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UNIVERSITY OF GEORGIA LIBRARY £p\ HPje 4beur]i a fiupmuicc JOAN H. SEALS, Editor and Proprietor. Safe’ J epdnteni Mrs. Mary E. Bryan, Editress. A happy New Year to our dear six thousand readers! Verily, so genially disposed are we thW 5 morning, th&t we should drink their healths •fi sf > bowl of foaming eggnog, did not our temper ance principles forbid it. As it is, we can only reiterate our good* wishes over a cup of Dr. Johnson’s favorite Hyson, which that ,;t< in old epicure entreats his “ Rennie dear” give to him, “ with cream and sugar softened well.” ( Par parenthesis; there are many bever ages less innocent than the drink of the Celes tials, that have not half its heart-cheering effects.) We have to-day measured another milestone in the journey of life, and the track, marked by our footprints, lies behind us, with its light and sha dow, while the future, bright with the eoleur de rose of hope, awaits our coming tread. It is the day for forming new and better reso lutions, for indulging kindly feelings, for turning anew leaf in the book of life, and dedicating the unwritten page to a nobler purpose. It is the day for gratitude and love and forgiveness ; for erjfcsfc. aj|d hope and steadfast resolves ; but it may Be that there are sad hearts looking back mournfully into the Past, and shrinking from the haiifi of Time that urges them forward. Let such fainting ones look abroad and learn a lesson from brave old Nature, who is at her winter task of invigorating mother Earth with frosty tonics, that she may be ready for the work of spring; and let the free, strong winds that come down from the North, tossing the plumes of the pines and scattering the obstructing foliage, stir their flagging energies like the blast of a clarion, and bid them 11 Be up and doing, With a hoart for any fate.” It is just a twelvemonth, dear patrons of the Crusader , since we took you by the hand in a friendly greeting, and since that time, wo have been a frequent visitant to your homes. pleasant to fancy that we havo been welcr.jtfed; that even a few have learned to love us, or that a single gentle heart has warmed with woman's ready sympathy towards one whose eye might.never meet her kindly glance. The hallucination is a sweet one, and we would not have it rudely dispelled. But we must bo still better friends for the fu ture, gentle readers ; for we have left, for your sakes, our pleasant home and the dear ones whose presence makes it the sweetest place op earth to us. That we may be better enabled to in terest you, we exchange the jasmines and roses ; the singing birds and pleasant sounds of our country home for less congenial scenes, and fore go, for a long year, the happiness of sweet do mestic intercourse. We shall sadly miss all the simple home pleasures—the father’s loving coun sel, the mother’s goodnight kiss upon our brow, the twining arms and lisping tones of the little who calls us by the holy name of and sadly shall we miss the quiet old . with the breath of acacias, tho JfaSTrvwhose feathery boughs trembled over our page as w® wrote ; but your smiles of en couragement shall compensate for these, and we will all do our utmost to merit them, and to ren der tho Crusader deserving of your patronag. To our Korthy principal is allotted the task of wag ing -war against Bacchante and her votaries, the author of “ Ink-drops” shall instruct you with his able pen, and, for ourselves, we shall be well content if our humble efforts beguile the tedium of a passing hour, or furnish a brief entertain ment for the fireside group. But quantum sufficit l Wo had no intention of taking you by the button hole for a long winded conference, and so once more wo wish you tho happiest of New Years, generous friends. May the fates be propitious during the cycle which Aries has bo auspiciously ushered in; may every good fortune befall you; may your spring bon nets be “perfect loves,” your coats fit without a wrinkle, your babies be models of good beha- wives counterparts of Patience Griz zle, ytur landladies patterns of amiability, and when, at the close of ’59, your coffers overflow with the yield of harvest and the profits of mer chandise, may you set aside, first of all, the trifle that %so justly due the Printer. • M. B. B. A WEALTHY EDITOR! A new addition of Fortunatus is Robert Bon ner of the New York Ledger; a Machiavelli in policy ; a Louis Napoleon (on a small scale) in diplomacy; a Barnum in humbuggery. He is that hitherto mythical being—a wealthy Editor— and he has attained his present notoriety and popularity partly by his cool assurance, partly by his adroit management and partly by being born to good luck ; for, let philosophers say what they please, there is a great deal in “ luck,” in this un accountable world of ours.. And there is much, too, in Impudence. Brass