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m mmm nn, VOLUME IV. THE GEORGIA CITIZEN? A FAMILY NEWSPAPER, PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY MORNING. L r W. ANDREWS, Editor and Proprietor. TERMS:— 42 PER ANNUM IN ADVANCE. (fbc port's (Corner. For the Georgia Citizen. Choral Song of tlie American Union. B Y T. 11. CHIVEKS, M. D. I. See the Earth regenerated — Springing from her sleep supine—• Every spot now consecrated Bv the deeds of Love Divine. ii. See the Angel Churches whitening All the earth from sea to sea, While the souls of men are brightening, Thinking of the joys to be. 111. p,v our undivided Union Ech one from the other draws Strength to hold divine communion, Bound to all by Nature’s laws. IV. We hare cleansed the Augean Stables Os the world with holy hands; And have turned the barren tables Upside down of all the lands. v. Hear the loud harmonious Voices Os the Stars in myriad Choir; While the answering Sun rejoices On his thunder-harp of fire. VI. Heavenly body-guard of Glory In the Empyreal Empire high, Thundering down the prayerful story Os our Union through the sky. VII. Glory-circled, like the Immortals, Choiring through the Realms above, To the Angels at the Portals, Anthems of Redeeming Love. VIII. This the glorified Truth-teacher Taught on earth with latest breath— Sealing what no Preacher Ever preached, with bitter death! IN. For Humanity we labor, Worship, working while we pray— Gazing from the top of Tabor For the High Noon of our Day. Oak Grove, Ga., April 10th, 1842. Tlic Blessed Ones nt Home. Tune ‘‘Old Folks at Home.” Away on the hanks of life’s bright river, Far, far away— There will my heart be turning ever, There’s where the blest ones stay; All through this vale of sin and sorrow Sadly I roam, Still longing for the (lawn of the morrow And for the blest ones at A All without is dark and dreary, Everywhere I roam, 0, brothers, how the heart grows weary Sighing for the blest ones at home. Through ah earth’s sunny secnes I wandered in youth’s gay morn; Ilow many precious hours I’ve squandered, How many mercies scorned ; When seeking sin’s delusive pleasures, Wretched was I; But now niv heart has found a treasure There with the blest ones on high. All without is dark and dreary, Ac. One hour there is forever bringing Memories of love; ’Twas then my sighs were changed to singing Os the blest home above; W hen shall I see mv Saviour reigning On Ms white throne? When will be hushed my heart’s complaining There with the blest ones at home? AH till then is dark and dreary, Everywhere I roam, O, brothers, how the heart grows weary Longing for the blest ones at home. From Dr. Chir.er *’ “ VirginaUa” INVOCATION TO SPRING. As one but late in love Long* tr his mistress, so iny soul for thee Fines with impatience! Come, then, from above, Fright Angel of the Sou! come down to me. And clothe the bare boughs of the trees with buds, And wake the song-birds in the solitudes! As the parched traveler, in His hour of thirst, punts for the cooling streams. So does my soul for thee ! The earth, fair queen, longs for the healing of thy heavenly beams, “hit Winter may be melted from her reign, And streams, now frozen, loosed to flow again. Come to the wintry groves, And fringe the bare boughs with the green leaves bright; And tune the voices of the turtle-doves coo thy welcome with divine delight— ’ ■''i back the swans that have been absent long. Ami make the birds resume their last years’ song. As Winter to the Earth— freezing the streams which fertilize her breast, Muffling their music as they wanton forth, ■ “ ‘bat their hanks are left like one distrest, mirren of verdure, cold as cold can be— ■re is the frost of my despair to me! * ‘’ inter, flowers that have been nipt by frost! An<l from the seeds the winds have sown, repave TV world with those that seemed, but were not, lost! ih<m art their Saviour—they rely on thee— hut who shall ever bring my lost to nie ? A balm is in the air— A vernal freshness in the odorous breeze; A living greenness on the hills long bare ; a* on the bare boughs of the ghostly trees, i.tngmg their aspect, as on cheeks once dead, A solt > reviving hue steals, faintly red. . , The warm breath of the South, TA w th ? er *’ imes from the odorous flowers. In 1 e whispered from some loved one’s mouth, love, steals balmy over these bare bowers, lose boughs are just begining to put forth oung buds, to match the green down on the earth. •j., Thv smiles begin to swell ? A oun ,~ buds on the boughs—soon thev will hurst, and open in full bloom, of “ tender smell, ” - n >t quench with honey-dew, the young bee’s thirst; i\V kV ***** of green leaves, the limbs ah shade the lake whereon the young duck swims. • The green blades of the grass °n the margin of the brook, And on ttenj*elyeß, beneath, in its clear glass, Vri"'*k <i . at nilwt ‘ri ( ba, ever tireless look; He their green hauks above, wliereou they grow, ’ em •‘esting on their images below, i, . The golden humming-bird, merrals, among the blossoms flits, q as soft it lulling wings are heard— p . lr,ln g, glinting back the sun in fits — caresses to each flower it meets, “e rifling it of all its odorous sweets, Is . i T he crystal-shining pond \\ IT | ‘* w **k the sun-clouds in the sky, tn ; lc L though above, seem in its depths beyond, As if la^es ‘!