘ And has it come to this ?’ she exclaimed. ‘Must the petted beauty—the wealthy Augusta—at last confess that all these gifts have failed to ensure her happiness? The plain, neglected Linda, enjoys supreme content, while we are forced to sue for one of her ‘jewels,’ to ensure our own ! Sister 1’ she cried, suddedly turning and standing before Linda—‘once you envied me my beauty and riches : now you know—and oh, I feel—- that it is possible to be happy without either, and un happy with both !’ With tears and embraces to brorty separated. E. R. S. Taking tbe Census. Onr next encounter was with an old lady, notorious in her neighborhood for her garrulity and simple mind edness. Having been warned of her propensity, and being somewhat hurried when we called upon her, we were disposed to get through business as soon as possi ble. Striding into the house, and drawing our pa pers—‘Taking the census, ma’am ! quoth we. ‘Ah ! well! yes! bless your soul, take a seat. Now do! Are you the gentleman that Mr. Fillmore has sent on to Lake the sensis? wonder! well, how was Mr. Fillmore and family when you seed him ?’ We told her we had never sever seen the President, didn't know him from a ‘side sole leather,’ we had been written to take the census. ‘Well, now, there agin! love your soul! Well, I ’spose Mr. Fillmore writ you a letter, did he? No! Well, there’s mighty little here to take down—times, is hard; but it looks like people can’t get their jest rights in this country; and the law is all for the rich aud none for the poor. Did you ever hear tell of that case my boys has got agin old Simpson ? Looks like they will never git to the end on it. The children will suffer, I'm mighty afeard. Did you ever see Judge B ? Yes! Well, did you ever hear him say what he was agwine to do in the boys’ case again Simp son ? No! Well, ’squire’ will you ax him the next time what I say ? I’m nothing but a poor widow, anil my boys has no larnin, and cld Simpson tuk ’em in.— It’s a mighty hard case, and the will oughtn't never to a been broke, but ’ Here we interposed, and told the old lady that our time was precious. After a good deal of trouble we got through with a description of the members of her fam ily, and the ‘statistical table’ as far as the article cloth ‘How many yards of cotton cloth did you weave in 1850, ma’am ?’ ‘Well now! —less see! You know Sally Higgins that used to live in the Smith settlement ?—poor thing, her daddy druv her off—poor gal, she couldn't help it. I dare say. Well, Sally, 6he come to stay long wi’ me when the old man druv her away, and she was a powerful good hand to weave, and I did think she'd help me a power. Well, arter she’d bin here awhile, her baby hit took sick, and old Miss Stringer she un deriuk to help it—she's a powerful good hand, old Miss Stringer on roots and yearbs, and sieh like 1 Well she made a sort of a tea, as I was saying, and she gin it to Sally’s baby, it got wuss—the poor creetur—and she gin it tea, and looked like the more she gin it tea, the more——” ‘My dear madam, I ant in a hurry—please tell me how many yards of cotton you wove in 1850. I want to get through and goon.” ‘Well, well, who'd a thought you'd ’a bin so snap pish ? Well, as I was sayiu’Sail’s child hit kept gittin wus, and old Miss Stringer, she kept a givin’ it the yarb tea; till at last the child hit looked like hit would die any how. And ’bout the time the child was at its wust, old Daddy Sykes he cum along, and he said if we’d git some night shed berries, and stew them with a little cream and 6ome hogs lard -now old Daddy Sykes is a mighty fine old man, and he gin the boys a heap of mighty good counsel ’bout that case—boys, says he, I’ll tell you what you do; you go and ’ ‘Old lady,’ said we, ‘do tell about your cloth, and let the sick child and Miss Stringer, Daddy Sykes, the boys and the law suit go to grass. I’m in a hurry !’ ‘Gracious bless your dear soul! don’t git aggravated. I wasjista tellin’ you how it come I didn't weave no cloth last year.’ ‘Oh, well, you did’nt weave any cloth last year.— Good ! we’ll go on to the next article.’ ‘Yes! you see the child hit begun to swell and turn yaller, and hit kep a wallin’ its eyes and a moanin’ and I knowd ’ ‘Never mind about the child—just tell me the value of the poultry you raised last year. ‘Oh, Well—yes—the chickens you mean. Why, I reckon yon never in your born days see a poor cree tur have the lack that I did— and looks like we never shall have good fuck again; for ever ainoe old Simpeon tnk that ear* cp ‘e tbe Chancery eont ‘Never mind the case; let’s hear about the chickens, if you please.’ ‘Bless you, honey, the owls destroyed in and about tbe best half that I did raise. Every blessed night they’d come and set on the comb of the house, and hoo, hoo, hoo, and one night in particklar, I remember, I had just got up for the night-shed salve to ’int the lit tle gal with— ’ ‘Well, well, what was the value of what you did raise ?’ ‘They got so bad—the owls did—that they tuk the old hens as well’s the young chickens. The night I was tellin’ ’bout, I heard somethin’ s-q-a-u-1-1, s-q-u-a-1-1! and says I, I’ll bet that’s old Speck, that nasty ouda eious owl’s got; for I seen her go to roost with her chickens, up in the plum tree, fornenst the smoke house. So I went to whar old Miss Stringer was sleep in,’ and says I Qfiss ! Oh Miss Stringer! sure's you’re born, /hat nasty owl’s got old Speck out’n the plum tree. Well, old Miss Stringer she turned over ’pon her siue like and says she, what did you say, Miss Stokes? and says I ’ We began to get very tired, and signified the same to the old lady, and begged she would auswer us di rectly, and without circumlocution. ‘Love your dear heart, honey. I’m tellin’ you as fast I kin. The owls they got worse and worse after they’d swept old Speck and all her gang, they went to work on ’tothers; and Bryant (that's one of my boys) he ’lowed he’d shoot the pestersome creeters—and so one night arter that, we beam one holler, and Bryant, he tuk the ole musket and went out, and sure enough! there was owley, (as he thought) and settin’ on the comb of the house; so he blazed away and down come when he firtTd ?’ ‘The owl, I suppose.’ ‘No sieh thing, no sieh thing! the owl warn’t thar. ’Tvvas my old house cat come a tumblin’ down, spit tin’ sputterin; and scratehin’ and the fur a flyin’ every time she jumped like you'd a busted a fether bed open ! Bryant he said, the way he come to shoot the cat in stead of the owl, he seed sojnethin’ white— ’ ‘Mrs. Stokes ! give me the value of your poultry, or say you will not ! Do one thing or the other.’ ‘Oh, well, dear, love your heart, [reckon I had !ast year, nigh about the same as I’ve got this.’ ‘Then tell me how many dollars worth you have now, and the thing’s settled.’ ‘l’ll let you see for yourself,’ said the widow Stokes, and taking a tar of corn out of a crack between the logs of the cabin, and shelling a handful, she commenced scattering the corn, all the while screaming, or rather screeching—chick—ehicK--chick-ee—chiek-ee—chick ee- -chick-ee—ee !’ Here they come, roosters, hens, aud pullets, and little chicks—crowing, cackling, chirping, flying and flutter ing over beds, chairs, and tables; alighting on the old woman’s head and shoulders fluttering against her sides, peeking at her hands, and creating a din and confusion altogether indescribable. The old lady seemed delighted, thus to exhibit her feathered ‘stock,’ and would occasionally exclaim—‘a nice passel, aint they— a nice passel !’ But shj never would say what they were worth: no persuasion would bring her to the point; and our papers at Washington contain no estimate of the value M th wi-JUw Stoki j’-reultry, though, as she said lierstff, she !mi|‘a passel.’ j Last flours ol a Sli^MUcntlcman. This morning, November 11th, at half past eleven o’clock, precisely, an unfortunate young man, Mr. Ed ward Pinckney, underwent the extreme penalty of in fatuation, by expiating his attachment to Mary Ann Gale, in front of the altar railings of St. Mary’s Church, Islington. It will be in the recollection of all those friends of the parties who were at Jones’ party at Bedford, two years ago, that Mr. Pinckney was there and then first introduced to Mary Gale, to whom he instantly began to direct particular attentions—dancing with her no less than six sets that evening, and handing her things at supper in the most devoted manner. From that pe riod commenced the intimacy between them which ter minated in this morning’s catastrophe. Poor Pinckney had barely attained his twenty eighth year, but there is no belief that but for reasons of a pecuniary nature his single life would have come • artier to an untimely end. A change for the better, however, having occurred in his circumstances, the young lady's friends were induced to sanction his ad dresses, and thus become accessaries to the course for which lie has just suffered. The unhappy