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VOL. 2. For the Georgia Citizen. LEON I, OR THE ORPHAN OF VENICE. A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTB. BY T. H. CHIVER3, M. D. [Continued .] Dramatis Person®. MEN. C'or.NT Alvar. Leosi’s seducer, afterward* married to Theresa. Do* Car lob, Leo.ni , friend to Leoni, and brother to Elvira. Alvino, cousin and husband to Leoni. Dos Pedo, friend to Count Alvar, Court Rodolfh, father to Theresa and one of the Duke’s Council. Duke and his council. Orrictß and Guard. WOMEN. Leoni, Orphan of Venice. Elvira. her friend. Theresa, wife to Count Alvar. ACT II.—SCENE 1. The same apartment in Don Carlos’ palace.—En ter Leoni attended by Elvira. • ELVIRA. Alas! Leoni! why should sorrow weigh go heavily upon thy heart ? Come, speak ! LEONI. If an unbroken trust in human truth, Prompt the pure soul to its idolatry ; And if the heart, in its fond, gushing love, I’our out itself to one no less than self, And, in its trusting innocence, become The victim of that villain’s power—should it He called the harlot of that man ? By Heaven ! And by tbe heart that he has broken —lie Shall die.’ ELVIRA. Would not repentance urge thee on To some forgiveness, if, upon the depths Os his great sacrilege be poured the balm Os penitence ? % LEONI. No, that can never be ! There is no stream of mercy in my soul! But now, from out the fountains of my heart, A tide of indignation rushes up tyS And, mounting to my bi ain, forever drowns, ‘Beneath the wide oblivion of its roar, The voice of all persuasion ! He shall die! ELVIRA. The bird that soars the highest into Heaven, If once its wing is broken in its flight, Is only bruised the greater by its fall! And like the Angels,’ that were once so pure, Will mourn the humbleness of its descent, Just in proportion to its flight above ! LEONI. 1 now remember when Alvino loved Ale first—tbe first time that we ever met! That day was very beautiful. No cloud Was seen in all the vastness of the sky, PiH Nature seemed so much in love with Heaven, That she forbade the rustling of the boughs To make tbe silence of her noontide joy! ELVIRA. Oh! still this sorrow of thy gentle heart, And like the priceless diamond in the mine, Tossed by the Earthquake into purity, Suffer the ills of life but now to add New particles of beauty to thy soul. LEONI. Let not tbe tears of pity cease to flow Upon the wasting sands of this poor life ? Hut let them fall upon each golden grain. As softly as an Angel’s sighs upon The soul of Virtue dying by the hands Os enemies! ELVIRA. Me thinks that, nature heard The awful sadness of that prayer ! LEONI. She did ; And God has registered eaeh word in Heaven ! ELVIRA. If that be so, why should the God of Heaven Not punish him for guilt ? LEONI. lie will—through me ! [Exeunt severally. Eater Don Carlos and Alvino, as in conversation. DON CARLOS. Before High Heaven, Alvino! it is true! 1 could divulge to thee the foulest news That ever hung upon the lips of truth ! / ALVINO. What news is that ? Come let me hear it now ! DON CARLOS. Since thy return, thou hast not heard the news V hich float about, like chaff, upon the wind, m hichever way it choose to blow ? ALVINO. No, Gods! Wu speak as if some devilish deed had come To light again ! What is the matter now ? DON CARLOS. True—if some devilish deed had not been brought To light, these hands had not been proffered in The cause. You know Count Alvar, do you not ? ALVINO. He was the guardian of niy youth. In DON CARLOS. He traveled in disguise ; and still he was The guardian of thy youth! Then watch the dog, And show the villain thou art old enough To teach him honesty ! ALVINO. i Thou wouldest impugn V Him with thy very wrath ! / | DON CARLOS. I would, by Heaven ! And cut the rascal’s throat besides! You know Leoni, do you not? ALVINO. Leoni? she was the playmate-jewel of my heart ? Ihou hast beheld the straying Hart, with wild, Lxultant bound, leap from the azure hills, And, rushing with impatient speed, dash where The silver Swan lay sleeping on the lake, And frighten her to Heaven ? DON CARLOS. Ay, watched the Fawn, Bounding a’ong the river-bank at noon, Lause on the margin of the mossy brink lo sip the cool, delicious wave that curled hi dimpled eddyings neur the shore, take fright At its own picture in the limpid stream, And dash away with wild, delirious bound, lo where its mother watched it from the hill, As if it were too lovely for this worldly’ ALVINO. uc bd Leoni look upon herself, And see too bright an object for this worldy DON CARLQ3. ut now her cheeks are furrowed down with tears ! alvino. :t b tears ? Leoni has no tears ? PON CARLOS. She has! - 11 and needs the strength of such an honest arm, 0 crus h the wretch who