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VOL. 2. Terms of the Georgia Citizen. THE Cash price of this Paper is $2, per annum, payable at the time of subscribing, $2 50, if not paid in 3 months, and $3 at the end of the year. A remit tance ora satisfactory reference must alto-ays accom pany the order to ensure attention. L. F. W ANDREWS, Editor and Prop'r. Sty* For the Georgia Citizen. Rosalie Lee. BY T. H. CIIIVERS, M. D. “ Les Anges ne sont plus pures que le ccpur d’ un joanehomme qui aime en vcrite.”— Madame Dude want. On the banks of the yellow lilies, Where the cool ware wanders by, All bedamasked with Daffodillies, And the bee-beset Crowtie ; More mild than the Paphian Luna To her nude Nymphs on the sea, There dwelt with her milk white Una, My beautiful Rosalie Lee — My highborn Rosalie Lee— My childlike Rosalie Lee — My beautiful, dutiful Rosalie Lee, Many mellow Cydonian suckets, Sweet apples, anthosminl. divine, From the Ruby-rimmed Beryllinc buckets, Star-gemmed, lily-shaped, hyaline-- Like that sweet golden goblet found growing On the wild emerald Cucumber-tree- Rich, brilliant, like Crysopraz blowing—- I then brought to my Rosalie Lee To my lamb-like Rosalie Lee — To my dove-like Rosalie Lee — To my beautiful, dutiful Rosalie Lee. Warbling her woodnotes wild, she wended Her way with the turtle doves, And the wood-nymphs weird that attended Her steps through the flowery groves. In the light of her eyes of a/ure, My soul seemed on earth to see All that Heaven could give me of pleasure, With my beautiful Rosalie Lee — With my Heaven-born Rosalie Lee— With my Christ-like Rosalie Lee — With my beautiful, dutiful Rosalie Lee. But my darling Ulpsyche sighing Her soul out to give me delight, Went away with the Great Undying To the Courts of the Heavenly Light. Through an arc made in the azure Os God's azimuth, Heaven to see, There to dwell with the Angels in pleasure— Went my beautiful Rosalie Lee — Went my fair-browed Rosalie Lee — W ent my much-loved Rosalie Lee — Went my beautiful, dutiful Rosalie Lee. Through the Valley of Avalon lonely, By the light of the argentine Moon, From the presence that lived for her only On the banks of the rivers of Rune— Through the Star-Islands studding the Ether, With the Angel that took her from me— Though my soul in its sorrow went with her - Soared my beautiful Rosalie Lee — Soared my Christ-like Rosalie Lee— Soared my God like Rosalie Lee— Soared my beautiful, dutiful Rosalie Let. From the International Magazine. Martha Hopkins. A BALLAD OF INDIANA. From the kitchen, Martha llopkins, as she stood there making pies, Southsvard looks, along the turnpike, with her hand above her eyes -, And a little grass is growing in a mighty sight of weeds. All the air is full of noises, for there isn’t any school, And the boys, with turned-up pantaloons, are wading in the pool; Blithely frisk, unnumbered chickens, cackling, for they cannot laugh, V here the airy summits brighten, nimbly leaps the lit tle calf. Gentle eyes of Martha Hopkins ! tell me wherefore do ye gaze On the ground that’s being furrowed for the planting of the maize ? Tel! mo wherefore, dowu the valley, ye have traced the turnpike's way, Far beyond the cattle pasture, and the brick-yard with its day ? Ah ! the dog-wood tree may blossom, and the door yard grass may shine, M ith the tears of amber dropping from the washing of the line; And the morning’s breath of balsam, lightly brush her freckled cheek, — Little reeketh Martha Hopkins of the tales of spring they speak. V hen the summer’s burning solstice on the scanty harvest glowed, She had watched a man on horseback riding down the turnpike road -, Many times she saw him turning, looking backward quite forlorn, V ill amid her tears she lost him, in the shadow of the barn. Ere the supper-time was over, he had passed the kiln of brick, Crossed the rushing Yellow River, and had forded quite a creek. And his flat-boat load was taken, and the time for pork and beans, V ith the traders of tho Wabash, to the wharf at New Orleans. Therefore watches Martha Hopkins—bolding in her hand the pans, V hen the sound of distant footsteps seems exactly like a man’s; Not a wind the stove-pipe rattles, nor a door behind her jars, But she seems to hear the rattle of his letting down the bars. Often sees she men on horseback, coming down the turnpike rough, But they come not as John Jackson, she can see it w ell enough; she knows the sober trottiug of the sorrel horse be keeps, As he jogs along at leisure, with his head down like a sheep’s. ‘the would know him ’mid a thousand, by his home made coat and vest; By Lis socks which were blue woolen, such as farmers wear out West; B} the color of his trousers, and his saddle which was spread By a blanket which was taken for that purpose from the bed. B °ne like he the yoke of hickory, on the unbroken ox can throw, °ue amid his father’s corn-fields use like him the spade *od hoe; at *ll the apple cutting, few indeed the men are seen, can dance with him the polka, touch with him the Vl&iiu, Tl."