man passed the last night of his bach elor existence in his solitary chamber. From half past eight to ten he was engaged in writing letters. Shortly after, his youngest brother, Henry, knocked at the door, when the doomed youth told him to come in. On be ing asked when he meant to go to bed, he replied— “not yet.” The question was then put to him how lie thought he would sleep? to which he answered—“l don’t know.’ lie then expressed his desire for a cigar and a glass of grog. His brother, who sat down and partook of the like refreshments now demanded if he would take anything more that night. He said ‘noth ing,’ in a firm voice. His affectionate brother then rose to take leave; when the devoted one considerately advised him to take care of himself. Precisely at a quarter of a minute to seven the next morning, the victim of Cupid having been called, ac cording to his desire, he rose and promptly dressed, and then shaved himself without the slightest injury; for not even a scratch upon his chin appeared after the op eration. It would seem that he had devoted a longer time than usual at his toilet. The wretched man was attired in a light blue dress coat, with frosted buttons, a white vest and nankeen trowsers, with patent leather boots. He wore round his neck a variegated satin scarf, which partly concealed the Corrazzo of the bosorn. In front of the ecarf was inserted a breastpin of conspicuous dimensions. Having descended the staircase with a quick step, he entered the apartment where his brothers aud a few friends awaited him. He then shook hands cordially with all present; and on being asked how he slept, he answered, ‘Very well,’ and to the further demand as to the state of his mind, he said that he ‘felt happy.’ One of the party hereupon snggesting that it would be as well to take something before the melancholy cer emony was gone through, he exclaimed with some em phasis, ‘decidedly’. Breakfast was accordingly served, when lie ate a French roll, a large round toast, two sausages, and three new laid eggs which he washed down with three great breakfast cups of tea. In reply to an expression of astonishment, on the part of persons present, he declared that he had never felt happier in his life. Having inquired the time, and ascertained that it was ten minutes to eleven, he remarked that it would soon be over. His brother then inquired if he oould do auything for him; when he said he would take a glass of ale. Having drank this he appeared to be satisfied. The fatal moment now approaching, he devoted the remaining portion of his time to distributing those little articles he would no longer want. To one he gave his cigar case, to another his tobacco stopper, and he charged his brother Henry with his latch key, with instruc tions to deliver it after all was over, with due solemni ty to the landlady. Tbe dock at length struck eleven, and at the same moment he was informed that a cab was at tbe door. He merely said— ‘l am ready,’ and allowed himself to be oondaoted to the vehicle, into whioh he got with bis brother, his friends fePcwisgoc beb:ad ir other*- Arrived at the tragical spot, a short but anxious de lay of some seconds took place; after which they were joined by the lady with her friends. Little was said on either side, but Miss Gale, with customary decorum shed tears. Pinckney endeavored to preserve decorum, but a slight twitching in his mouth and eyebrows, pro claimed his inward agitation. All necessary preliminaries having now been settled, and the prescribed melancholy formalities gone through, the usual question was put—‘Wilt thou have this wo man to be thy wife ?’ ‘I will.’ He then put the fa’al ring on Miss Gale's finger, the hymenial noose was adjusted, and the poor fellow was launched into matrimony.— London Punch. Original Letter of Dr. Franklin. The following letter was written by Dr. Franklin to Alexander Giles Frobisher, with whom he corresponded for many years: Philadelphia, June 6th, 1753. Dear Sir :—I received your kind letter of the 2d instant, and am glad to hear you increase in strength. I hope you will continue mend ing till you recover your former health and firmness. Let me know whether you still use the cold bath and what effect it has, As to the kindness you mention, [ wish it could have been of more service to you, but if it had, the only thanks that 1 should desire is, that you would be equally ready to serve any other person that may need your assistance, and so