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taneously benevolent old age excites the con fluence of youthful innocence. This morning the same fair hand held out to us a beautiful bouquet, and the youthful florist lifted up a pair of such truthful, expressive, almost im ploring eyes, and by the silent eloquence of her fair countenance, seemed so plainly to ask our acceptance of the pure offering, that refusal was impossible. We took it not be fore she had buried, for a moment, her blush ing face amidst its varied glories, and their bright hues flashed into brighter beauty, lest their loveliness should be outdone! And now the fragrant present greets our optics and ol factories, and its leaves and tinted petals seem to whisper in our ear, “thus youth should treat age, and thus should age bless and coun sel youth!” This affecting passage is imme diately followed by a case of “death from drowning!” The “Commercial” is not only growing benevolent and romantic, but most dangerously funny. Speaking of the great quantity of “late dates from Mexico,” with which the papers abound, he suggests the propriety of having a few figs now and then, by way of variety! Droll man ! And now, congratulating you upon the re storation of Peace, and upon the safety of the country generally, I am ever yours, FLIT. <£l)e Southern (Etlctic. THE GEORGIAN IN NEW YORK, BY ROBERT M. CHARLTON. U Header, it you live any where south of lati tude 33, and if you wish to preserve a high estimate of your native land, and self, take my advice and stay at home. You will find, before you are a thousand miles off, your self estimation considerably worsted, and you will ascertain to your heart’s desire’ that you think more of your own State, than those North of you do. At least, that, is my experience; and if you have a few minutes to spare, read my “ simple tale” and sympathise with my misfor tunes. * When I was a very young man, (it would he exceedingly impertinent for you to ask how long ago,) I left Savannah in a vessel bound for New York. We were all well when we started, but after we had been a few days out, an August sun began to do duty with our crew. One man died, and another became very sick. On the morning of the sixth day, we reached the “Highlands,” and our captain called a council of war, among the passen gers, to consult as to the course we ought to adopt, in reference to our sick seaman; “for,” said he, “the health officer at the Quarantine ground hates Georgia, for the trouble it gives him, and if he finds any body looking the least pale, he will put us under the yellow flag for a week.” We overhauled our sick man, put clean garments upon him, shaved him and telling him to keep “a stiff upper lip,” and not let the doctor suspect his indis position, we constituted him cook pro hac vice , and propping him up in the “ caboose,” awaited with some trepidation our “medical fellow.” We anchored at Staten Island, and in a few mtuutes a boat, with a yellow flag flying at the stern, came up. “ Where are you from V’ said a handsome looking young man in glasses. “Georgia, sir,” answered the captain. “Ah, here’s trouble for me, I’ll be bound,” soliloquized Esculapius, as he came on board: “ Muster your passengers, sir,” added he. We all passed in review. “ Call the crew forward.” Done accordingly.— “Where is John Matthews asked Medicus, calling the roll. (That question was easier asked than answered, however, for he was our dead man, and w*e had thrown him into the sea.) “We have lost him at sea sir,” re sponded the captain; “we have had some severe weather.” “John Jones.” This was our cook pro tempore. “ Halloo! cook “? come out!” No answer. “He cannot very well leave the caboose at present, doctor —he’s en gaged, but if its necessary to see him, perhaps you will do me the favor to step there.” And there he went, our poor fellow, malgre the shaving, and clean shirting and propping, wore the indubitable marks of grim disease. We saw at once that our artifice was “no go” with the physician. He felt Jones’ pulse, and then said quietly to his assistant, “ take this man to the hospital, he has got that miserable Georgia fever.” “What do you mean sir,” said I, “by coupling Georgia with such an adjective ?” He looked at me with perfect amazement. At last, he touched his hat to ibiiirfiiEASY sßAssifins. me, and replied, “I beg your pardon, sir—l ought not to have coupled Georgia fever with so contemptuous an expression, for 1 have no doubt that it has done immense good in its time—l wish it a more extensive usefulness for the benefit of mankind. If you will al low me, I w T ill retract my hasty word, and de clare that the cook has got the blessed Geor gia fever. Will