* those that float on high; One V ’ v skies, to make it blest, were given— 'lu l “e lake, the other up in heaven. q nri , A golden tinge now lies ‘pi .F 0 ‘he surface of yon crystal lake Seen • ■*** in death; while all the skies, An- Ji” lts m * ri- or which no breeze doth break, M-Ore w ’*h the flush of day, which shines ■ ?oldeu—orange now—as he declines. With n .1 ns from death they rise, \m a *‘ le freshness of their former bloom, So zb i? sunmi °oed by our Maker to the skies, Irr , , ? ur bodies from the silent tomb— lu-;nruever m °re to die. Then, Spring, ot an uumortal Sqminer sing! A woman has no natural grace more bewitching a swee * laugh. Jt is like sound of flutes on wa er - H leaps from her heart in a clear sparkling rill, n ‘ e heart that hears jt, fee|s ps if bathed in the pziulerating spring. “ INDEPENDENT Iff ALL THIffGS—ffEUTRAL Iff NOTHING.” IlliscfllmiD. The Shining Eyes. Flint’s “Life of Boone” contains the follow ing account of his first meeting with his future wife, referred to as authentic by other biograph ers; Young Boone was, one night engaged in a tire-hunt with a young friend. Their course led them to the deeply timbered bottom which skirted the stream that wound round Bryan’s pleasant plantation. That the reader may have an idea what sort of a pursuit it was that young Boone was engaged in, during an event so de cisive of his future fortunes, we present a brief sketch of a night fire-hunt. Two persons are indispensable to it. The horsemen that precedes, bears on his shoulders what is called & fire-pan, full of blazing pine knots, which cast a bright and flickering glare far through the forest. The second follows, at some distance, with his rifle prepared for action. No spectacle is more impressive than this, of pairs of hunters thus kindling the forest into a glare. The deer, reposing quietly in his thick et, is awakened by the approaching cavalcade, and instead of flying from the portentous bril liance, remains stupidly gazfflg upon it, as if charmed to the spot. The animal is betrayed to its doom by the gleaming of its lived and in nocent eyes. This cruel mode of securing a fa tal shot is called in hunters’ phrase —shining the eyes. The two young men reached a corner of the farmer’s field at an early hour in the even ing. Young Boone gave the customary signal, to his mounted companion preceding him, to stop —an indication that he had shined the eyes of a deer. Boone dismountd and fastened his horse to a tree, Ascertaining that his rifle was in order, he advanced cautiously behind a co vert of bushes, to rest the right distance for a shot. The deer is remarkable for the beauty of its eyes wlien thus shined. The mild brilliancy of the two orbs were distinctly visible. Whether warned by a presentiment, or arrested by a pal pitation and strange feeling within, at noting a new expression in the blue and dewy lights that gleamed to his heart, we say not. But the unerring rifle fell, and a rustling told him the game had fled. Something * liispered him it was not a deer ; and yet the fleet step, as the game bounded away, might easily be mistaken for that of the light-footod animal. A second thought impell ed him to pursue the rapidly retreating game, and he sprang away in the direction of the sound, leaving his companion to occupy him self as he might The fugitive had the advan tage of a considerable advance of him, and ap parently a better knowledge of the localities of the place. But the hunter was perfect in all his field exercises, and scarcely less fleet-footed than a deer, and he gained rapidly on the ob ject of his pursuit, which advanced a little dis tance parallel with the field fence, and then, as if endowed with the utmost accomplishment of gymnastics, cleared the fence at a leap. The hunter, embarrassed with his rifle and accoutrements, was driven to the slow and hu miliating expedient of climbing it. But an outline of the form of the fugitive, fleeing from the shades in the direction of the house, assured him that he had mistaken the nature of the game. His heart throbbed from an hundred sensations, among them an apprehension ot the consequences of what would have resulted from