is almost as good a pavement to the path of success as gold itself, and Esop barbed his satire with truth when he the beasts, choosing the monkey for their king on account of his knowing looks and pretended contempt for the crown. Bonner’s as surance helped him greatly. From the first, he tone of unqestioned superiority, well aware that the way to command the respect of the mass, is to show that you have a contempt for it. He withered, with his cutting sarcasms and curt refusals, any number of pretended ap plicants for admission to his charmed columns. Ho replied with oracular wisdom to the queries of a score or two of imaginary correspondents, all humbly asking information of this human Ency clopedia of knowledge. His epigramatic replies to the assaults of his “envious” enimies, his con temptuous judgment on all “ voluntary contribu tions” were delivered as from the throne of the Caesars, and every arrogant period said, plainly as words could do, * _“J am Sir Oracle, and when I ope * ’ J- i(y mouth, let no dog bark.” Then, he understands thoroughly the delicate art of humbugging, and his plan of advertising and puffing- was admirable from its ingenuity. Every variety of puff was exhausted upon his excelsior sheet—the puff direct, collateral, sug gestive, ambiguous, and every enticing bait that could be used to deceive that often deluded, but ever gullibtif victim—the Public. Fragments of novellettes of the high pressure order calculated to excite th? romance loving appetites of the peo | pie, were throughout the country, breaking when the hero or heroine was chin deep in distress, and referring to the New York Ledger for their continuation. Hints were thrown out concerning the extrava gant prices paid for contributions. Ingeniously worded “wonders” a3 to what this Editorial intended doing next, together with ad miring allusions to his fast horses, splendid equipage and all eclipsing journal, found their way into city anttyountry papers in some myste rious manner, probably Mr. Bonner could explain, if he would. The famous hundred-dollar-a-column story of Fanny Fern was a.capital investment, for it af forded an “ item” for gossip-loving editors, and served to extend .the reputation of the Ledger. Indeed, Mr. Bonner declared, that he would will ingly have paid double the sum for the story had he known the profit that would accrue from its publication, and the notoriety attending tho bar gain. Quite recently he. has achieved another admirable coup d’etat, by offering the enormous sum of ten thousand dollars per annum to Ed ward Everett for a series of short articles, to be called the “Mount Vernon Papers.” The uninitiated might fancy this a rather pro fitless compact to the employer, but the wily ed itor was far-seeing in his calculations. He knew that the circumstance would be blazoned fo/th with a grand flourish of trumpets in every maga zine, paper and thumb-paper in the land, and would prove the most attractive advertisement of his journal that could possibly be contrived. Moieover, the condition —which he was shrewd enough to apprehend—that the money should be donated to the “ Mount Vernon Association”— would, of itself) have secured celebrity to the act, even if Everett’s popularity was not such as to warrant the pun of the witty Prentice, that “ fame ■ follows applause where Ever-ett goes.” By such strokes of policy as these, has Mr. Bonner become a Prince among editors; but his vory prosperity puts him beyond the pale of that sympathy and interest which the kind-hearted public generally award to the fraternity of “ poor printers.” What does he know of the trials and privations that belong proverbially to the man of quill and scissors ? Has he ever been dis turbed in the concoction of a frantic editorial, b 7 the discordant scrape, scrape of his wife’s ladle against the bottom of the empty flour barrel ? Has he ever looked sheepish in endeavoring to seem unconcerned when his cara sposa opened her matrimonial lecture with tho momentous question, “What is bacon worth now ?” Has he ever felt his heart sink like a frightened tadpole when, after succeeding in pouncing upon a delinquent subscriber, he is coolly informed by that amiable gentleman that ho “sha’ntpay him nary cent, for he did’nt want his no ’count paper no how, and aint took it out of the office for a year ?” Has ho ever had to drive the quill for dear life all day, with disturbing visions of the grocer’s bill, and then, as a pleasant recreation, been permitted to walk the baby half the night, his brief naps being haunted by any number of nocate’s shrieking, “Stop my paper,” in his dreaming ear ? Fortunate Robert Bonner ! Nothing to do but read complimentary notices of himself and his paper, write sage replies to imaginary correspon dents and drive that very fast and famous lady, Fanny Fern, down Broadway, behind his no less fast and