made them flow ! ALVINO. Why so ? DON CARLOS. She is deceived! ALVINO. Deceived ? DON CARLOS. The Count ? ALVINO. She was the orphan cousin of our house! By Jove ! he must have used some violent means ? DON CARLOS. And if he did—(which thou wilt seek to know—) Not only tear the wolf-skin from his back— ALVINO. But, draiuing every life-drop from his veins, Winters of death shall blow upon his soul, And freeze up his existence into ice ! The eagle that haa roosted on the pines Will shake his pinions on tbe pensive bough, And rising on the dewy breath of Morn, Will speed him to the sun’s eye gloriously, Nor heed the frozen armour that has weighed A ll night upou his snowy wings! DON CARLOS. Then shake Him from the altitude whereon he roosts, And let the clamour of his mighty wings Strike terror to the ear of Night! ALVINO. Night! night! Thou wouldest not have me kill him in the night 7 DON CARLOS. I would—secure him in the dead of night! Then balance consequence with insult given! Pluck out the sting that wounds Leoni’s heart — Stamping the adder underneath thy feet alvino. — ( Seriously. I would not wound the feelings of his slave 5 But if the Chalice of my hopes, so full Os pure and perfect love, be drained to dregs, And I am forced to drink the wormwood left — By Heavens! my run-mad heart will qunch its fire 1 For there are crimes, which, when committed, call For aid, which, whin bestowed, would be but crime Itself, wer’t not for this—the shedding bleod, As sacrifice, for orphan honor stolen ! DON CARLOS. Then let the vengeance of thy burning heart, But cheer impatience on to swifter speed, Till, grasping hold thy dagger by the hilt, And seeing how its face will shine—thou’lt sheathe It in the foulest heart that ever beat! For such an absolution sweeps away The guilt that dyed the name of innocence! ALVINO. Till then, farewell! We may not meet again, Until Leoni listens to my voice. DON CARLOS. Farewell! May all the Gods defend thy steps ! [Exeunt severally. SCENE 11. A magnificent apartment in Count Alvar’s Palace. Enter Count Alvar, and Don Pedro. COUNT ALVAR. Then answer me •, who was tbe greatest friend That ever helped thee in the hour of need ? DON PEDRO. I swear, my lord,” Cl?- tAhar is the ma... COUNT ALVAR. Do you believe this from your very heart ? DON PEDRO. I do, if ever words came from my heart! COUNT ALVAR. Knowing that all thy words come from thy heart, I would divulge to thee the secretest thing That ever came from out the soul of man, And have thee keep it sacred as thine own? don PEDRO. 1 will, my lord. COUNT ALVAR. Then listen to me now ; I have been taunted by the vilest foe That ever marked the royalty of pride, And I wonld have thee whisper in his ear f S The loudest vengeance that the voice of man Hath ever uttered to the soul! Be firm ! I would not have thee suffer in thy heart A single sympathy to dwell! llis blood — DON PEDRO. His blood , my lord ? whose blood ? COUNT ALVAR. Thy face is pale ! Now promise me, before the Gods, whose frown Is darker than clouds above Olympus, That Carlos shall not live! DON PEDRO. What 1 must he die ? COUNT ALVAR. And by thy hand ! DON PEDRO. What 1 murdered by my hand ? COUNT ALVAR. Thy hand ! DON PEDRO. What for, nty lord ? COUNT ALVAR. The foulest blot That ever stained the dignity of man Will then bo wiped away IS DON PEDRO. Then he must die ? COUNT ALVAR. Yes? plunge thy dagger in his cursed heart, And send him to the river of the dead ! Be thou thyself revenged ! ’ DON PEDRO. Revenged, my lord ? COUNT ALVAR. Ay ! who has kept thee from Elvira’s arms ? DON PEDRO. Elvira? —Carlos !—damned as he is— I cannot slay-Elvira’s friend ! COUNT ALVAR. Her friend ‘ What! cannot take the life of him who robbed Thee of the sweetest joys on earth? Oh ! fool! DON PEDRO. The sweetest spirit ever sent from Heaven ? But will the death of Carlos make her mine? COUNT ALVAR. It will. She would be with thee even to-night, If it were not for him ! D6X PEDRO. Then he must die! COUNT ALVAR. Swear, then, that thou wilt take his life ! DON CARLOS. I swear! COUNT ALVAR. Remember, that his destiny is— death, ! DON PEDRO. It shall be dope, my lord. Farewell! COUNT ALVAR. Adieu! [Exit Don Ped*Q- Now, if he is the soldier that he seems, And love* Elvira as he says he does ; And only serves the wishes of his heart, As he has served the prompter of its ire; The savage that has prowled along my patl\, Will find the depths of my revenge so deep, He will not seek to lavish out his own! [Exit. SCENE 111. The same apartment in Don Carlos’ Palace.— “ in nil tilings —Ikitral in notljiiig.” MACON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, MAY 24, 1851. Enter Leoni meeting ALVINO. Leoni! leoni. [Embracing him. Oh! Alvino!