-:. W-JI He has said to Martha Hopkins, and thinks she hears him now, For she knows as well as can be, that he meant to keep his vow, M hen the buck-eye tree has blossomed, and your un cle plants his corn, Shall the bells of Indiana usher in the wedding morn. He has pictured his relations, each in Sunday hat and gown, And he thinks he’ll get a carriage, and they'll spend a day in towu ; That their love will newly kindle, and what comfort it will give, To sit down to the first Lreakfast, in the cabin where they'll live. Tender eyes of Martha Hopkins ! what has got you in such scrape, ’lis a tear that falls to glitter on the ruffle of heE-cape, Ah ! the eye of love may brighten, to be certain what it sees, ) One man looks much like another, when half hidden by the trees. But her eager eyes rekindle, she forgets tho pies and bread, Now tie on another apron, get the comb and smooth your hair, ’Tis the sorrel horse that gallops, ’tis John Jackson’s self that's there! The Fear of Being an Old Maid. BY MRS. E. B. HAILE. When I was a little girl, I was a fat, merry, jolly dumpling, as happy as the day was long. Every body pinched my red cheeks, and I wad dled about with my doll in my plump arms, finding fun in everything, and fully believing that my doll was as sensible as myself, and per haps she was, almost. But though I had a natural antipathy to a spelling book, and had no fondness for spending a long summer after noon in poking a needle in and out of a bit of calico; though I considered patchwork all fool ishness, and gussets as utter superfluities; though I was called a simpleton for asking my mother why she cut cloth up and then sewed it together again, still I was fond of picking up ideas after my own fashion. When the wise people around me supposed I was thinking of nothing but my play, my two little ears were opened to every word spoken in my hearing ; and many were the words impressed on my memory, which the speaker forgot the next mo ment. When 1 was ten years old, I had one sister fifteen, and another seventeen ; and, as usual with girls of that age, they had a set of cronies, some very like, and some quite unlike them in character. One afternoon, as I was tending my doll, who was sick in bed, I heard a brisk discussion amoung the girls, which I may al most say, decided my fate for life. lhe first words which caught rnv attention, came, from a animated, romantic girl of sixteen, scolding because the heroine of a novel she had just read was left unmarried at the end of the story. One of the sisters did not seem to sympathize with this burst of disapprobation,and then came the pithy question— “ What! would you be willing to die an old maid ?” Mary said very quietly, “Yes;’’ and sister El len added, “So would I.” Then such looks of amazementof incredulity. “You can’t mean what you say,’’ cried one. “If I did not know you to well to think you are a hypocrite,” said another. “Why, it was meant that all women should be married,’’ exclaimed a third. ‘Then why are they not all married,’ asked Mary, with simplicity. Eager and hot grew the controversy, and I lost not a word, while Ophelia lay flat on her back, her stiff kid arms sticking out, and her croup quite forgotten. Then first did I take notice of that terrible combination of monosyl lables, ‘Old Maid.’ In how many different tones of contempt, dread and deprecation, did 1 hear it uttered by those juvenile voices! What anecdotes came forth about cross old maids, and fidgety old maids, and ugly, and dressy, and learned, and pious, and flirting, and mis chievous making old maids ! Never did a bevy of regular fifty-year old spinsters utter so much scandal in one afternoon, as was poured forth by these blooming young creatures. Two or three friends of my mother, whom I had always cherished in mv innocent affections, because they talked so pleasantly and were so kind to me, now appeared like new personages. “Miss Z. was so ugly, she never could have had an offer.’’ “Miss Y. dressed so shabby, and wore green spectacles to look literary.” And “Miss A. was forever talking about Sunday school and Exeter meetings,” and so on. You may be sure that the next time these la dies came to our house, I scanned very closely the face of Miss Z., a face I had always loved before ; but now I saw that it was exceedingly plain. I looked hard at Miss Y.’s drab colored bonnet and shawl, perceived that they were old fashioned and ordinary, and, that iier green spectacles looked pedantic. Then Miss X. be side whom I had always squeezed in upon the sofa, encouraged by her kindly smile and de lighted with her conversation- how uninterest ing she had become! They were all old maids ! It must be observed that my sisters—right good, sensible, domestic girls they were— had no part in this bewilderment of my young ideas. They were in the minority, so I took it for gran ted that they were wrong. Besides, wliat chi 1- dren are ever so much influenced by what is ut tered in the familiar voices of their own family, as by the words of comparative strangers ? I learned my lesson thoroughly, for it came to me in some shape every week. I read it in ev ery novel and newspaper, and heard it from ev ery lip. The very men who spoke truth and sense on the subject, sometimes neutralized it by an idle jest in some moment of lev ity, and the jest drove out the truth from my young heart. At eighteen, I lived only for the ignoble pur pose—l can not bear to say—of getting married ; but what could have been the ruling wish of one who had been taught by society to dread celiba cy worse than death ? ‘ I dare say I betrayed it in the ball room, in the street, every where. I dare say I was duly laughed at. At last, quaking on the verge of six and twen ty, I had an offer—a most absurd one. I was six years older than my lover, had ten times as much sense, probably, except on one point. I knew that he was rather wild, as the gentle phrase goes; in short, I neither loved nor re spected him, but I was willing to marry him, because then I should be Mrs. Somebody, and should not be an old maid. ” ‘Mfjieniti'nt in nil fjjiitgs —MmM in not jpg.” MACON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 13, 1851. My parents said “No,” positively. Os course I thought them unreasonable and cruel, and made myself very miserable. Still, it wbs something to have “an offer” of any kind, and my lip* were not hermetically sealed. 