famous span of Black horses. LOVE. “ He prayeth best who loveth best All things, both great and small.” No intellect, however subtle, can epitomise, erystalise, as it were, all the attributes of love in a single sentence, mysterious as life, boundless and all-pervading as light, strong as death, and deathless as the soul, love fills the universe with its silent glory, and rests, a radiant halo, on the far shores of eternity. ,It is the arch that up holds society; it is tho bow of promise that spans the gulf of death ; it is the heartsease that blos soms by life’s pathway ; it is the golden gate of Paradise; it is the language of untaught lips ; it is the theme of seraphs ; it is felt by lisping child hood ; its mysteries fill the book of angels, and ages of eternity shall be spent in unfolding them to the beatified souls of men. Love is the twin sister of Life. It is first at the cradle, last at the bed of death. It is the first to dawn in the blue eyes of the babe, last to fade from the dimmed orbs of age. It parts in smiles the red lips of milk-fed infancy, when the tiny hands first flutter with faint consciousness about the mother’s neck ; and when its white wings are once folded on the young heart, it will leave it never more, though grief and time may stain the purity of its plumage and mar the sweetness of its song. Earth-stained though it be, drooping with trailing wing and not daring to lift its eyes above, it is still love —beautiful, blessed love—the holiest gift of Heaven to man. He leans upon the arm of love in all life’s weary wanderings, and when Death’s strong grasp is upon him, he looses the dear hand lingeringly and with the blessed as surance of clasping it again on the “thither shore.” Love can steal its silent way into hearts barred to all other virtues, and given up to the dominion of fiends. No human soul, though en cased in the iron of despair and distrust, can re sist the sweet influence of love; for love is the law of nature and nature’s God. Cynics have effected to sneer at its gentle ministrations, mis anthropes have laughed it to scorn, but nature would assert her right, and if deprived of natural outlets, love would turn and cling with yearning tenderness around inferior animals and even in animate objects. Defoe understood this principle of human nature, when he portrayed his Crusoe, unhappy in his beautiful solitude, because de barred from social love and companionship, and lavishing passionate fondness on the dumb in mates of his island home. Matthews, the aide camp of the ill-fated Riego, during the many years he languished in prison, had what he termed “ his angel” sent to him in the guise of a white dove, that beat against the grated window of his cell until his hand drew the sweet stran ger in ; and ever after, it shared his lot of im prisonment and loneliness,partaking of his scanty meals and sleeping at night in the shelter of his bosom. Thus, the human heart proves that it will not be defrauded of its natural right. Love is the Alchemist that transforms life’s meanest things to gold, making poverty sweet, self-sacrifice pleasant, and imparting a delicate oharm to ignorance and rusticity. To love be long the purest eloquence, the most exquisite im agery, the subtlest reasoning and the most ten der and touching poetry. Love sets the psalm • of life to sweetest melody, and throws a halo-like moonlight over the world’s harshest realities. Woman’s nature has been made, by Provi dence, peculiarly rich in the treasures of affec tion, that she may pour them, like incense, pon the shrine of homo ; that she may be enabled to fulfill her high mission through the long suffer ing and patient gentleness of love, and that she may veil with its divine charity the faults of the unworthy ones whom she seeks to save by her devotion. Love has made timid woman heroines. It has nerved them to face poverty, to endure contempt and neglect, to bear up bravely against a breaking heart, and to dety danger and death. Wherever there are sin and blight, disease and want, despair and squalid poverty, th<9?3, too, you may find love the angel and woman the com forter, and, God be thanked, the “ weaker vessel” is the stronger in her patient, long-enduring conquering love. Waken once the mother’s ten derness, the wife’s devotion, and there is pot a hand under Heaven that can placo the seal upon the overflowing fountain. FOR THE CULTURE OF TRUTH, MORALITY AND LITERARY EXCELLENCE. Like the “ Gertrude” of history, she would stand by the wheel of torture amid the jeering crowd, forgetful of self, in her efforts to soothe and strengthen the last hours of the beloved one. For, as the wave gives forth its phosphorescent light only when its waters are troubled, so wo man knows not the rich depths of her own affec tion till they are stirred by misfortune and sor row. Then, her every action breathes