— ALVINO. Speak again! I love to see thee shed such anxious tears ! They speak the language of thy virgin soul— Shed lofty fervour round expectant joy, And make the pathway of my purpose bright! leoni, [ Weeping. Alvino ! ALVINO. Speak my Jove! tell me thy grief? LEONI. There have been strange vicissitudes to damp The ardor of my spirit, since we met! I have no resting place beneath the sun ! ALVINO. What! cannot he who loved thee in thy youth, Find recompenee enough for thee ? Say, love ? LEONI. Alas ! Alvino! ‘ ALVINO. Carlos told me all! I wonld not have yqu name it for the world! I only want the whispers of revenge ! LEONI. Revenge ? The sweetest music to my soul That ever calmed the discord of my heart! Then you have sworn ALVINO. Destruction to his soul! LEONI. And thou wilt keep that promise to the last? ALVINO. The latest moment of my life, if thou Wilt only promise to be mine? LEONI. Not thine— Nor to bestow this hand on mortal man, Until my woes are baptized in his blood, And this poor life redeemed by loss of his ! ALVINO. The mighty Gods have registered that oath Upon the shining Adamant of Heaven! . LEONI. And thou wilt dip thy dagger in his blood, And send him with the legacy to Hell ? ALVINO. As sure as yonder sun shall ever set! LEONI. Let not reluctance weigh upon thy purpose— Be buoyant a* the Turtle on the wing! Take thou this Dove into thy bosom’s Ark, Who brings the Olive-leaf of peace to thee— And let her sorrows make thee more than bold ! ALVINO. But will the crystal mirror of the lake, Embosomed in the forest-girdled vale, Be wreathed the less by the tempestuous wind, Because the rosy-scented breath of morn Has settled on its pinions ? No, my love! LEONI. \nd ’est one breath should blow him back his soul, And kindle life again—be sure you tramp The ember into ashes. Be not rash— The thing should be well done 1 To-night! to-night L ALVINO. This night shall be his soul’s eternity! LEONI. When it is done—return to me again— I’ll wash thy bloody hands with tears of joy! Swear, now, before we part, that he shall die! ALVINO, [Kneeling. Ye silver lamps! which hang, to-night, in Heaven ! Ye Auditors to God! whose beauty lights The glorious dome that canopies the world! I call upon ye from the dim abodes Os everlasting ether, to behold me now! In reverential awe, upon my knees, I offer up to you the only vow That ever shall, as sacrifice, ascend * From off the altar of my soul to Heaven ! And now, in the allotted duty which lowe myself, to nature, and the world ; I do devote the remnant of my days But to the shedding of that villain’s blood ! [Rising. And now that his suspicion may not prompt Him to the coming on of that dread hour^^-* I must mature the purpose of my plans Amid the grandeur of the mighty hills, Whereon the thunders of the roaring winds Shall make dolorous music to my soul! [Exeunt omnes. SCENE IV. A chamber in Don Carlos’ Palace. — Don Carlos is lying asleep on his couch.—Enter Don Pedro with a knife in his hand. DON PEDRO. [Approaching him. Now, then, lie dies. He sleeps 1 Still as the doad ! As if the silence of the grave were all That reigned around such sweet repose! Now then. But ho should not be murdered in his sleep! For then his eyes will not behold whose hand It is that takes revenge upon him for Ills dear Elvira’s sake! No, he must rise ! Awake! thou murderer of my happiness, Arise! DON CARLOS. [Waging, and rising. What! Pedro? Villain that thou arty Who set thee on to this foul deed ? r [Wresting the dagger from his hand. DON PEDRO. Hold! hold! And thou shalt hear ! DON CARLOS. [Grasping him by the throat. No! thou shalt die ! with all Thy multitude of sins upon thy head! If thou hast any prayers to offer up To God’s offended majesty, ’tis time The voice of penitence had cried aloud For mercy ! DON PEDRO. Carlos! spare my life ! DON CARLOS. To die A thousand deaths for every day you live ? DON PEDRO. No! you shall hear it all! DON CARLOS. Then speak the trull}! /ON PEDRO. * f J ‘ ’ DON CARLOS. Devil that be is! Now die! [.Rawing the dagger. DON PEDRO -01)! Carlos! spare me for Elvira,’* sake J DON CARLOS, Elvira ? Villain call that name again, And thou shalt strangle in thy cgred blood ! DO,N PEDRQ. Count Alvar DON CARLOS. Pcdgo! utter not that name again, Or, all tho elements Will, in consuming me, destroy thee too! What is thy destiny ? [Letting go his throat. DON PEDRO. To do thy wish ! DON CARLOS. Well, that will bo to drown thee in the sea! DON PEDRO. But thou wilt hear the truth? S’ DON CARGOS. Speak, then, the trutli! DON PEDRO. I did not oomo to murder thee in sleep, But frighten thy compassion for the soul That loves Elvira. DON CARLOS.