that suit you ?” No it did not; but what could I say 1 I had just abused the man for cursing the Georgia fever, and I could not, therefore, object to his blessing it; although I could not help feeling that the last was worse than the first, and that his meaning was, that if it killed all the Georgians, it would be a benefactor to mankind. My friend saw that he had me at a disadvantage, and leering at me through his glasses, (I hate a man who wears spectacles—l have known some honest men who used them, but 1 never saw a dishonest man who did not,) continued his instructions to his assistant. “Take the man to the hospital, Mr. Smith, and tell the carpenter to have his coffin ready by this time to-morrow. And tell him, also, to get another of about five feet, ten inches, (looking at my height,) ready for the day after, as there are some premonitory symptoms in one of the passengers.” “ I see you put a proper re liance on your skill, doctor,” said I to him, “but you need not trouble yourself about that last coffin. There will be no use for it. I shall nottake your physic/' 1 He laughed heart liy, and shook me by the hand. “ You may go to town, captain,” were his farewell words as he left the vessel. We subsequently learned, that the cook died about the time designated. After reaching the city, I strolled to one of the banks, upon which I had a draft, presented it, and received my money. The date &c., of the check, told, of course, where I was from, and I saw that the teller sneered as he read it. “Can 1 leave this on deposit, sir I” asked 1 of him. “No,” answered the little Yankee, talking through his nose, “ not unless you are introduced to our cashier by a gentleman. We don’t care about receiving Georgia depos ites.” “Look here, stranger,” said I, (putting my hat on one side of my head, in regular Georgia fashion, and talking through my nose,) “if your cashier wants to be introduc ed to a gentleman, I have no objection to make his acquaintance. Call him, and 1 will give him a chance he seldom gets; but if you mean, that I am to find another gentleman in New York , all 1 have to say is, I don’t work miracles.” “ I see, (answered he,) that your qualifications for the discovery are not very great, but we decline the deposit without a compliance with the rule.” By this time ! began to ascertain that Geor gia was not held in the highest repute in that region, and I became a little more humble and subdued in my future negotiations. One of my objects in visiting New York was to in sure my life, and to this purpose I now direct ed my attention, taking the precaution, how ever, of “ working the miracle” of finding “ a gentleman ” to introduce me—one of my for mer Georgia friends. We went together to the insurance office, where he introduced me to the president, and I stated my object. “ Ah, (said he) this speaks volumes for yoq, sir.— To see a man of your years, of such deep re flection, of such prudent foresight, is delight ful, is gratifying—it denotes a high state of civilization, sir, a very high state—it is an exellent commentary upon the character of the people where you live. (Huzza for Geor gia, thought I, here is a man, at last who can appreciate her.) Yes, sir, we will insure you with pleasure, I like your looks, sir, much, very much; (What a sensible man, thought I;,) you are a little pale, but so much the bet ter, it denotes temperance. Yes, sir, we will insure you at the lowest rates. Mr. Nicoll, (addressing the secretary,) get a blank in com mon form, and come here and fill up a policy on the life of Judge 1 think Mr. B— called you so, sir**” “Yes, sir,” answered I, with a great deal of satisfaction, “I am a judge.” [I should like to see the man in Geor gia, who is not, or has not been a judge.] — “Ah,” resumed he, “your community are in deed civilized. I see they rise superior to vulgar prejudices j they do not estimate a man’s worth by his years. Youth, sir, youth is the very age of wisdom—passions a little excitable, it is true, but there are no stubborn, rooted, prejudices within, Solomon sir, Solo mon, was quite young when he commenced his writings—we shall hear of you hereafter, sir, no doubt. Mr. Nicoll, you need not ask the usual questions. The looks of the gent leman are enough. Fill out the policy for life at one per cent, for Judge , of Vermont —I think you said Vermont, sir I” “No sir,” answered I, considerably abashed, “ I said Georgia , sir.” My dear reader, I have no doubt you have seen instances of sudden sur prise in your time,; a man, for instance, in the midst of a waltz, with a fair confiding one hanging in his arms, “going it” through all tha mazes, and just at the instant, that he was executing his