discharging his rifle, when he had first shined those liquid blue eyes. Seeing that the fleet game made straight in the direction of the house, he said to himself- — ‘I will see the pet deer in its lair,’ and he directed his steps to the’ same place. Haifa score of dogs opened their barking upon him as lie approached the house, and ad vertised to the master of the house that a stranger was approaching. Having hushed the dogs and learned the name of his visitant, he introduced him to his family, as the sou of their neighbor Boone. Scarce had the first words of introduction been uttered, before the opposite door opened, and a boy apparently of seven, and a girl of sixteen, rushed in, panting for breath, and seeming afright, ‘Sister went down to the river, and a painter chased her, and she is almost scared to death,’ exclaimed the boy. The ruddy, flaxen-haired girl stood in full view of her terrible pursuer, leaning upon his rifle, and surveying her with the most eager admiration. • ‘ltebecca, this is young Boone, son of our neighbor,’ was the laconic introduction. Both were young, beautiful, and at the pe riod when the affections exercise their most en ergetic influence. The circumstances of the introduction were favorable to the result, and the young hunter felt that the eyes had shined his bosom, as fatal ly as his rifle shot had ever the innocent deer of the thickets. She, too, when she saw the light, open, bold forehead, the clear, keen, yet gentle and affec tionate eye, the firm front, and the visible im press of decision and fearlessness of the hunter —when she interpreted a look which said as distinctly as looks could say it,’ ‘how terrible it would have been to have fired!’ can hardly be supposed to have regarded him with indiffer ence. Nor can it be wondered at that she saw in him her beau ideal of excellence and beauty. The inhabitants of cities, who live in mansions, and read novels stored with unreal pictures of life and the heart, are apt to imagine that love, with all its golden illusions, is reserved exclu MACON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, APRIL 16, 1853. sively for them. It is a most egregious mis take. A model of ideal beauty and perfection is woven in almost every youthful heart, of the brightest and most brilliant threads that com pose the web of existence. It may not be said that this forest maid was deeply and foolishly smitten at first sight. All reasonable time and space were granted to the claims of maidenly modesty. As for Boone, he was remarkable for the back-woods attribute of never being beaten out of his track, and he ceased not to woo, until lie gained the heart of Rebecca Ryan. In a word, he courted her successfully, and they were married.” From the Olive Branch. What Love Will Accomplish. “This will never do,” said little Mrs. Kitty; “how I came to be such a simpleton as to get married before I knew how to keep house, is more and more of an astonisher to me. I can learn, and I will! There’s Bridget told me, yesterday, there wasn’t time to make a pudding before dinner. Iliad my private suspicions she was imposing upon me, though I didn’t know enough about it to contradict her. The truth is, I’m no more mistress of this house than I am of the Grand Seraglio. Bridget knows it too ; and there’s Harry (how hot it makes my cheeks to think of it!) couldn’t find an eatable thing on the dinner-table yesterday. He loves me too well to say anything, but lie had such an ugly frown on his face when lie lit his cigar and went off to his office. Oh, I see how it is, “One must eat, in matrimony, And love is neither bread nor honey, And so, you understand.” “AA baton earth sent yon over here in this dis mal rain ?” said Kitty’s neighbor, Mrs. Green.— “Just look at your gaiters.’’ “Oil, never mind gaiters,” said Kitty, untying her ‘rigolette,’ and throwing herself on the so fa. “I don’t know any more about cooking than a six weeks’ kitten ; Bridget walks over my head with the most perfect Irish noncha lance; Harry looks as solemn as an ordained bishop; the day’s grow short, the bills grow long, and I’m tlie most miserable little Kitty that ever mewed. Do have pity on me, and initiate me into the mysteries of broiling, bak ing and roasting; take me into your kitchen now, and let me go into it while the fit is on me. I feel as though I could roast Chanticleer j and all his hen-harems.” “You don’t expect to take your degree in one forenoon ?” said Mrs. Green, laughing im moderately. “Not a bit of it! I intend to come every morning, if the earth don’t whirl off its axle.