^ J [Contemptuously. r Murdery for the Count! DON PEDI.y. I would convey thy vengence to soul. DON CARLOS. That is, that you would kill the Count for me ? DON PEDRO. If killing liim would make Elvira mine. DON CARLOS. [Raising the dagger. Then swear before this bright, uplifted steel, That should descend upon thee in revenge— That tbou wilt never serve Count Alvar more 1 DON PEDRO I swear it from my heart, my lord, if you Will promise that Elvira shall be mine DON CARLOS. That choice is with herself. DON PEDRO. Then promise mo That we shall see each other once again ? DON CARLOS. It may be so. DON PEDRO. Then by yon heavenly light! Whose beauty is the image of her eyes— I swear to dedicate my life to thee ! [Exeunt Omnes. Curtain Falls End of Act Second. Little Children. BY MRS. CHANDLER. ‘For unto men, the clear fresh look Os a child’s eye, is an illumined book Os rare divinity, Wherein good thoughts are writ in such sweet guise, Thai all for love, we must grow wise In reading them.’ l. n. ‘ Take hoed that ye despise none of these little ones, for I say unto you, their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in heaven. Oh ! lovely little children—oh. blpssoms white and fair! Ye pure and spotless dwelkrr.? f sin and care, Oli! lilies of rit’ll fragrance \~-f A I’vk and mild! Tender and holy innocents—UQ. undetilod! Ye are not of this mortal earth - of your Oft shadow forth most mournfully, a sorrowful surprise, As if at length convinced of earth's corruption, ye would fain Forsake the evil haunts of men, and turn to Heaven again. Oh, spirits fresh from Paradise!—the glory of your wings, Upon our way-worn human hearts, a dewy coolness flings— All silently ye minister to us—for what are we, That we should arrogantly think to fashion such as ye? Ye are not of this mortal earth—th’anointed eye may trace God’s holy seal upon the front of each angelic face— Above your bright and waving locks, I see the golden crown, And all about your infant forms the light of Ileav’n streams down. \ Whether in hut or stately bow’r—whether in cot or hall, The houseless wand’rer or the gently bred—l love ye all! And since Heav’n hath resumed the pearl which I too proudly wore, I feel—oil, blessed little ones! —l feel I love ye more. 1 cannot bear to see ye grieve—your sorrows are my own, I see her in each mournful face— she speaks in cv’ry moan. Your earnest childish sadness doth an answ’ring chord awake, For I love ye—little blessed one!—l love ye for her sake. I weep—oh, little children ! —I bow my head and weep, To think how soon the storms of life shall o’er your pathway sweep— How soon your white and glorious wings be trailing on the earth— How soou your spirits shall forget their blest immortal birth! My heart is faint within me, and my eyes are dim with tears, Witching afar the shapes that stalk beside tbe coming years— Pride and mad ambition,and Jealousy and Lust Shall rend the bright crowns from your heads and tread them in the dust, When ye shall mourn the hope deceived—tho trusting heart betrayed— When ye shall suddenly behold your golden dreaming* fade! When ye shall feel your souls grow sick and yoarn fox the sweet rest That greeted ye when ye were babes upon your moth ers’ breast. Better (but that iny grief doth give denial to my tongue) Better, oh, little ones! ye should depart while ye arc young, Ere yet the blight hath fallen—ere yet tho world’s fierce strife Hath quenched forever, in your souls, the high and Heaven born life. Oh, mothers of these holy ones!—ye have a trust to keep For whose dear safety, night and day, yo well may watch and weep — A treasure, which to purchase, ye would deem the world too small —- A tfeusure ye would scarcely render up at Heaven's call, Watch —wake —see that ye slureher not—lest in the open dsy, t Some fiendish hand, shall enter in, aqd steal their souls away— Watch—pray, and sleep no* at your post—lest in the coming night The lamp which you have left untrimm’d shall waste away its light And you, ye hard, unloving hearts!—whom blood nor nature bind, Who to the pleading voice ate deaf—the weeping eye* are blind— Speak not a harsh word wrongfully, for God’s most just demand Shall surely ask a fearful retribution at your hand, Their wrongs have all been numbered—the Lord of Heav’n hath said Ye shall account for ev’ry tear these little ones have sbed— Therefore—oh, earthly guardians—be merciful and spare— Ye know not ye are ‘entertaining angels unaware.’ From the Sunday (N. Y.) Times. Female Freemasons. We were not aware until recently that the ladies had ever aspired to the honors and dig nities of freemasonry. We had heard, it is true, that in virtue of the plausible plea that matrimony constitutes the contracting parties one flesh, and equal participation in the secrets of the order had been occasionally claimed by the wives of freemasons, and that, while hold ing “beds of justice,” and laying down tl'p law iu “curtain lectures,” this claim had beeki en forced with arguments ala Caudle; but we had no notion that the fair aex had actually adopted an organization on the masonic plan. We copy from Dr. Mackey’s article the fol lowing sketch of the system of government, Ac., of the female lodges: “The officers of a lodge of adoption consists of a grand master and grand mistress; an ora tor, an inspector and an inspectress, a depositor and a depositrix, a conductor and a conductress. They wear a blue sash or collar, with a gold towel suspended thereto. The grand master uses a mallet, with which he governs the lodge, and the instrument is placed in the hands ot the grand mistress, the inspector and inspectress, and depositor and depositrix. Every member wears a plain white apron and white gloves. The brethren in addition to the insignia of their rank, wear swords, and a gold ladder with live rounds, which is the proper jewel of adop tive masonry. The business of the lodge is conducted by the sisterhood, the brethren only acting as their as sistants. The grand mistress, however, has very little to say or do, she being only an honorary com panion to the grand master, which mark ot dis tinction is conferred on her as a token of respect for her character and virtues. The lodge room is elegantly and tastefully decorated with emblems, which, ot course, vary in each degree. In the degree of apprentice, for instance, the room is separated by curtains into four apartments or divisions representing the four quarters of the world, Europe, Asia, Africa and America. The division at the en trance of the lodge represents Europe, in the middle on the right is Attica, qii the left Amer ica, and at the extreme east is Asia, where are erected two splendid thrones, decorated with gold fringe, for the grand master and grand mistress. Before them is placed an altar, and on both sides, the right and left, are eight stat utes representing wisdom, prudence, strength, temperance, honor, charity, justice and trutli. The members sit on each side in straight lines, the sisters in front, and the brothers behind them, the latter having swords in their hands. There cunnot in fact, be a more beautiful and attractive sight than a lodge of adoptive masons properly organized and well attended.” The lady mason —if we may so call them — in their masonic banquets have established a symbolic language to bo used at table, which is quite delectable. For example the lodge room is called “Eden;” the doors, “barriers;” the minutes, “a ladder;” a glass, “a lamp;” wa ter, “white oil,” wine, “red oil.” Instead of “Fill your glass,’’ they say, “trim your lamp,” a phrase which w r e recommend for general use as much more euphonious than “imbibe,” “take a horn,” “take a sniffer,” “wood up,” or any other of the symbolic invitations to transgress the rules of temperance which are now common in Christendom. Let it never more be said that a woman can not keep a secret, for, as a writer in the Freema son’s Quarterly Review well observes; “adop tive masonry stands a bright monument ot fe male secresy and fidelity, aud proves how wrong all those are who fancy a woman is not to be trusted.” From the Family Visitor. A Good Prescription. . A young lady whom fortune litis blessed, and tvho has at home every luxury which it can procure, has re cently written to Dr. Jackson of New Jersey, stating that she is sick, and miserable without an object or a pur suit in life, and begs to know ‘if she is worth saving —if there is not a higher life to which he can introduce her. In his reply he quotes the following apt verse: “ Go work for your bread be it ever so slowly ; Go cherish some flower be it ever so lowly ! Labor, for Labor is noble and holy, And let your great deeds bo your prayer to your God.” We venture to say that a better prescription than this has seldom been written. There is something in it which stirs the blood like martial music. O, the wretchedness of ennui ! Did you ever feel it? I have nothing to do. What shull I do witli myself?” and with a weary yawn the surfeited one turns from the interesting volume, or the piano, to throw herself upon the sofa for a lounge, from which she will arise ten times more miserable than before. No one pursuing a course like this, soon becomes an invalid, and as glimpses of a higher life are let upon her understanding, should ask eagerly “ ain I worth saving? What shall I do?” Look at the Queen of Louis the XI, of h ranee . A throne would not satisfy her without Industry. She called around her all tho daughters of the nobility and instructed them iu elegant embroidery. Tho churches were hung with proofs of their