most graceful whirl, having it whispered to him, by some good-natured friend, that his confidential clerk had abscond ed with all his money, and ruined his house; or a thirsty soul, who had been kept from his usual stimulants for a week, because he could not get them, and, in his haste and anxiety, mistaking a gill of aquafortis for his loved li quor, and swallowing it; perhaps you have seen some slight astonishment of this kind, but either would give you but a faint idea of the petrified look that the worthy president put on when he heard that terrible word Geor gia. He could not utter a syllable for some time. At last he said in a subdued tone ! “This is a bad business,” —and then added, “are you determined on effecting this policy, sir I Have you considered the expense ? ” “ Certainly, I have; I understood you to say that you would insure any amount, at one per cent.” “Ah, I was mistaken, I mis understood the State from whence you came. We rank Georgia at extra hazardous. We charge two per cent, and would rather not take the risk at any rate. Don’t you think you are rather young, sir, to commence this pre caution ?” “No sir,” answered I, “I have thought well on the subject; I am not a ro bust man, by any means,as you may see by my complexion, although as you correctly observed just now, my features indicate tem perance, and are therefore in my favor.” “ I spoke hastily, sir,” said he, “ paleness does not always in that latitude denote temperance. However, as I said I would insure you, I will keep my word. Asa personal favor I would be glad if you would name a low sum. “ I name $20,000 then,” said I. He regarded mein mute astonishment. “Twenly thou sand, sir! five thousand is our highest Geor gia risk.” It was my turn to show astonish ment. “Why, sir,” exclaimed I, “they told me that every foot of ground in Wall-street is worth $6,000. Do you value two yards of Georgia with a soul and spirit tacked to them, at less than one foot of Wall-street'?” “We value things as we please, sir, and if you don’t like our terms we will close this interview.” “I must submit,” said I, “make it $5,000.” “Take your pen Mr. Nicoll, and add a clause in the margin, that if the gentleman falls in a duel , the policy shall be void.” “ I have no objection,” said I, smiling; “lama peace able, quiet man, and apart from that, my sta tion would keep me from fighting.” “ And, Mr. Nicoll, (resumed he,) add also, that if the gentleman falls by his own hands , the policy shall be void.” I smiled again. “You are taking unnecessary trouble, my good sir; I shall make no attempt on my own life.”— “And Mr. Nicoll,” continued he, “just add, that if the insured falls by the hands of Just tice, (i. e., by . the hang-man,) the risk shall terminate.” It was added—the policy was signed and the premium paid, and as I left him, I gave him a parting thrust. “That last clause about the hands of Justice, sir, is ridiculous surplusage. I have lived in Georgia, man and boy, my whole life, and I never heard of such a thing as Justice there. You forget, sir, we are in a high state of civiliza tion there, appreciating merit in youth, and above the prejudices oi age ! Good morning, sir.” He sighed and bowed, and I left him determined to hail from FemonZuntil I reach ed latitude 33, and then to take care not to hail from Vermont , lest I should fall “by the hands of Justice,” and vacate the policy. It is recorded in Joe Miller , page 56, that a Hibernian bricklayer, laid a wager with one of his countrymen, that the latter could not put him in a hod, and carry him up a ladder, 1o the top of a four story house. A shilling was the amount of the bet, and the task was successfully accomplished. “I’ve won ye,” said the carrier, “ give me the shilling.”— “Faith and so you have,” answered his load, “but Pat, when you reached the third story, your foot slipped, and then I had great hopes ye would fall .” The time has nearly arrived for the expiration of the risk on my life, and I suppose that the New York company will pocket all the premium and incur no loss; — but last year, in passing through the county of B , 1 got a fever, and then (as my Hibernian friend said,) I had great hopes of fixing them !