let good offices go round, for mankind are all of a family. For my own part, when I am employed in serving others, I do not look upon myself as conferring favors, but as paying debts. In my travels and since my settlement, I have re. ceived much kindness from men to whom 1 shall never have an opportunity to make the least direct return; and numberless mercies from God who is infinitely above being bene fited by our services. Those kindnesses from inen, 1 ofki only return on their fellow-men; and I can only show my gratitude for these mercies from God by a readiness to help his other children; for 1 do not think that thanks and compliments, though repealed weekly, can discharge our real obligations to each oth er, and much less those of our Creator. You will in this see my notions of good works and that 1 am far from expecting Heav en by them. By Heaven we understand a state of happiness, infinite in degree and eter- in duration. I can do nothing to desene such rewards. He that for giving a draught of water to a thirsty person, should expect to be paid with a good plantation, would be mod est in his demands, compared with those who think they deserve Heaven by the good they do on eaith. Even the mixt, imperfect pleas ures we enjoy in this world, are rather from God’s goodness than our merit, how much more then the felicity of Heaven? For my own part 1 have not the vanity to think I de serve it, (he folly to expect, nor the ambition to desire it; but content myself in submitting to the will aud disposal of Him that made me, who has hitherto preserved and blessed me, and in whose paternal goodness I may well confide, that lie will never make me mis erable, and that even the alilictions I may at any time suffer shall tend to my benefit. The faith you mention lias doubtless its use in the world. I do not desire to see it dimin ished, nor would 1 lesson it in any man, but I wish it was more productive of good works, works of kindness, charity, mercy and public spirit; not holiday-keeping, sermon-reading, or having performed church ceremonies, or making long prayers filled with flatteries and compliments, despised even by wise men, and much less capable of pleasing the Deity. The worship ot God is a duty; the hearing or read ing sermons may be useful; but if a man rests in hearing or praying as too many do, it is as if a tree should value itself upon being watered and putting forth leaves, though it never pro duced any fruit. Your great Master thought much less of these outward appearances and professions than ma ny of his modern disciples; he preferred the doers to the mere hearers; the sun who seem ingly refused to obey his father, and yet per formed his commands, to him that professed liis readiness and yet neglected the work; the heretical though charitable Samaritan, to the uncharitable though sanctified priest; and those who gave food to the hungry, drink to the thirs ty, raiment to the naked, entertainment to the stranger, and relief to the sick, though they never heard of bis name, he declares shall be in the last day accepted, when those who cry Lord, Lord, who value themselves on their faith though great enough to perform miracles, but have neglected to perform the works of benevolence, shall lie rejected. He professed he came not to call the right eous but sinners to repentance, which implied his modest opinion, that there were some in his time so good that they needed not hear even him; but now-a days we have scarce a person who does not think it the duty of every man within his reach to sit under his wretched min istrations, and that whoever omits them offends God. I wish to such more humility, and to you, sir, more health and happiness, being &c., B. Franklin. OCT” What “ American Irishman” will not read the following with a glow of satisfaction at the thought that his countrymen took a prominent part in laying the foundation of the structure of treedom in this country, that isher pride, and the bane of her enemies? The following extract is from T. D. McGee’s His tory of the Irish settlers in North America which he is now publishing in the Celt: “The Declaration of Independence was signed by fifty-six names, of whom nine (in cluding Secretary Thompson,) were of Irish origin. “Mathew Thornton, born in Ireland in 1714, signed it for New Hampshire. He was after wards Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, and died June 24th, 1803’ “James Smith, who signed for Pennsylvania, was