the lan guage of love’s deep devotedness. “ I have stood by thee in thine hour Os glory and of bliss: Doubt not its memory’s living power To strengthen me through this.” But there may be souls whom tho Simoom of passion and despair have left a barren waste, and whose fountains of kindly feeling have been changed by injustice and wrong into marahs of bitterness. But even in such deserts, there is dew enough to nourish the heartsease of human love, though not its passion-flower. There are Hagars, driven out into the world’s wilderness, ehafing like the wounded lioness be neath the sense of wrong, and with unuttered curses in their hearts and despair upon their brows; but, like their Egyptian prototype, there is still a human feeling softening the fierceness of their eyes, though none but the mother love— stronger than death—could throne itself on the ashes of such a desolation. Love is the crown of Deity. Omniscience, power, glory, grandeur—all the prerogatives of Divinity yield to the crowing attribute of Love. Not in the rush of the tempest nor the reel of the earthquake, did God unveil himself to” his prophet of old, but in the “still, small voice” that thrilled his soul like the peal of a thousand trumpets. “ God is love,” is the basis on which rests all hope for the future, all happiness for the present. It is the arch that supports the pave ment of Heaven, the pillar that upholds the tem ple of immortality itself. We have faith in the ultimate perfectibility of the human race, in the eoming of that millenium which heathen and Christian seers have foretold. Already the watchmen on the holy hills of prayer proclaim that the night is faßt waning, and the harbingers of a glorious morning are visible in their unclouded eyes. And love shall be the morning star of that radiant dawning. Love shall be man’s redemption : not power, nor intellect, wealth nor genius shall be chosen as the instrument of salvation, but all shall yield to the sweet, strong influence of the victor—Love. L shall lay its hand upon the hoary head of Earth and restore it to its pristine bloom and beauty. It shall garland the globe with the roses of an eternal spring, and make of every home a sanctuary, upon whose walls shall be written the one golden law of the age—“ Love the Lord thy God with all the strength of thy soul, and thy neighbor as thy self.” M. E. B. GROWING OLD GRACEFULLY. Old age, in itself, is far from being unlovely. Nature, who is an impartial mother, compensates for the loss of- youth's bloom and vivacity, by the more enduring charms of gentleness, wisdom and chastened dignity. The silvered locks and fur rowed brow excite tenderness and veneration, and speak of treasures of experience gleaned in the long pilgrimage of life. The green fields of young grain are beautiful, with the April sun shine upon them, but not less attractive when, ripe and golden, they hang, ready for tho scythe of the harvester; nor is a wise and serene ma turity less interesting than the freshness and ef fervescent buoyancy of youth. Jean Paul thus beautifully illustrates one privilege of old age: As in winter, the stripping away of the foliage from the forest extends the view to prospects un seen before, so in the autumn of life the exuber ant hopes, joys and fancies of youth are borne away by Time, that the soul may obtain an un obstructed view of eternity. But* as the wise Rochefoucault pertinently re marks, there are “ few who understand the art of growing old gracefully.” Some receive every fresh advance of time with additional petulance and fretful repining, while others, reluctant to lose the fascinations of youth, call Art in requi sition to repair the ravages of unflattering Na ture. Instead of yielding gracefully to the mel lowing hand of Time, they regard wrinkles and gray hairs as disagreeable traitors, and wage war against them with all the artillery drawn from the well supplied armory of fashion, as hair-dyes and restoratives, porcelain teeth, periwigs, false fronts, cosmetics and lotions, ad infinitum. There is no sight upon earth more disgusting than that of a faded belle, clinging with desper ate tenacity to the fast vanishing charms of her youth, with artificial bloom dropped into her sunken cheeks, and a girlish dress and carriage, affected to hide infirmities, which would else call forth the respectful sympathy of beholders. Thanks to our healthy national principles, this affectation . jenality is not universal this side the Atlantic; but among French fashionables, whore tho subject of age is interdicted after thirty, even in the closest family intercourse, there is no such thing as beautiful and natural old age; but men and women pursue the butterflies of pleasure on the tottering limbs of age, coquetting and masquerading, as it were, with death, and pertinaciously “ frisking beneath the burden of three-score.” There, the