1 had several confidants, who took care that all my acquaintance should know the comfortable fact that I had refused Mr. S. I went on with increasing uneasiness a few years longer, not seeking how to be useful, or trying to find out for what good purpose I was made. Neither was I looking for a companion who could sympathise with my better aspira tions and elevate my whole character, for I had no right views of marriage. I was simply gaz ing about in anxious suspense upon every un married man of rav acquaintance, for one who wouldliftme outof that dismal Valley of Hu miliation into which I felt myself descending. Had I met Apollyon himself, there with the question ou his lips, I believe I should have said “Yes.” At thirty-six I wore more pink ribands than ever, was seen every where that a respectable woman cound go, wondering why girls went in to company so young—found I was growing sharp faced and sharp spoken, and was becom ing old maidish in the worst sense of the word, because I was an old maid against my will. I forgot that celibacy never affects the temper. My sisters, be it remembered, were older than I. They, too, were single. But they had lived more domestic lives than I, had read fewer works of fiction, had been cultivating their own natures, and seeking to make every body around them happy. And everybody reverenced them, and loved to look upon their open pleas ant countenances—l mean every body worth pleasing—and they were very happy. At last our good parents died, and left each of us a little independence. Within a year I was married. I was married for my money. This was ten years ago, and they have been ten years of pur gatory. I have had bad luck as a wife, for my hus band and 1 scarcely have one taste in common. He wishes to live in the country, which I hate. I like the thermometer at seventy-five degrees which he hates. He likes to have the children brought up at home instead of at school which I hate. 1 like music and like to go to concerts which he hates. He likes roast pork, which I hate; and I like minced veal, which he hates. I here is but one thing which we both like, and that is what we both cannot have, though we are always trying for it—the last word. I have had bad luck as a mother ; for two such huge,selfish, unmanageable boys never tor mented a feeble woman since boys began. I wish 1 had called them both Cain. At this mo ment they have just quarrelled over their mar bles. Mortimer has torn off Orville’s collar, and Orville has applied his colt like heels to Morti mer’s ribs ; while the baby Zenobia, in one lap, who never sleeps more than half an hour at a time, and cries all The time she is awake, has be*sn roused by their din to scream in chorus. I Tavo had bad luck as a housekeeper; for I never kept a housemaid more than three weeks. And as to cooks, I look back bewildered on the long phantasmagoria of faces flitting stormily through my kitchen, as a mariner remembers a rapid succession of thunder gusts and hurricanes in the Gulf of Mexico. My new housemaid bounced out of the room yesterday, flirting her duster, and muttering “ Real old maid, after all!” just because I showed her a table on which I could write “slut,” with my finger in the dust. I never see my plump, happy sisters, and then glance into the mirror at my own cadaver ous long, doleful visage, without wishing my self an old maid. 1 do it every day of my life. Yet half of my sex marry as 1 did ; not for love but for fear !—for fear of dying old maids. They have their reward. And those whose idle tongues create this mischievous fear, and thus make so much domestic misery, have their responsibility. Frankness. Alice Rey was one of those beings whose communications are an index to her heart— whose conversation faithfully mirrored her in most soul. She uttered a hundred things vou would conceal, and spoke them with that digni fied assurance that made you wonder that you had ever hesitated to say them yourself. Nor did this unreservedness appear like the weak ness of one who could not conceal, or a deter mination to make war on the forms of society— it was rather a calm, well guarded integrity, reg ulated by a just sense of propriety—knowing when to be silent, but speaking the truth when she spoke at all. Her extraordinary frankness often beguiled superficial observers into supposing themselves fully acquainted with her real character before they really were; as the beautiful transparency of some lakes is said to deceive the eye as to their depth ; yet the longer you knew her, the mere variety and compass of character appeared through the same transparent medium. But you may just visit Miss Alice for half an hour and judge for yourselves. You may walk into the little parlor. There is Miss Alice on the sofa, sewing a pair of lace sleeves into a satin dress—in which peculiar angelic employment she may persevere until we have finished anoth er sketch. See you that pretty little lady, with sparkling little eyes, elastic form, and beautiful hand and foot that is sitting opposite to her j She is a belle:—the character is written in Her face—it dimples in her smiles, and pervades the whole woman. But here—Miss Alice has risen, and is arrang ing the finest auburn hair in the world, in the most fashionable manner. The little lady watches every motion as comically as a kitten would a pink bell. ‘lt is all in vain to deny it, Alice—you are re ally desirous to look pretty this evenino- sa id she. ‘I certainly am,’ said Alice quietly. ‘Ay, and you hope you shall please Mr. A. and Mr. B.’ said the little accusing angel. ‘Certainly, I do,’ said Alice, as she twisted her fingers in a beautiful curl. ‘Well, 1 would not tell it, Alice, if I did,’ said the belle. ‘Then you should not ask me,’ said Alice. ‘I declare ! Alice. ’ ‘And what do you declare ?’ ‘I never saw such a girl as you are.’ ‘Very likely,’said Alice, stooping to pick up a pin. ‘Well, for my part,’ said the little lady, ‘I would never take any pains to make any body like me, particularly a gentleman.’ ‘ ‘I would,’ said Alice, ‘if they would not love me without.’ ‘Why Alice! I should pot think you were so fond of admiration.’ ‘I like to be remembered very much,’ said Alice, -etuniing to the sofa, “and I suppose ev ery else body does.’ ‘I don’t care about admiration,’ said the little lady, T would be as satisfied that they should.’ ‘Then, cousin, I think it is a pity wt like you so well,’ said Alice with a good humored smile. IT Miss Alice had penetration, she never made severe use of it. ‘But really, cousin,’ said the little lady, T should not think such a girl as you would think anything about dress or admiration, and all that.’ ‘I don’t know to hat kind of a girl you think 1 am,’said Alice; ‘but for iny own part, I only pretend to be a common human being , and am not ashamed of common human feelings. If God has made 11s so that We love admiration, why should we not, hopestir say so? I love it, you love it, and every body else loves it; and why should not every body say so ? ‘Why, yes,’ said the little lady, ‘I suppose every body has a—has a —general love of admi ration. lam willing to acknowledge that—that I have; but— ‘But you have no love for it in particular,’ said Alice, ‘I suppose you meant to say; that is just the way the matter is disposed of. Every body is willing to acknowledge a general wish for the good opinion of others; but half the world are ashamed to own it when it comes to a particular case. Now, I have made up my mind, that if it is correct in general, it is correct in particular, and I mean to own it both ways.’ ‘But somehow, it seems mean !’ said the little lady. ‘lt is mean to live for it, to be selfishly en grossed in it; hut not mean to enjoy it when it comes, or even to seek it if we neglect no high er interest in doing so. All that God made us to feel, is dignified and pure, unless we pervert it.’ ‘But, Alice, I never heard any one speak out so frankly.’ ‘Almost all that is innocent and natural may be spoken out; and as for that which is not in nocent and natural, it ought not even to be thought. ‘No, we have an instinct which teaches us to be silent sometimes ; but if we speak at all, let it be done in simplicity and sincerity.’ ‘Now, for instance, Alice,’ said the lady, ‘it is very innocent and natural, as you say, to think this, that, and the other thing of your self, especially when every body is telling you of it. Now would you speak the truth, if one should ask you, on this point ?’ ‘lf it were a person who had a right to ask. and if it were a proper time and place, I would,’ said Alice. ‘Well, then,’ said the bright little lady, Task you, Alice, in this very proper time and place, do you think that you are handsome V Now, I suppose you expect me to make a courtesy to every chair in the room, before I an swer, but dispensing with the ceremony, I will tell you fairly—l think lam.’. ‘Do \ ou think that yot%tre good F ‘Not entirely.’ I ‘Well, but don’t you\hinkyou are better than most people ?’ ‘As far as I can tell, I think I am better than some people ; but really, cousin, I don’t like to trust my own judgment in this matter.’ ‘Well, Alice, one more question—do you think that James Martyrs likes you or me best ?’ ‘I do not know.’ ‘I did not ask you what you knew, but what you thought ,’ said the lady ; ‘you must have some thought about it.’ ‘Well, then, I think he likes me best,’said Alice. Just then the’ door opened, and in walked the identical James Martyrs. Alice blushed— looked a little comical, and contined ov with her sewing, while the lady began— ‘Really, Mr. James, I wish you had come in a few minutes sooner, to hear Alice’s confes sions.’ ‘What has she confessed V said James. ‘Why, that she is handsomer and better than most folks.’ ‘That’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ said James. ‘Oh, that’s not all—she wants to look pretty, and loves to be admired, and all that.’ ‘lt sounds very much like her,’ said James, looking at Alice. ‘Oh, but besides that,’ said the lady, ‘she has been preaching a discourse on justification of vanity and self-love.’ ‘And the next time you shall take notes when I preach,’ said Alice, ‘for I don’t think your memory is remarkably happy.’ ‘You see, James,’ said the lady, ‘that Alice makes it a point to say exactly the truth , when she speaks at all; and I’ve been puzzling her with questions. 1 really wish you would ask her some, and see what she will say. But mer cy ! there’s Uncle C come to make me a ride. I must run.’ And off flew the little hum mingbird, leaving James and Alice tele a tctc. ‘There is really one question,’ said James, clearing his voice. Alise looked up. ‘There is one question which I wish 3*oll would answer.’ Alice did not ask what the question was, but began to look very solemn; and just theu I went out of the room, and so I never knew what it was that Alice's friend James wanted to be enlightened about. Count Pulaski. AN INCIDENT AT HIS QUARTERS! On the night of the battle of Brandywine, I was sent with a message from Gen. Green, to the Count Pulaski, a noble Polander, who took a prominent part in our freedom. He was quartered in a neat farm house near the up per fords. As our business was finished, the Count asked me to take some refreshments and at the same time he called out, ‘Mary, my lass—Mary !’ * J In an instant a rosy-cheeked girl entered, her face beaming with joy, it would seem, at the very sound o( PulasKi’s voice. ‘Did you call me, Count?’ she said very t im id ly. ‘How often have I told you, little love,’ he said, bending his tall form to kiss her cheek, not to call rqe Count; call me your dear Pulaski, —this is a republic, my little favorite. We have no Counts, you know.’ ‘But vou are a Count sir, when at home, and they say you come a long way over the ocean to fight for us.’ ‘Yes, yes, Mary very true, I did come a long way, but one reason why, was, I had tocome in a measure. Now, cau you get for this gentle man and myself a little refreshment? He has a long way to ride to-night.’ ‘Certainly, sir,” and she went out of the room like a fairy. ‘A fine little pleasant girl,’ said Fulaski.— ‘Would that 1 had the wealth I once had I would give her a portion that would send halt the youths hereabouts after her sweet face.” The girl soon returned with part of a fine boiled ham, some delicious fresh lye bread and butter, pickles, and a few little et celeras that 1 relished exceedingly. After refreshing myseltto mv satisfaction I took my departure, and rode speedly to the main camp. On the morning of the 11th of September 1777, the British army advanced in full force to Chadd’s ford, for the purpose of crossing Brandywine Creek, and bringing on an ac tion with Washington. Ihe Hessian General Knyphausen with a large force advancing up the side of the creek and uniting with Lord Cornwallis, who com manded the left wing of the army c tossed at the upper forks of the river and creek. It was late in the afternoon when the real ity of the fight commenced, and as the action raged from right to left, Green’s division, to which 1 belonged, was brought into the midst of the conflict, commanded by Washington in person. It so happened that during the raging of the conflict, in carrying orders, 1 passed immedia tel}’ in the direction of Pulaski's quarters that 1 had visited the night before. Situated as the house was, in the midst of the battle, cur iosity induced me to ride up. Suddenly a sheet of flames burst forth. The house was on fire! Near the door step lay the body of Mary, her head cut open by a sabre and her brains oozing out from the terrible wound! I had not been there more than half a minute when Pulaski, at the head of a troop of cavalry, galloped rapidly to the house. Never shall I forget the expression of this face, as he shouted like a demon on seeing the inanimate form— ‘Who done this?’ A little boy, that I had not before noticed who was laying amid the grass, his leg dread fully mangled,said, ‘there they go.’ He pointed to a company of Hessians, or Anspach grena diers, then some distance off Right Whe el, men—charge. And they did charge; I do not think one man of that Hessian corps ever left the field. The last I saw of Pulaski on the battle ground of Brandywine, he was bearing in his annes the lifeless form of poor Mary. A Mother’s Last Lesson.—“ Will you please to teach me my verse, mamma, and kiss me, ami bid me good night?” said little L as he opened the door and peeped cautiously into the chamber of his sick mother. “1 am very sleepy, hut no one has heard me say mv prayers.” Mrs L was vary ill—indeed, her atten dants believed her to be dying. She s propped up with her pillows, and struggling fm breath, her lips were white, her eyes were growing dull and glazed. She was a widow, and Rodger was her only, her darling child, Every night he had been in the luibit of coming into her room, and sitting in her lap or kneel ing by her side, whilst she repeated passages from God’s holy word, or related stories of the wise and good men spoken of in its pages. “Hush!” said a lady who was watching beside her couch. “Your dear mother is too ill to hear you to-night.” As she said this she came forward, and laid her hand gently upon his arm, as if she would lead him from the room. Rodger began to sob us if his heart would break. “I cannot go to bed without saying mv prayers indeed I cannot.’’ The car of the dying mother caught the sound. Although she had been nearly in sensible to everything transpiring around her, the sob of her darling aroused iter from her stupor, and turning to a friend she desired her to bring her little son, and lay him on her bosom. Her request was granted, and the child’s rosy cheek and golden head nestled be side the pale, cold face of his dying mother. “Rodger, my son, my darling child, repeat this verse after me and never forget it, ‘when my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will take me up.” The child repeated it two or three times distinctly, and said his prayer. Then he kissed tho cold almost rigid features before him, and went quickly to his little couch. The next morning, he sought as usual, his mo ther, but he found her stiff and cold. This was her last lesson. He has never forgotten it, and probably never will. He has grown to be a man, a good man, and now occupies a post of honor and profit in Massachu setts. I never could look upon him without thinking about the faith so beautifully exhibit ed by his dying mother. Living on Laurels. Tlic following extract from the Albany State Regis ter, though before published in our paper, will bear re petition : ‘The Bar of New York numbers among its mem bers men, who in intellectual training, forensic and oth er accomplishments, and all the qualities requisite in statesmen, are not surpassed in tin* Union. But few of the most eminent among them ever enter into pub lic life. ‘Why,’ said Bareut Gardinier, addressing Elisha Williams, ‘why, with your brilliant eloquence, do you not go to Congress?.’ ‘What for?’ asked Williams, in turn. ‘To make yourself wider known ; to win Intrfels,’ was the answer—‘Ay,’ said Williams, ‘abd When 1 return home, and my children say ‘Papa, give us some bread,’ shall f give them a leaf of the laurel ? i Mr. Elisha Williams, who is referred to in this an ecdote, was the Patrick tlenry of the State of New York. He was of obscure origin, and was entirely a self-made man. lie was the acknowledged head of the orators of New York, and, like Patrick Henry, was as remarkable for his profound insight into human na ture, and for his strong common sense as for his great oratory. His answer to Mr. Gardinier indeed was charaet,er istic of his strong understanding. He estimated at their true value ephemeral distinctions of public life. Although his political opinions were fixed, and his feel ings ardent, he would have naught to do with those baubles of office which set so many grown up children mad with ambition. He has consequently been little heard of out his own State, but he achieved the great object of his life, and provided his children with a stronger staff of support than the unsubstantial ghost of their father’s fame. We refer to this ease, as an example which deserves to be imitated. The appetite for office is the besetting sin, not only of lawveis, young and old, in this coun try, but of all classes of men. The humblest post wii.h in the gift of the people or the President is contended for with a rivalry which enlists the strongest passions of the aspirants aod their friends. The defeated pa ty in these encounters is disheartened, as if he had suf fered a severe loss, whereas he is the only real gainer. In a government where the selaries of public officer* are on the most economical scale, no man can expect to make a fortune out of the government. It requires a rich man to support public life 111 this country. Unless a man possess other meuns, he will hud th. public service a thankless one, and regret, in the end, that he had not applied himself to his profession or trade, and taken care of those who are dependent upon his industry, instead of wasting his energies in taking care of the public.— Rich. Ilep. OCT A friend of ours otci heard the following conversation in a livery stable not long since: “I say, Jim ” “What!” “Take black Pete’s harness and put it on Jenny Lind—give Napo leon some oats, take Little Nell to water and then rub down Fanny Elssler.” “Aye, uve, sir. Cnrrwpiilim LETTERS FROM THE NORTH—M. !l. Fair Haven, Aug. 26, 1851. Dear Doctor :—Before I left New Haven, Mr Bab cock presented me with anew work of great merit, to which I wish now to call your attention. It is entitled The New Testament ; or the Book of the Holy Gos pel oj our Lord and our God, Jesus the Messiah. A liberal translation from the Syriac Pashilo Ver sion, by James Murdock, D. D. W hat I w ish you to notice now is, the peculiarity of the above title. It does not say, The Holy Gospel of the Son of God , but the Holy Gospel of our Lord and our God. This goes to prove that whatSwcdeu burg says of our Lord is true. This man spent five of the best years of his life in studying the Syriac langugo. \V hat pleases me most in this city is, not inertly like wilderness of vegetation in which it is embowered, but the number of learned men here. That spirit which would inspire a man of liis age to toil so long for the gratification of others, is God derived and above all Time. In this translation he has taken great pains to adopt the Saxon Phraseology, as better adapted to express the Pashito original, than the Latin. I see that he Iras also made use of the solemn obsolescent stylo of the old English Bible. This is absolutely very beautifully rendered, as I will proceed shortly to show you. lie translates Meshihhah, Messiah, and not Christ. Sheman he transktes Simon, and not Peter. He trans lates the Syriac/word which signifies Apostle, Legate He translates the Syriao word which means Saviour, Vitifier , because the veib, from which the name is de rived, more properly means to make alive—to vivify. This is what I wish you to notice. Had I tiie space, I would show you that this is the correct meaning of all those passages which refer more particularly to the Mes siah. Jn the Syriac language his name signifies Vtri ‘-r or Life giver. This is just what Swedenburg teaches. The heading of the Book of Matthew is as follows : The Holy Gospf.l, the Announcement of Matthew the Legate. To show you how’ beautifully ho has imitated of the Old Testament, or, rather, the solemn rhythm ot the New, 1 will now quote a pas sage from the verses iu Matthew—wherein our Sa viour answers the question propounded to him by the Saducces in regard to the woman who had had seven husbands, ‘le do err, from not knowing the Scrip ture, nor the power of God. For in the resnirec tion of the dead, they do not take wives, nor are wires given to husbands; but they are as the An gels of God in Heaven.’ The parallel passage to this, in John, is beautifully rendered. What I want you to observe here is, the nice affinity between this, and the rendering from the Greek in our New Testa ment. This translation will go very far to confirm, in every candid iniud, Swedenburg’s exposition of the re surrection. Dr. Murdock is Professor of Eclcsiasticad History in Lie Goiiege, ami is now seventy-six serfs old. I have also read his recently published edition of Moshiem's Eclesiaetical History. It is an able work. lair Ilaven is a little Town situated on tbe Quinni piaek river, East of New Haven. It is a beautiful little town, containing several fine private dwellings— Mr. Moltby s being the finest of all. I passed bv one house yesterday, the yard of which was ornamented with no other kind of tree but the Sumac. It is a great place for Oysters—perhaps the greatest in the world. The people, generally, are very industrious, but very poor. East Haven, where I now am, is about two miles from the former place. This is a pretty place for a tow n, but the houses generally are in a very dilapidated slate. People may talk about slavery as much as they please, but I never saw it niitil ] earne here. Tho liv ing here is just as poor as h can be—the people mak ing use of little or no meat. The farming consists most ly in raising small patches of corn and Irish potatoes. Very little wheat is raised—although I perceiie that the people use flower instead of corn bread. I went yestyrday to see the modus operandt of the Paper Mill, owned by Mr. Ilenriques, in this place. The operation is quite a beautiful one—the Mill turn ing out about seventy reams of fine writing paper eve ry day. At the end of the Red <? which the paper is deposited as it is made|isa Clock whose hand, indi cate how many quires and reams are made in a duyt Every time a quire is finished, one of the hands move; and the other the instant these quires arc sufficient in number to make a ream. This Mill is turned by ft pellucid litile stream made by the confluence of lesser streams born in the surrounding Mountains. In fact, it is the outlet of one of the most b-atiful Lakes in A rner ca—eaHed Saltonthal Lake. I went from the Mill yesterday to see this beautiful pond of water—if it may be so called. It is replenished by springs which are the fountains of the waters which percolate through the surrounding mountains. These mountain:, wind like great Titanic Serpents about this Lake, as if to guaru :t iront all intrusion. The water is as clear as crystal. On the border of this Lake is one of the larg est Ice houses lever saw. This Ice is not only taken to New Haven, but to New York. The Railroad, from I air Haven to New London, crosses this Lake. At the point of the embankment, from the weight of the dirt that is thrown in, may be perceived the nature of the soil at the bottom of this Lake—for it has been crowded up in surge like mounds all around each of the ponds. From the nature of this—it being a kind of vegetable loam, like the bogs of Ireland—l am induced to believe tLrit at ono time this Jake was a beautiful verdant valleys There are on the borders of this Lake, many of the most beautiful building sites I ever saw in the Union. It is, I am told, amply supplied with various kinds of) fishes. Ducks and milk white Swans many may be seen ; sailing on itsplaied surface every day. My only reply to ‘One of the People is,' —* To the j pure all things are pure .’ ‘I hate thy want of truth and Jove, — How, then, can I bate theeV P. S. I never wrote any such sentence in any of; nay letters, as nothing more or less, <fee.; but nothing i more nor less, (fee. I merely mention this to coreect ; the error. i East Haven, Aug. 28, 1851. Dear Doctor ;—I have just returned from a delight ful eicurs.on ever the undulating bills which circum v*nt the Sultanthal Lake, about which I wrote you in my last. These lii'ls which are of various heights, and adorned with coronals of Cypress, Pine & Cedar, run the whole length of this most delightful Lake. It is a beau tiful inland Sea.and, generally, very placid, but, to-day, the winds being high, it rolled like the troubled ocean. Its blue mirror, now ruffled, yet reflecting back the face ol the all-beholding Heavens, burst upon us at inter vals, through the open vistas of emerald foliage, like the pleasant glimpses of the azure sky through the dis solving darkness of the overhanging clouds at noon day. Ihe air in its vicinity, is very salubrious, and I have wondered, many a time, why people do not build on the shore, as there are many beautiful sites for dwellings near it. The air on the hills is also very pur Some of the finest cattle I ever saw stood grazing the loftiest peaks of the beautiful hills, as we pa ed along. Nothing can look finer than this Lake trout the top of one of these lofty hills. This Lake is formed by the perennial springs which are replenished by the percolations of the rains • ■ : the surrounding mountains. On a windier da V. looks as crystaline as clearness, and in the spring time of the year is much,'deeper than in summer. NV-:r ;• is situated one u/the largest Ice Houses m This iceia Lot only carried to New York a: a New Haven, but shipped in large vessels to various remote parts of the worid. It is cut out in large flake,-, and pulkd up, piece by piece, on an inclined plain, by . -so power, and pitched down through a high window .ato the Ice house. We saw beautiful milk white Swans as white as Leda’s love, swimming all about on its surface. Alter taking dinner at the very hospitable mansion ot the mother of the gentleman who accompanied me, we drove down to a little tow i, three miles off, called Bradford; where they manufacture locks and many other useful articles. Here we saw the skeleton of a new Church, whose architecture could boast of no< parallel upon earth. The country from Bradford to- East Haven is very hilly—the formation being princi pally primary. Yesterday we took a ride down to the grove house, from which we went to the Light House on the Sea shore. This is a lofty tower, built of Granite, from tho top of which ships may be seen at a great distance at Sea. flic wind was blowing very violently, and the Sea roared desperately—the giant waves beating against the rocks with such fury that the spray was dashed high up into the air and there sifted by tho invisible sing. at of the winds into a gentle rain which was sown at a/considerable distance on the shore. The very of nature seemed to be boiling over with a great agony, the waves ran so high—the sound of which was heard several miles in the country. 