ingenuity, and her court was the happiest and most elegant in Europe. When Lafayette was about to return to Frauce, he called to make his parting adieu to Mary Washington, the distinguished mother of a distinguished son, he found her at work in the garden. Dr. Franklin said, “I had much rather see a spin ning wheel than a piano—a shuttle than a parasol a knitting needle than a visiting card.” These illustrious examples alone make labor noble, but when we consid er that It i* e, perfeot panacea far diseased imaginations as well as diseased bodies, we can readily subscribe to the word* of the poet, apd pronounce [t pat only “ no ble” hut “holy,” nd add, “ Ret yapr great deeds be your prayer to your God.” o. w. b. Press vs. Squeeze.— A young man from the country, going to call on some musical young ladies the other evening, he was told that he must ask them to sing, and should they refuse, he ought to |>ress them. Accordingly, j he commenced by requesting Miss Mary to fa vor him with a song. She gently declined, and said she had a cold, Ac. “ Well then, Miss,” said our hero, “thuppose I thqueeve you, don’t you think you might sing?” The girl fainted immediately. A Skater Chased by M oires. A thrilling incident in American country life is viv edly sketched iu “Evenings at Doualdson’s Manor.” In tin winter of 1844, the relator sailed forth one eve ning, to skate on the Kennecbeek in Maine, by moon light, and having ascended that river nearly two miles, turned into a littie stream to explore its course. Fir and hemlock of a century’s growth—he says— met over head and formed an archway radiant witli frostwork. AH was dark within ; but I was young and fearless, and, as I peered into an unbroken forest that reared itself on the borders of the stream, I laughed with very joyousness; my wild hurrah rang through the silent woods, and I stood listening to the echo that rev erberated again and again, until all was hushed. Sud denly a sound arose—it seemed to me to come from beneath the ice; it sounded low and tremulous at first, until it ended in a low wild yell I was appalled.— Never before bad such a noise met my ears. I thought it more than mortal; so fierce, and amidst such an un broken solitude, it seemed as though from the tread of some brute animal, and the blood rushed back to my forehead with abound that made my skin burn, and l felt relieved that I had to contend with tilings earthly, and not spiritual—my energies returned, and I looked around me for some means of escape. As I turned my head to the shore I could see two dark objects, dashing through the underbush at a pace nearly double in speed to my own. By this rapidity, and the short yells they occassionally gave, I knew at once that these were the much dreaded grey-wolf. I had never met with these animals, but, from the description of them, I had very little pleasure iu making their acquaintance—their untameable fierceness, and the untiring strength which seemed a part of their na ture, rendered them objects of dread to every benighted traveller. There was no time for thought; so I bent my head and dashed madly forward. Nature turned me to wards home. The light flakes of snow spun from the iron of my skates, and I was some distance from my pursuers whence their fierce howl told me I was still their fugitive. I did not look back; I did not feel afraid or sorry, or even glad; one thought of home, of the bright faces awaiting my return, of their tears if they should never see me again, and then every energy of body and mind was exerted for escape. I was perfect ly at home on the ice. Many were the days that I had spent on my good skate, never thinking that at one time they would be my only means of safety. Ev ery half minute aud an alternative yelp from my fero cious followers told me too certainly that they were on close pursuit. Nearer and nearer they came ; I heard their feet pattering on the ice nearer still until I could sees their breath and hear their snaffling scent. Eve ry nerve and muscle in my frame was stretched to the utmost tension. The trees along the shore seemed to dance in the un certain light, and my brain turned with my own breathless speed, yet still they seem to Ilia* forth their breath with a sound truly horrible, when an involunta ry motion on my part turned me out of my course. - The wolves close behind, unable to stop, and as uuabie to turn on the smooth ice, slipped and fell, still going on far ahead ; their tongues were lolling out, their white tusks glaring from their bloody mouths, their dark shaggy breasts were bleaehed with foam, and, as they passed me, their eyes glared, and they howled with fu ry- The thought flashed on my mind that by this means I could avoid them, viz—by turning aside