born in Ireland in 1713, and died in 1806- “George Taylor, a signer from the same State, was born in Ireland in 1710, so poor that his services were sold on his arrival to pay the expenses of his passage out. He died at Easton, (Pa.) February 23, 1781. “George Read, of Delaware, was the son of Irish parents, one of the authors of the Con stitution of Delaware, and afterwards of the Federal Constitution. It was he who an swered the British tempters—“l am a poor man, but poor as l am, the King of England is not rich enough to purchase me.” He died in 1798. “Charles Carrol, of Carrolton, waa of Irish decent, and wry wealthy. Ha affixed his ad dress after h?e name, that tha pledge of his “fortune” might be beyond doubt, lie wa> the last survivor of the signers, and died Nov. 14, 1832. “Thomas Lynch, Jr. of South Carolina, suc ceeded his father, who died, while at Congress in 1776, and the Declaration. He went abroad soon after for his health but was lost at sea. “Thomas McKean, signer for Pennsylvania, was also of Irish parentage. He was success ively, Senator, Governor of Pennsylvania, and President of Congress. After fitly years ol public life, he died on the 24th of June, 1817. “Edward Rutledge, of South Carolina, was also “a signer 4” fought in the Southern cam paign, and was lor three years, kept prisoner in Florida. He became Governor of Soujh Carolina in 1799, and died in January, 1800. Os these illustrious names, destined to live for ever on the New Charter of Human Free dom, Ireland should be wisely jealous, for the world’s revolutions will never present such an other tablet of glory to the children of men. The Noble Baron ‘ln that beautiful part of Germany,’ which borders on the Rhine, there is a noble castle, which as you travel on the western bank ol the river, you may sc-e lifting its ancient tow ers on the opposite side, about the grove ol trees old as itself. ‘About forty years ago there lived in that castle a noble gentleman, whom we shall call Baron He had one only son, who was a comfort to his father, and a blessing to all who lived on the fathers’ land. ‘lt happened on a certain occasion that this young man being from home, there came a French gentleman to see the castle, who be gan to talk ofhis heavenly Father in terms that chilled the old man’s blood; on which the Ba ron reproved him, saying are you not alraid of offending God, who reigns above, by speak ing in such a manner?’ The gentleman said he knpw nothing about God for he had never seen him. The Baron this time did not notice what the gentleman said, but the next morn ing took him about the castle-grounds, and took occasion first to show him a very beauti ful picture that hung on the wall. The gen tleman admired the picture very much and said, ‘Whoever drew this picture, knows very well how to use the pencil.’ ‘My son drew the picture,’ said the Baron. | ‘Then your son is a clever man,’ replied the gentleman. The Baron then went with his visitor into the garden, and showed him how many beau tiful flowers and plantations of forest trees. ‘Who has the ordering of this garden?’ asked the gentleman. “My son,’ replied the Baron; ‘he knows | every plant, 1 may say, from the cedar of Le banon to the hyssop on the wall. ‘lndeed said” the gentleman; ‘I shall think very highly of him soon.’ The Baron then took him into the village and showed him a small neat'cottage, where his son had established a school, and where he caused all young children in the house to look so innocent and so happy, that the gentlemen was very much pleased, and when he returned to the castle he said to the Baron, ‘What a hap py man yuu are to have so good a son.’ ‘How do you know 1 have a good son ?’ ‘Because I have seen his works and I know he must be good and clever, if he has done ali that you have showed me.’ ‘But you have not seen him.’ ‘No but I know him very well, because I judge of him by his works.’ ‘True, replied the Baron; ‘and in this way I judge of the character of the heavenly Father. 1 know by his works that he is a being of infi nite wisdom, and power and goodness!’ The scoffer was silenced. He had answered his own wickedness and folly by his words, and could say no more. It is not the wisest who scoff at religion and piety; for true wisdom be gins in the fear of the Lord. Buds and Blossoms The earth produces not only the plain unor namental vegetable existence, it also brings forth flowers which are the ornament of our gardens, and, as it were, the poetry of vegeta ble life. God might have bade earth bring forth the tree and the plant without a flower at all. Our outward life demands them not. His bounty and goodness gave them to minis ter dplight to the sons of men. ‘Consider the lilies of the field how they grow. They foil not, neither do they spin; yet Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of these.’ In Eastern lands they talk in flowers. They tell, also, in a flowery garland, their loves and cares. Every blossom—every leaf, a mystic language bears. Flowers are love’s true lan guage. From the majestic sun-flower to the humble daisy, there is scarce a flower which holds not some classic or poetical association. The snow-drop comes, delicate, pure and pale, the emblem of hope and messenger of spring. The primrose calls up before us the thatched cottage and the woody dell, where it loves to bloom. The modest violet comes bringing the additional charm of its exquisite perfume, which now’ floats on the balmy breeze. But, of all earth’s lovely flowers, the rose claims the award of beauty. All mankind pay her homage. Blooming in the barren waste, this delightful flower unfolds its lair leaves, and calls back the heart of the weary traveler to thoughts of peace and joy. It reminds him that even life’s rude wilderness has its flowers. No flower, then, wastes its sweetness on the desert air. They blush not unseen. Some eye sees them. They yield delight to insect or to man. Diffused everywhere, they present in beautiful hieroglyphics sweet messages of love o fallen humanity. The lign-aloe, which tbe Lord hath planted—the night-blooming cere tus —the wonderful passion flower--call up sublime and solemn associations. While they astonish the eye and delight the fancy of intel ligent man, the spirit of love and beauty is in them. They havo ever been offered at the shrine ofbeauty and claimed as tokens of true love. Like stars they gem the emerald face of earth, and exert an influence as diffusive as their delightful odors. Amidst tbe storms and buffetings of life, let us not forget the fading flowers which are but an emblem of our short existence here— “XjH planted in that realm of ml, Where rosea never die. Amid the gardens of the Heat, Beneath a atormlea* sky, We flower afresh, like Aaron’e rod, That blossomed at the sight of God.” j The sweet fight of friendship is like the fight of pfaoe pbcrw—seec plainly wbee aQ nrMid 1* dark An luieresting Story. “Shon, mine shon,’’ said a worthy German father to his hopeful heir, of ten years, whom he had over heard using profane language: ‘‘Sbou, mine shop! come here, and I 6ii teii you a little stories. , Now, mine shon, shall it be a drue shtory or a makaa-be licve ?” “Ob, a true story, ofcouraa!” answered John. “Ferry fell den. Tere vas ronce a goot BKse oldt shentleman, (shoost like me,) andt he had a tirty liddle boy (shoost like you.)—Andt von day he heard him shwearing, like a young fillain as he waa. So he vent to the tcinkle (corner) and dook out a cowhides, shpost as I am toeing now, and he dook ter tirty little plauk guard by the collar (dis way youaee!) and vo loped hint thoost so ! And den, mine tear Shon, he bull his eara is vay, and slimack his face dat way, and dell sim to go mitout supper, shoost as you will to dw efening.’’ From the Columbia Republican. Cotton Seed Speculations. Msssrs Editors ido not protest to have numbered as many years as that remarkable individual, “the oldesi inhabitant,” nor to ba quite as the “Imy who hadn’t drunk at the branch,” still I have lived long enough to be convinced that the members of the Ag ricultural Profession we about as forcibly ini* pressed by the lessons of experience, as a blind horse would be by the presenting of a cocked pistol. In truth, there is no pleasure which they so reluctantly forego, as that of being humbugged. “It is the salt unto their humanity that makes it sweet.” If the ghosts of all the departed humbugs which have bedeviled the Planters ofthe South for the last half century even, could be called from the ‘vasty deep,’ a con servative gentleman would be found in a clear coroner case of “frightened to death,” at the array. linr going back to the cloud-bound period, (“whereuitfo the memory of man runneth not,”) only twenty years—how many cotton ghosts can we summon with our wand 1 There was the Mexican ; how many wondrous tales were told about it? It was all the rage tor a time, anew era had pome, but it was soon gone.