1 am now enjoying the hospitalities of a friend in the country, where the air is very pure. I go out every day to see them mow the hay—both salt and fresh. The sea water, troin the salt meadow’, is shut out by & dyke in the summer and let in, through a gate, upon tlu-rn in the winter. This hay is worth from eight to ten dollars per ton. I am going down to South Eud to-morrow, where I expect to ees many wonderful tilings. In the North American Review, for July, is a re view of The Bords nf the Bible, by Mr. Gilfiflan of England,in winch it is stated that the Hebrew lan guage is not only not poetey, but totally destitute of any rhythm. Tb sis said by the Reviewer , who is the completes! Donkey that ever wasted ink on paper for his owwn damnation, not because be knows any thing at all about the matter, but because he knew of no better way to find fault with the idea that the Bible is its own best interpreter. To show yon what a con summate goo-e he is, 1 will merely state that in this same Review, he says that poetry has not only not the same power of prose to express cor ideas, but that all poetry had its birth in the minds ofctf people in a rud. state of civilization. What ouglrfTo be thought of the who would admit such an article as this into the columns of what he and other Frogpondiana of Boston are pleased to call a retpeetable Magazine ? How such a mock Crow could ever l.a*e gotten his head under the up is wings of that ineffable buzzard,* beyond all conjecture. His caw , I should think, ought to be enough to startle the deafest ears of the stupid est buzzard in all Christendom. But perhaps 1 am speaking of the Editor himself. If I am, I hope ho will take a timely hint from what I now say, and nev er offend any body’s good taste again with such ridicu lous ignorance. Tile Hebrew language has not only a rhythm of its own—poeuliar to iiself—but a parallel iism, similar, in its nature, to the rhyming responses of the English. The truth is, there never was any lan guage that did not possess rhythm. Bat, as this Mag a. zine is published in Boston, why should any body won derat any thing that is said in it ? It will no doubt, beeme the bedlam-repository of all the craekbraim nonsense of that lunatary people! An Altar ought to be erected by some modern Jeroboam in honor to this Northern calf. ; Mr. Albs has just engaged anew 811 Waiter, (o | Ni gg er ) 'ho is so green that grass looks white by t !t . side of Irtin. About two hours ago, the bell, in 0, was rang for him to answer it. A few mr-me- - ago, I found him standing before tlu/door of a W, robe closet gently tapping for admitUf ce— where he ‘■: been all the time. His hair stands out in a . ri tions on bis head, like the ‘qu>ils upon the fre- p ro cHpine.’ Mr. Balxcock, who is one ot the po’it< • k-ss iu tli.s city, he*> just handed me anew *’ entitled The Plantation Teacher, or, Vs >r ; s, rg . tide Book of First lessons for Childre the Al phabet and in Spelling. By a Souther.-, The alphabetical and spelling part- • Tir- - wi.l do well enough, but the reading f , . r abominable. J tl my opinion no S-utr< n ‘ dy ever had any thing to do with it. ~ take in getting up this Book was. the M.- rL the Southern people ever had aDy their children ‘Nigger language out of ab J when they can hear it spoken all the time without any. The following is a good specimen of the read ing to be found in it: Maum Beck , toko could not bear to see her darling crossed in any thing, said, nct cr mind. Missy, to morrow you go to the Store room with Missus and ask for a pipe, and J will teach Amy to blow up bubbles for youd Is not this beautiful ? Js it not a perfect sample of the Dark Ages-? If the publisher of this Book, who, I understend/is .Mr. Babcock of Charleston, wishes it to take with/he Southern people, the best thing that he can do iaf to expunge the whole of this absurd read ing matter, and substitute in its stead Mrs. Childs’ Rainbows for Children, or Watts’ Ditine Songs The typography is good,but the Engravings are a perfect nebulosity. There is a Mountebank here at this time, lecturing on Psychology, who pretends to be a veritable Clair vojante. The ladies flock to see him from all direc tions, like Pilgrims to the hallowed shrine at Mecca as though lie were the real fountain of youth incarnat ed. By a men pas d’ ez fuse, he leaps from life into death—crossing the Dark River of the Valley of the jffiadow of death, without ever getting his feet wet then back again into fife, without suffering the less’ metamorphosis, or ever changing his position. All this goes to prove that what Swedenburg says of Hea* ven is true. By this Black Art ho professes to be able Dotoniy to make lucid the abstruse Mysteries of life, but to solve the dark JEaigma of the grave. But what ifallthis ‘vaulting ambition’should turn out to be noth ing more nor ] a fattx pas ? T. H. Q. NO. 2d.