whenever they came too near ; for they, by the formation of their feet, are unable to run on the ice except iu a straight line. At one time by delaying my turning too long, my sanguinary antagonists came so near Gat they threw the white foam over my dress, as they sprang to seize me, and their teeth clashed together, like the spring of a fox-trap. Had my skates failed for one instant, had I tripped on a stick, or caught my foot in a fissure in the ice, the story 1 ain telling would have never been told. I thought all the chances over—l knew where they would take hold of me if I fell; I thought how’ long it w'ould be belore I died,and, then there would boa search for the body that would already have its tomb; for OI how fast man’s inind traces out all the dread colors of death’s picture only those who have been so near the grim original can tell. But I soon came opposite the house, and my hounds —I knew their deep voices—roused by tho noise, bayed furiously from the kennels. I heard their chains rattle; how I wished they would break them! and then I should have protectors that would be peers to tho fier cest deuizens of the forest. The wolves, taking the hint conveyed by the dogs, stopped in their mad career, and after n moment’s consideration, turned and fled, I watched them until their dusky forms disappeared ov er a neighboring hill. Then, taking off my skates, wended my way to the house, with feelings which may be better imagined than described. But even yet I never *ee a broad sheet of ice in the moonshine with out thinking of that snuffling breath, and those fearful things that followed me so closely down the Kennebeck. The three Rival Cities. That there is a ludicrous tone of annoyance, and a lordly disdain of each other in the literary cliques of three great northern cities has long been evident to the outsiders. The Mutual Ad miration Society of Boston —an odd mix of clergymen who meddle least of all with divine things, rampant old maids and sweet singing poets —hold the tar, tallow, calico and Wall street aristocracy, whom Willis has scented with essences and baptized into “Japonicadom, kid gloves and French patents,” in great contempt The huge pumpkin regards its brother vegeta ble, the “Dutch cabbage,” with eye askant and rolls over to the other side. Meanwhile the “Philosophical Society” clique of Philadelphia now and then dip their fingers into Uncle Sam’s mint, and dilate largely on the days when the right angled city was not altogether pro-’ vinciai. Curious it is indeed to behold a “Wis tar party” at this latter home of all the talents, grave professions, erudite editors (sometimes,) potential office-holders, and sucking poets, gath er over the groaning table of oysters, tarrapin and chicken salad, and settle the fate of doctors, medical schools, magazines and humble aspi rants to “the club;” which laborious duty done, the lucky recipients of the “feed of the lions,’’ may at times, low down in tbe small hours, be seen following irregular curves right an gled corners, and have been go off at a tangent over tbe curb stone ! A Gem.— The following beautiful specimen of eloquence is by an Indian woman, over the con tiguous graves of her husband and infant: “The Father of life and of light has taken from me the apple of my eye and the core of my heart, and laid them in these two graves. I ! will water the one w ith my tears, and the other with the milk of my breast, till I meet then again in that country where the sun never. sess.” Taking tbe (ensns. An Elderly Lady Cauoht. —Tlie taking of th.r last census has given us a score of eapital stories, hut until yesterday we do not recollect ha> ing stumbled upo:i the following. We pick it up as an estray, going th rounds without credit: Last fall a census taker, on a tour of duty, stopper at an elegant brick dwelling house on Western Row--- the exact location of which is no business of ours, lie wits received at tlie door by a stiff, well dressed elderly lady, who could be recognized as a widow of some years standing. On learning the mission of her visitor, the lady invited him to a seat in the hall: Having ar ranged himself into a working position, he inquired foi the number of persons in the family of the lady. “Eight sir,” replied the lady “including myself ” “Very well—your age madam 7” ‘My age, sir,’ site replied, witli a piercing, dignified .00k; ‘I conceive it's none of your business, what ic. age might bo---you are inquisitive, sir.’ ‘The law compels mo madam, to take the age of ev cry person in the ward ; it is my duty to make the in quiry.’ ■Well, if the law compels you to ask, I presume it will compel me to answer. lam between thirty and forty. ’ ‘I presume that means thirty-five 7’ ‘No, sir, it means no such thing : I am only thirty three years of age 7’ ‘Very well, madam,’ putting down the figures “ ju*t as you say. Now for the ages of the children, eon. mencing with tho youngest one, if you please.’ ■Josephine, my youngest, is ten years of age.’ ‘Josephine— pretty name—ten.* ‘Minerva was twelve last week.’ ‘Minerva; captivating; twelve.’ ‘Cleopatra Elvira has just turned fifteen.’ ‘Cleopatra Elvira; charming; fifteen.’ ‘Angelina is eighteen, sir; just eighteen . r ‘Angelina; favorite name; eighteen.’ ‘My eldest and only married daughter, sir, Anna. Sophia, is a little over twenty-five.’ ‘Twenty-five did you say madam V cs > *' r - I s there anything remarkable in her be ing of that age.’ ‘Well, no I can't say that there is; but is it not re markable that you should be her mother when you were only eight years of age 7’ About that time the census taker, was observed sail ing out of the house, closely pursued by a broomstick It was the last time he pressed a ladv to give her age. Kissing Done by Rule.—Some young la dv, whom practice has doubtless made perfect, hits down u rule tor kissing. We (give herov>’ti words: “ikere is as much difference in kisses .is in in dividuals, and I am sure that I should not like to be kissed by every one. Now kissing can be reduced to rules, one of which I will give. Tho head should always be turned slightly to the 1 -ht, as such a motion gives graoe, and pre \ents the concussion of the olfactory organs. Ihe lips should then be pressed closely and sweetly together, as you sip the nectar of the long kiss, but no smack should be heard. I speak particularly ou this subject, because 1 eon sider kissing part of our nature, and because few people appear to understand the value of a kiss, and the manner in which such salutation with the lips should be rendered.” Voung men should post the above in the crown ol their hats, so that when they visit thei* Anna Marias, they may go through the mo tion by the improved rule. Goon Joke ox a. Widower.—A correspon dent at Holly Springs, Mississippi, tells the fol lowing and vouches for its truth. It is the best joke we have heard of lately. It appears that a widower, in that town, of somewhat gallant dis position, had been accustomed to visit the widow M—to see the amiable widow or tier lively daughters our informant did not know which. One evening he found the family hard at work upon some garments of cloth. The girls were sewing and the widow was pressing the seams. The widower hung up his hat as usual, and took his seat by the lire; just at that moment it hap pened that the widow had done with the press iug iron, (vulgo or tailor's goose,) the set it down on the hearth, and called to her negro man in a loud voice—“ Jake! Jake! come and take out this goose!” lhe widower started up in astonishment not knowing what to make of this abrupt order. “Jake do you hear?’ again exclaimed th* widow. “I beg your pardon Mrs. M. n said the widower with visible agitation, “but prav don t call Jake—if you wish me to leave your house I will go at once without interference of ser vants. The ladies roared with laughter, and took some moments to explain to the chagrined] wid ower his mistake. He has not been known to visit the widow M. since that memorable night. % Fautaff. —Mr. Giles, at the close of life lecture upou Falstaff, eloquently “points a mor al” by the following picture of the last days of the fat, funny, and sack-loving old knight. “What a mournful condition of humanity is presented to us in the debasement of talent to the appetites? Behold it in the picture set before us in halstaff. Look at that grey-headed, grey bearded old man, lolling, bloated on the dregs of life; the desires insatiate as strength de clines; the senses gross, while a brilliant imagi nation Hows in radiance over them, as the. sun upon a morass ; abilities which might hare ex alted empires, devoted to the cooking of a ca pon, or the merits of a sack posset; eloquence and wit lavished upon blackguards; law, hon or, courage, chastity, made a jest. Laugh, it is true, you must; but when you have laughed, turn back and think ; and after thinking, you will admit that tragedy itself has not any tiling more sad.” Jcst Hear Ilm.—Fowler, the celebrated phrenoio gist of New York, makes the following sweeping asser tion r oung man, middle aged man, it matters not whai may be your acre, your ise, your streugth, your riche.: your anything else whatever, you. are qo man un*= you have been in love.’ ‘Boys, da you hear that?’ 03r“ Pa, nobody shan’t put oorsett on rm> shall they?” “No, my son, they shan’t; but what put tba| in your head?” “Why, Mr. Green says as how if I kill any more of his chickens, he’d give me the darud ■ est keen’thaf over was.” NO. 8-