— I’ve locked up my guitar, and my French and Italian books, and that irresistable ‘Festus,’ and nerved myself like a female martyr, to look a gridiron in the face without flinching. Come, put down that embroidery, there’s a good Sa maritan, and descend with me into the lower regions, before my enthusiasm gets a shower bath and she rolled up her sleeves from her round white arms, took offher rings, and tuck ed her curls behind her ears. Very patiently did Mrs. Kitty keep her reso lution; each day added a little to her store of culinary wisdom. What if she did flavor her first custards with peppermint instead of lemon? what if she did ‘baste’ a Turkey with salerattis instead of salt? wliat if she did season the stuff ing with ground cinnamon instead of pepper ? Rome was’nt built in a day —cooks can’t be manufactured in a minute. Kitty’s husband had been gone just a month. He was expected home that very day. All the morning the little wife had been getting up a congratulatory dinner, in honor of the occasion. What with satisfaction and the kitchen fire, her cheeks glowed like a milkmaid’s. How her eves sparkled, and wliat a pretty little trium phant toss she gave her head, when that big’ trunk was dumped down in the entry! It isn’t a bad thing, sometimes, to have a secret even from one’s own husband. “On ni} - word, Kitty,” said Harry, holding her off at arm’s length, “you look most pro vokingly ‘well-to-do’ for a widow ‘pro tern.’ I don’t believe you have mourned for me, the breath of a sigh. What have you been about? who lias been here? and what mine of fun is to be prophesied from that merry twinkle in the corner of your eye ? Any body hid in the closet or cupboard ? 1 lave you drawn a juize in the lottery ?” “Not since I married you,” said Mrs. Kitty; “and you are quite welcome to that sugar-plum to sweeten your dinner.” “How Bridget has improved,” said Harry, as he plied his knife and fork industriously; “1 never saw these woodcocks outdone, even at our bachelor club rooms at House.— She shall have a present of a pewter cross, as sure as her name is McFlanigan, besides abso lution for all the detestable messes she used to concoct with her Catholic fingers.” “Let me out! let me out!” said a stilled voice from the closet; “you can’t expect a woman to keep a secret for ever.” “What on earth do you mean, Mrs. Green ?” said Harry, gaily shaking her hand. “Why, you see ‘Bridget has improved;’ i. e. to say, little Mrs. Kitty there, received from my hands yesterday, a diploma, certifying her Mis tress of Arts, Hearts and Drumsticks, having spent every morning of your absence in per fecting herself as housekeeper. There now, don’t drop on your knees to her till I have gone. I know very well when three is a crowd, or, to speak more fashionably, when I am l de trop and I’m only going to stop long enough to remind you that there are some wives left in the world, and that Kitty is one of’em.” And now, dear reader, if you doubt w hether Mrs. Kitty was rewarded for all her trouble, you’d better take a peep into that parlor, and while you are looking, let me whisper a secret in your ear, confidentially. You may be as beautiful as Venus, and as talented as Madame tie Stael, but you never’ll reign supreme in your liege lord’s affections, till you can roast a 1 turkey. Fanny Fern. From the Dollar Magazine. A Handsome Present. Not long ago a friend sent us a rich, rare present, in tlie shape of a copy of a letter writ ten twenty years ago, by a lady of great litera ry*distinction, to her cousin, who now graces one of the most honorable official stations in the Empire State. It w - as written on the eve of bis marriage, and accompanied a pair of blue stockings, knit by herself, as a present. It was sent to us for our private and personal en joyment; but as no restriction was imposed up on us, and as the letter is so decidedly unequal led and so entirely rich, we cannot resist the temptation to share the enjoyment of its peru sal with our friends. AYe would only add, that it will endure be ing read slowly, carefully, and more than once: “Dear Cousin. —Herewith you will receive a present of a pair of woolen stockings, knit by my own hand; and be assured, dear coz, that my friendship for you is warm as the material, active as the finger work, and generous as the donation. But I consider this present as peculiarly ap propriate on tlie occasion of your marriage.— Yc u will remark, in the first place, that there are two individuals united in one pair, who are to walk side by side, guarding against cold ness, and giving comfort as long as they last. The thread of their texture is mixed; and so alas ! is the thread of life. In these, however, the white is made to predominate, expressing my desire and confidence that thus it will be with the color of your existence. No black is used, for I believe your lives will be wholly free from the black passions of wrath and jealousy.