female who has been kept in the nursery by her selfish mama, only emerges from white muslins and corals at an age when our American women are wives and moth ers, and then at forty, blossoms, aloe like, into a full blown belle. Compare our mothers and grandmothers, in their time-honored arm chairs by the winter fireside, with their worsted knitting; their smoothly-parted, silver-threaded hair and snowy caps ; their broad-rimmed spec tacles, neat checked aprons, inseparable bunch of keys, and kind, motherly faces : compare these dear guardians of our domestic interests with those dashing dowagers of the same age, who, in exceedingly low corsages, bare arms, rouged cheeks and stiff curls, gallop through the ball-room figures, with young men in their arms and a disgusting leer on their features, which, however, cannot conceal the involuntary grimace excited by admonitory twinges of rheu matism. And compare our revered and reverend grandfathers with the bewigged old beaux of French society, who, in flashy vests and dyed moustaches, bid defiance to the gout and smile excruciatingly at young damsels thirty years their junior. “ Horses ofthe Apocalypse in fan tastical harness,” a piquant French writer styles these rejuvenated antiquarians ; and truly it is enough to provoke satire, to see men and women, whose age might warrant their being sage coun sellors of youth, “play such fantastic tricks before high Heaven.” No marvel that frivolity and want of reverence aro national characteristics of the French. To grow old gracefully—to relinquish with serene composure the charms of youth for the less brilliant graces of maturity, only requires that we should be true to nature. Plain and simple attire and a subdued and quiet manner— the result of chastening experience—are as nat ural to the winter of life as are stillness and a Atlanta, Georgia, January 1, 1859. sober livery to the corresponding season of the year; and if, to the innate sense of propriety is added the softening influence of Christian phil osophy, then may not old age, in its peaceful serenity, ite quiet cheerfulness and resignation, be lovelier.than youth in the zenith of its bloom and beauty? M. E. B. OUR “RESTRICTED PRESS.” Ignoranch of the United States of her policy and her progress, is not confined to the unlettered portion of England. The “ big wigs” who preside over that Del phian Oracle —the Edinburgh Review —occasion- ally make very singular mistakes. The last num ber of that well known quarterly contains a re view of the London Cotton Plant, where, af ter denouncing, in most virulent language, the South and her peculiar institution, tho writer proceeds to make the most absurd and unfoun ded assertions, representing the South as a coun try of “ exhausted estates, hopeless mortgages and crumbling mansions,” inhabited by “ a race of bullies, ” in a state of “ intellectual barbarism, ignorant of books and of life, and unskilled in all gentle arts and high-bred manners.” “ This,’ the sapient author goes on to inform us, “ is ow ing immediately to the presence of slavery—not only from tho immorality and coarseness which grow out of the institution, but from the neces sary restriction of the press, and the discourage ment of liberal thought and speech .” And then follows the preposterous charge, that “ there is not a good book, in any language, which can be admitted freely and without emasculation in the Slave States.” A little farther on, a most deplo rable picture is drawn of the present state of our national affairs, and we are told that “all groat men are sunk beneath the surface; liberty of speeeh and of the press everywhere restricted, tho manners of the South depraved beyond retrieval, tho churches discredited and enfeebled”—a “ ru inous poverty,” apparent, together with “ inca pacity for war,” and “ conscious decline of char acter and reputation in the world.” A pitiable condition of affairs, truly I But how does Geor gia, with her wealth and integrity; her magnifi cent churches, colleges and thriving cities; her busy and happy population, and her railroads, that intersect her everywhere like great arteries, through which circulate the vast streams of com merce—how does she and her flourishing sisters compare with the picture ? Tho above extracts are but samples of the pro ftise invective distributed throughout this elab orate article of twenty-four pages, portions of which would sound admirably in the mouth of a Yankee abolition shrieker at a mass meeting of “colored individuals.” Apropos, the article in question, refers triumphantly to the “ Resolu tions passod at a public meeting of free colored men” in New Bedford last June, and hints that it is the precursor of millenial times for the “ down trodden race,” auguring their speedy elevation to “social rights and privileges,” which means, we suppose, amalgamation—equality and