—Orion Magazine. PRONOUNCIATION. The difficulty of applying rules to the pro nunciation of our language maybe illustrated in two lines, whera the combination of the letters ough , is pronounced in no less than seven different ways, viz. aso, vs of, up, ow, 00, and ock. Tho’ the tough cough and hiccough plough me thro’; O’er life’s dark lough my course 1 still pursue. Do as you wish to be done by. Follow this rule, and you will need no force to keep honest. THE BROKEN-HEARTED. BY GEO. D. PRENTICE. I have seen the infant sinking down, like a sricken flower, to the grave—the strong man fiercely breathing out his soul upon the field of battle—the miserable convict standing upon the scaffold, with a deep curse quiver ing on his lips—l have viewed death in all its forms of darkness and vengeance with a tear less eye—but I never could look on woman, young and lovely woman, fading away from the earth in beautiful and uncomplaining mel ancholy, without feeling the very fountains of life turned to tears and dust. Death is al ways terrible, hut when a form of angel beau ty is passing off to the silent land of the sleep ers, the heart feels that something lovely in the universe is ceasing from existence, and broods, with a sense of utter desolation, over the lonely thoughts that come up like spec tres from the grave to haunt our midnight mu sings. Two years ago I took up my residence for a few weeks in a country village in the East tern part of New England. Soon after my arrival I became acquainted with a lovely girl, apparently about seventeen years of age. — She had lost the idol of her pure heart's purest love, and shadows of deep and holy mem ories were resting like the wing of death up on her brow. I first met her in the presence of the mirthful. She was indeed a creature to be worshipped—her brow was garlanded with the young year’s sweetest flowers—her yellow locks were hanging beautifully and and low upon her bosom —and she moved through the crowd with such a floating and unearthly grace, that the bewildered gazer al most looked to see her fade into the air, like the creation of some pleasant dream. She seemed cheerful and even gay: yet 1 saw that her gaiety was but the mockery of her feel ings. She smiled, but there was something in her smile which told that its mournful beau ty was but the bright reflection of a tear —and her eye-lids, at times, closed heavily down, as if struggling to repress the tide of agony that was bursting from her hearts secret urn. She looked as if she could have left the scene of festivity, and gone out beneath the quiet stars, and laid her forehead down upon the fresh, green earth, and poured out her stricken soul, gush after gush, till it mingled with the eter nal fountain of life and purity. Days and weeks passed on, and that sweet girl gave me her confidence, and I became to her as a brother. She was wasting away by disease. The smile upon her lip was fain ter, the purple veins upon her cheek grew visible, the cadences of her voice became dai ly more weak and tremulous. On a quiet evening in the depth of June, I Avandered out a little distance in the open air. It was then that she first told me the tale of her passion, and of the blight that had come down like mildew upon her life. Love had been a por tion of her existence. Its tendrils had been twined around her heart in her earliest years; and, when they were rent away, they left a wound which flowed till all the springsof her soul were hlood. “I am passing away,” said she, “and it should be so. The‘winds have gone over my life, and the bright buds of hope and the sweet blossoms qf passion are scattered down and lie withering in the dust, or rotting away upon the chill waters of memory. — And yet I cannot go down among the tombs without a tear. It is hard to take leave of the friends who love me —it is very hard to bid farewell to these scenes, which from day to day, have caught the color of my life, and sympathized with its joys and sorrows. That little grove where I have so often strayed with my buried love, and where, at times, even now, the sweet tones of his voice seem to come stealing around till the wdiole air be comes one intense and mournful melody — that pensive star, which we used to watch in its early rising, and in which my fancy can still picture his form looking down upon me, beckoning me to his own bright home—every flower, and tree, and rivulet, on which the memory of our early love has set its undying seal, have become dear to me, and I cannot, without a sigh, close my eyes upon them for ever.” I have lately heard that the beautiful girl, of whom I have spoken, is dead. The close of her life was calm, as the falling of a quiet stream —gentle as the sinking breeze, that lin gers for a time around a bed of withered roses, and then dies “as it were from very sweet ness.” It cannot be that earth is man’s abiding place. It cannot be that our life is a bubble, cast up by the Ocean of Eternity, to float a moment upon its waves, and sink into dark ness and nothingness. Else why is it that the high and glorious aspirations, which leap like angels from the temple of our hearts, are forever wandering abroad unsatisfied? Why 45