— The darkest color here is blue, which is excel lent, where we do not make it too blue. “ Other appropriate thoughts rise to my mind in regard to these stockings. The most indifferent subjects, when viewed by tlie mind in a suitable frame, may furnish instructive in ferences, as saitli the poet: “Tlie iron dogs, the fuel and tongs, Tlie bellows that have leathern lungs, The fire wood, ashes, and the smoke, Do all to righteousness provoke.” But to the subject. You will perceive that tlie tops of these stockings (by which I suppose courtship to be represented) are seamed, and by means of seaming are drawn into a snarl, but af terwards comes a time when the whole is made plain, and continues so to the end and final toe ing off. ]>y this I wish to take occasion to con gratulate yourself that you are now through with seeming, and have come to plain reality, Again, as flic whole of these comely stockings was not made at once, but by tlie addition of one little stitcli after another, put in with skill and discretion, until the whole present the fair, equal piece of work which you see; so life does not consist of one great action, but millions of little ones combined; and so may it be with your lives. Xo stitch dropped when duties are to be performed—no widening made when bad principles are to be reproved, or economy is to be preserved; neither seeming nor narrowing where truth and generosity are in question. — Thus every stitch of life made right and set in the right place—none either too large or too small, too light or loose ; thus you may keep on your smooth and even course, making exist ence one fair and consistent piece—until, to gether, having passed the heel, you come to the very toe of life, and here, in the final nar rowing off and dropping the coil of this em blematical pair of companions and comforting associates, nothing appears but white, the to ken of innocence aud peace, of purity and light —may you, like these stockings, the final stitch being dropped, and the work completed, go to gether from the place where you were formed, to a happier state of existence, a present from earth to heaven. Hoping that these stockings and admonitions may meet a cordial reception, I remain in the true blue friendship, seemly, yet without seeming, Yours, from top to toe, From the Spirit of the Age. A Cicm in the River. A young mother, with the tears of bereave ment in her eyes, stood over the river of death gazing wistfully into its black and sluggish waters, as if she would fain rest her gaze upon some object away down —down in its fathom less depths. She gazed long & wistfully, and the black waves rolled sullenly, sluggishly onward. And the mother laid her hands submissively on her bosom and wept, and said :■ —‘My Gem ! My Gem!’ And a celestial being like an angel stood ; near the hidden door ot her heart, and wliis- i pered in a silvery voice like music : ‘"What seekest thou, mourning sister ?’ ‘Alas!’ said the mourner, ‘I once, even yes tcrdayjßWore a beautiful gem on my bosom. — To me it was one that kings and monarchs might have been proud of. The riches of the cast could not have purchased it from me. In an hour, that was to me evil and miserable, the gem dropped from my bosom in the black night of this deep river. I saw it floating away from me gently as the coming of an evening shadow, and I reached after it, but it was beyond my grasp ; and my gem, my babe, smiled upon me as it was riding on the waves farther and far ther from me. It began to sink—to sink from my sight, and in a moment my gem was gone, and gone for ever /’ And she turned sorrowful ly away. And the angel voice whispered again : / ‘Stay, sister, grieve not —look again into the dark river.’ She looked as she was bid, and a cry of sweet and rapturous joy burst from her lips: ‘Thanks to the Father; I see my gem floating gently on a great black wave. O! may I not wear it on my bosom again ?’ ‘Stay, my sister, thou art deceived; what thou seest in the river is not thy gem ; it is the shadow - of what was given thee in trust. Look, sister, heavenwards, and bid thy mourning heart rejoice.’ She looked aloft, and away up in the dark beclouded sky she saw a single spot clear and blue, and in it a bright star was gleaming, and its silvery rays came down and danced on the gloomy river, giving the black waves a bright ness, as if silvered through and through ; and away down many fathoms the bright reflection rested, and this the mourner thought was her lost gem. She gazed silently upon the scene, and the star from heaven was shining ! And the voice of the angel came again like unto the sweet song of many instruments of music, saying: ‘Sister, the gloomy waves thou seest, though cold and dark, and terrible, roll ceaselessly on ward up to the great gate of heaven, and thi ther they bore thy mourned-for gem, which the good Father lent thee. The waves have borne it back to him, and it blooms and shines forever near the throne like yon brightly beam ing star!’ The voice was hushed, and the sorrowing mother turned away with her eyes lifted from the earth and gloomy liver, and fixed them hopefully and wistfully on heaven. And the bright star she saw, when tears filled her eyes mourning for her loss, yet beams brightly, and it shines on her little baby’s grave ! Anecdotes of Dr. Mason. The Xew York Times publishes a series of articles, from the Journal of a Xew York cler gyman, during the first half of this century. Number three is devoted to Dr. Mason. He is represented as unusually full of anecdotes, relatin' l- to Iris brethren or fathers in the minis try. lie had a high respect for Bishop Aloore, a man noted not only for the purity of his char acter, but also for tlie retiring modesty of Iris disposition. The story which Dr. Aluson told of him, related a scene at a dinner given by someone of Governor Morris’ friends, when he was about departing for Europe. Bishop Moore and his wife were of the party. Among other things that passed in conversation, Air. Morris observed that he had made his will in prospect of going abroad ; and turning to Bish op Moore, said to him : ‘My reverend friend, I have bequeathed to you my whole stock of impudence.’ Bishop Moore replied : ‘Sir, you are not on ly very kind, but very generous; you have left to me by far the largest portion of your estate.’ Mrs. Aloore immediately added : ‘My dear, you have come into possession of your inheri tance remarkably soon.’ There was another feature in the character of Dr. Alason’s mind, rarely seen equalled.— His thoughts were often uttered with a terse ness and a compactness of expression that ren dered their impression indelible on tlie minds of his hearers; and he abounded in those emanations from his brilliant intellect, quite as much in conversation as in preaching. As an instance: There was a case of sick ness among his church-members, which had given him much anxiety; and he invited me to go with him on a visit to the sufferer, who was then drawing near the grave. He was a inan naturally of strong and warm passions; had been somewhat irregular in his life; but was very penitent on bis death-bed. AVhen we had made our visit and were on our way home, Dr. Mason, heaving a sigh, observed, ‘I trust there is hope for poor L . He had much to contend with in his past days. — lie was of a make that exposed him to easily besetting sins, llis blood seemed to be always at fever heat.’ Then turning to me, he asked me what I thought of him. I expressed the hope that he might find peace in his end, and alluded to the constitutional temperament of the man, when the Doctor immediately replied, ‘Yes, yes. Tn forming our opinion of any i man’s spiritual condition, we must take into account his temptations, arising from the cir cumstances of his life and the peculiar infirmi ties of nature with which he had to contend. AVe must be careful to make due allowance for all that. Happily for us all, we are to be judg* ed by Him who ‘knowoth our frame, (repeat ing the words,) and reiuembereth that we arc dust.’ He paused for a moment, and then added, with the earnestness which so belonged to him self, ‘lndeed, I have often thought that it required as much grace to keep the Apostle Peter from knocking a man down in the street, as make Apostle John look like an angel.’ mon preached by a dandy, he asked a friend what he thought of the discourse. He replied in his usual, quaint, queer style—“lf they go on preaching this way, the grass will soon be knee-deep in the streets of Heaven.” The Bateman children, and a younger sister yet in arms, were baptized on the 2nd instant, at New Orleans, by the Rev. Dr. Clapp, their baptismal names being Ellen Douglas, Kate Josephine, and Arirginia Frances. Among the sponsors, was AA'm. Muir, Esq., British Consul, while Miss Ellen appeared as God Mother for her infant sister. Affecting lucidcnt. I recollect one member of Congress, who was always rallying me about our Congression al Temperance Society. ‘Briggs,’ lie used to say, ‘l’m going to join your Temperance Society us soon as my demi john is empty.’ But just before it became empty be always filled it again. At one time, tow ards the close of the session; he said to me, ‘I am going to sign the pledge w hen I get home—l am in earnest,’ continued he; ‘my demijohn is nearly empty, and I am not going to fill it again.’ He sjroke w ith such an air of seriousness as I had not before observed, and it impressed me; so I asked him what he meant, what had changed his feelings ? ‘Why,’ said he, ‘I had a short time since a visit from my brother, who stated to me a fact that more deeply impressed and affected me, than any thing I recollect to have heard upon the subject, in any temperance speech I have ever heard or read. ‘ln my neighborhood is a gentleman of my acquaintance, well educated, who once had some property, but is now reduced —poor! He has a beautiful and lovely wife, a lady of culti vation and refinement—and a most charming daughter. ‘This gentleman had become decidedly in temperate in bis habits, and bad fully alarmed his friends in regard to him. At one time when a number of his former associates were toge ther, they counselled as to what could be done for him. ‘Finally, one one of them said to him, ‘why don’t you send your daughter away to a cer tain distinguished school ?’ which he named. ‘Oh, 1 cannot,’ said he: ’tis out of the ques tion. lam not able to bear the expense. Poor girl! I wish could.’ ‘AA'ell,’ said his friend, ‘if you will sign the temperance pledge, I will be at all the expense of her attending school for one year.’ ‘AYhat does this mean ?’ said he—‘Do you think me in danger of becoming a drunkard ?’ ‘Xo matter,’ said his friend, ‘about that now, but I w ill do as 1 said.’ ‘And I,’ said another, ‘will pay tlie rent of your farm a year, if you will sign the pledge.’ ‘Well, these oilers are certainly liberal, but what do you mean ? Do you think me in danger of becoming a drunkard? AYhat can it mean ? Blit, gentlemen, in view of your liberality, I will make an offer. I will sign it if you will F ‘Tbis was a proposition they had not consi dered, and were not very well prepared to meet; but for his sake they said we will, and did sign, and lie with them. ‘And now, for the first time, the truth poured into his mind, and he saw his condition, and sat down bathed in tears. ‘Now - ,’ said he, ‘gentlemen, you must go and communicate these facts to my w ife—poor wo man ! I know she will be glad to hear it, but I cannot tell her.’ ‘Two of them started for that purpose. The lady met them at the door, pale and trembling with emotion. ‘AYhat,’ she inquired, ‘is the matter ? AYhat has happened to my husband ?’ ‘They bid her dismiss her fears, assuring her they had come to bring her tidings of her hus band—but good tidings, such as she would be glad to hear. ‘Your husband has signed the temperance pledge—yea, signed in good faith. ‘The joyous news nearly overcame her—she trembled with excitement—wept freely, and clasping her hands devotionally, she looked up to Heaven, and thanked God for the happy change. ‘Xow,’ said she, ‘I have a husband as lie once was, in the days of our early love.’ ‘But this was not what moved me,’ said the gentleman. ‘There was in the same vicinity another gentleman —a generous, noble soul— married young—‘married well—into a charm ing family, and the flower of it. His w ine drinking habits had aroused the fears of his friends, and one day when several of them were together, one said to another, ‘let us sign the pledge.’ ‘I will, if you will,’ said one to another, till all had agreed to it and the thing was done. ‘This gentleman thought it rather a small business, and felt a little sensitive about reveal ing to his wife what he had done. But on re turning home, he said to her : ‘Mary, my dear, I have done what I fear will displease you.’ ‘AVell, what is it ?’ ‘Why, 1 have signed the temperance pledge. ‘Have you ?’ ‘Yes I have, certainly.’ ‘AVatching his manner, as lie replied, and reading its sincerity, she entwined her arms \ around his neck, and laid her head upon his j bosom, and burst into tears. Her husband was affected deeply by the conduct of his w ife, and said : ‘Mary, don’t weep; I did not know it would afflict you so, or I would not have done it; 1 will go and take my name off immediately.’ j ‘Take your name off!’ said she; no, no! let it be there. I shall now have no more solicitude in reference to your becoming a drunkard. I shall spend no more wakeful midnight hours. I shall no more steep my pillow - in tears. ‘Now for the first time truth shone upon his mind, and he folded to his bosom his young and beautiful w - ife, and wept with her. Now, I can’t stand these facts, and I am going to sign the pledge.’