— Then for a season we were regaled wi tb tha White Seed, and the Pettit Gulf, which were to work wonders. High prices tyere again paid for fancy seed and fancy promises. But a few favorite home-bred soon came forward— Lyles Cotton—rand forthwith every body ran downright crazy upon the Eyb;s Cotton. Al most any price could have been obtained for the seed. This variety soon run its race, and went to the land of Humbugs, only to he re placed on another —-The Okra came in. Oh l, wonderful Okra! What a revolution was it to make for us. It was the beaux idol of a cot ton stalk. Its tall slender form would enable us to pidnt it closer in the drill and in the row, the very thing for poor land, we could crowd so much on the ground; we could cultivate so much more and pick it out so much more easi ly. Every body broke right off after the Okra, like a young dog after his first fox, and never stopped till they had run past their gaae, or lost the track. Okra died a natural death.— But out of its ashes sprang into full favor, at the first jump, the Bunch or Multibolled varie ty. This was the very thing. Better and belter! cried every body. One, two, three, four, and five dollars per bushel, was paid fox seed. Manufacturers were delighted at the prospect of over production—Speculators, be gan to grow uneasy about stock on band, and Planters began to dream of cotton bales, and pockets full of money. But this is an age of universal progress, and great asMultiboll was, his destiny was to yield to another. The tow. ering, silky, mighty Mastodon came! The Sea Island Planter became alarmed. Long Cotton must wane. The Yankee spinner clapped his hands at the thought of working up, wooden nutmeg like, Mastodon into Sea Is . lands ; —the Planter had found the grand desid eratum. the combination of superior productive, nes* with extraordinary fineness, silkness, length and strength of staple. Wonderful Mastodon! how the people raved about thee, how the newspapers belched forth praises of thee from all quarters—-how the seed hum buggers waxed tat on thy greatness! But eve ry d<>g has his day. Mighty Mastodon is no. more. “KEauuscAT i>* pace.” The plot began to. thicken ; it was become ing manifest that some money could be made by the operation and scores of new candidates for public favor began to be puffed through the paper. Sugar Loaf, Vick’s seed, PrQ.ut, Hogan, Brown, Pitts, Prolific, et id ornne ge nus, were lauded as great wonders of the age,’ some selling, we believe, at the rate of SIOOO per bushel. An eminent planter in Mississippi, asserted that if the Hogan held its own, the Southwest would produce all the cotton needed by the world, and the planters of the old States would be forced to quit or starve. Gloomy pic ture truly ! But great as was Hogan, there was yet to be a greater than be ; the Prolific Poenegran ite loomed above the horizon, and Hogan sank to rise no more. Here, gentlemen is the gol den fleece for you at Here is cotten what iff cotton. It won’t be any thing else but cotton. Desperately poor land is the very thing for it—-there it’s at borne—put it down thick aud you shall have bolls till you are tired of ’em. Five dollars a bushel only for the seed—why you would make money paying SIOO. Will you buy, buy, buy ? and thus runs the world away. Its no wonder, truly, that j cotton declined when this news went across * the waters. Over production! No**, my dear brethren of the hoe and plow, a word in your ear. Keep cool don’t make asses off yourselves. lain as firm a believer in the propriety of] selecting seed as the best of you. Every plant-I er should select his seed annually, and doubt less he would make by importing now amiJ then from the Southwest, such varieties as: have borne the test of experiment there by perienced planters. But it is perfect madness to be paying $5 to 87 per bushel for any seed Gentlemen may be very honest in puffing tki* new wonder of the world, but the bonestesi people in the world are often the most naisguidl ed. This thing is certain—cotton cannot bf| grown out of a soil not rich in the ing redient j necessary to perfect the plant. According t#j analysis cotton wool contains— Potash, 31,04 Lime, 17,0. 5 Magnesia, 3,2* Pbos. Acid, 12,8: Sulphuric Aciti, J,2f It is ae plain as a pike staff that, any 50 . rich in these salts is not poor land. Ergo, u poor land can produce immense crops of aril , variety of cotton, it must be poor cotton, ■ ebemica! is a!! hymtag NO. 3.