— of Gov. Briggs of Loioell. ... .If a man wishes to be graceful, he must begin his practice before his bones and habits are formed. Learning to dance after thirty, has only one thing more difficult, and that is, to forego a pipe after you are sixty. NUMBER 1. Power of a Mother’s Love. A writer in the Boston Times describes a visit to the penitentiary at Philadelphia, and gives the following sketch of an interview be tween Mr. Seattergood, the humane AYarden of of the prison, and a young man who was about to enter on his imprisonment. Few will read it w ithout deep emotion : AYe passed the ante-room again, when we encountered a new-comer, who had just reached the prison as we entered. He had been sent up for five years on charge of embezzlement. He was attired in tlie latest style of fashion, and possessed all the non chalance and careless appearance of a genteel rowdy. He twirled a watch chain, looking particularly knowing at a couple of young ladies who chanced to be present, and seemed utterly indifferent about himself or the predicament he was in. The AYarden read his commitment, and addressed him with — ‘Charles, I am sorry to see thee here.’ ‘lt can’t be helped, old fellow - .’ ‘AA'hat is thy, age, Charles ?’ ‘Twenty-three.’ ‘A Philadelphian ?’ ‘AA'ell kinder, and kinder not.’ ‘Thee has disgraced thyself sadly.’ ‘AA'ell, I ain’t troubled, old stick.’ ‘Thee looks not like a rogue.’ •Alatter of opinion.’ ‘Thee was well situated ?’ ‘Yes, well enough.’ Tn good employ ?’ ‘AVell, so-so.’ ‘And thee has parents ?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Perhaps thee has a mother, Charles ?’ The convict had been standing during this brief dialogue perfectly unconcerned and reck less, until the last interrogatory w as put by tlie Warden. Had a thunderbolt struck him he could not have fallen more suddenly than he did when the name of mother fell on his ears! He sank into a chair—a torrent of tears gushed from his eyes —the very fountains of his heart seemed to have burst on the instant, lie re covered partially, aud said imploringly to the AA rarden— ‘Don’t you, sir, for God’s sake, don’t call her by name in this dreadful place ! Do what you may with me, but don’t mention that name to me!’ There were tears in eyes beside the prisoner’s and an aching silence pervaded the group which surrounded the convict Anecdote of Dr. Lyman Beecher.— AA'hile residing on Long Island, in early life, he was returning home just at evening from a visit to old Dr. AA'oolworth. Seeing what he thought, in the dark, to be a rabbit by the roadside, a little ahead, he reasoned with himself- —“They are rather tender animals—if the fellow sits still till I come up, I think I could hit him with those books,” a goodly bundle of which lie had in his handkerchief. Ilit him he sure ly did; only it proved to be not a rabbit, but a skunk. The logical sequences follow ed, and he returned to his family in anything but the odor of sanctity. In after life, being asked why he did not reply to a scurrilous attack which had been made upon him, the doctor answered ? “I discharged a quarto, once, at a skunk; and then I made up my mind never to try it again.” During the prevalence of a revival in his church, in Boston, the number of persons de siring religious conversion was so great, some times amounting to several hundred, that he was accustomed to employ younger clergymen to assist him. On one occasion, a young An doverian was conversing with a person who believed herself to be converted, within the doctor’s hearing. The young man was pro bing the grounds of her evidence, and among other questions, was overheard asking the lady, if she “thought that she was willing to be damned for the glory of God.” Instantly start ing up, the doetor said to him, “AA'hat w as that you were asking?” “I was asking her if she should he willing to be damned for the glory of God.” “AA'ell, sir, would you be willing?” “Yes, sir, I humbly hope I should be.” “AA'ell, then, sir, you ought to. be damned.” And, af terwards, he took occasion to enlighten him in a better theology.— Phrenological Journal. ... .The waters of the Great Salt Lake are so saturated w ith salt, and so dense, that per sons float, cork-like, on the waters, or stand suspended with ease, with the shoulders ex posed above the surface. ... .Solomon says—“A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband.” By this rule, the best of the female sex is only worth five shillings. .. . .Speaking without thinking, is shooting without taking aim. ... .“I don’t believe its any use to vaccinate for small-pox,” said a backwoods Kentuckian, “for I had a child vaccinated, and he fell out of a window, and was killed, in less than a week after.” raaketh the person, but the person that maketh the place honorable. “An Hour with the Beautiful.” —“Sitting up” w ith a snug piece of Calico. .... Dobbs says, that women have “such a w - ay with their lips” that hugging and kissing leads as naturally to love as champagne does to soda water. That being the case, avoid nibbling. lie who has love in his heart, has spurs in his sides. An honest, virtuous man lives not to the world, but to his own conscience. He, as the planets above, steers a course contrary to that of the world. If I have lost the ring, yet the fingers are still hero