a gen eral fraternizing of races. Save us from such a millenium ! All this would be simply ridiculous in an ob scure English newspaper, whose editor knew nothing of our institutions except through the perverted medium of such extravaganzas as Mrs. Stowe’s romances ; but eoming, as it does, from the highly respectable and universally respected Edinburgh Review , it is not only absurd, but insul ing. . M, E. B. “Please, Mr. Seals,” writes a fair correspon dent of our Associate, “do us the favor to per suade your Editress to advocate the cause of her own sex more warmly, or else pass it by alto gether.” We have received other intimations to the same effect, and regret exceedingly that our well meant efforts should have failed to give satisfac tion to some of our fair readers. Os course we are not so absurd as to hope to please every body, or even to satisfy a majority. We verily believe that, if the angel Gabriel were to favor us with his long promised visit, we should have some of our critics finding fault with the cut of his wings, or his performance on the trumpet. But seriously, we are very sorry that our rea ders should have misconstrued any thing we have written. If we have alluded en passant to any of the petty foibles that detract from the dignity of woman’s character, it was because we believed these to be merely incidental, and earnestly wished to see the standard of female excellence placed at its proper elevation. Woman has in tellectual and moral power sufficient to overcome tho weaknesses that have been attributed to her sex, and not until she does this will she com mand the universal respect and admiration of man; she can rise superior to the foibles that are spots on her “ original brightness ;” she can talk well and wisely, without spicing her conver sation with scandal; she can be learned, pretty, accomplished without affectation ; be artistic in dress, without giving all her thoughts to fringo and buttons, and be a model housekeeper with out •concentrating her mind entirely upon pie crust and fresh butter. It was to this that wc were endeavoring to call your attention, illustrating all the while, very likely, the parable of the mote afld beam, but still, doing it, with the very best motives and intentions. ‘M.E .B. \ THE BRIDGE OF ASPHODELS. RY MARY E. BRYAN. A dream-spirit bent o’er my couch last night, And stole, with its witcher-y, my soul away. Through my lips, half parted, it took its flight, Asa bee escapes from a blossom of May. Away, past the fields of cerulean space, Where the starry blossoms like lilies shine, Went that aiiy dream with the radiant face, Hand in hand with this soul of mine, ’Till we paused on the archway of bright aspho dels, That the darksome gulf of mortality spans, Where our spirits are carried by slumber’s spells To grasp in brief visions the angels’ hands. There we meet for a while with the loved and the lost On that shadowy, twilighted bridge of dreams, Where the asphodels bloom, and each mist shroudea ghost Silently flits o’er the dark flowing stream. But I heard not the music that, faint and afar, Came like audible fragrance from Heaven s fair shore; ... And I saw not the halo, like mist round a star, That was wreathing and floating around and before. For my spirit met thine on that far away spot; My hand thrilled in thine as in meetings of yore; I knew by thy smile that I was not forgot, And what asked I, or hoped I, or cared I for more ? \ The glory of Paradise lay on thy brow— Its am’ranth were shining amid thy dark hair. How I dared to look on thee is marvelous now, Or breathe, save with language of praise or of prayer. But thy perfume-wet tresses fell low on my cheek; Thy warm lips pressed mine as they may never more, And no bliss-freighted word could my tranced lips speak, Tho’ never was mortal so happy before. But soon the dream-spirit unwound her weird spells, And, soft as a moonbeam, thou glidest away, Scarc'e bending the asphodel’s delicate bells, While my spirit came back to the couch where I lay— Came tremblingly back to its shrine in my breast, Like a bird that has strayed into far suniiy climes, That, dazzled and wildered, shrinks back to its nest, And murmurs its pleasure in half-broken rhymes. But I’ve thought no more of thy far away grave, That I never may wet with my burning tears. (Though the cypress that over it gloomily waves Has darkened my dreams and hopes for years.) For, like the wild harp by the wind spirit stirred, Or the shell, that was kissed by the sea bil lows bright, So my soul keeps murmuring each musical word That fell from thy lips in our tryst last night. . M. E. B. VANITAS VANITATUM. BY MARY E. BRYAN. The Mantuan bard, in the days oi old, Touched his harp with a hand prophetic, And sang of the glorious age of gold, When lapped in a bliss estatic. Wo mortals should here with the Virtues dwell ; (Who before were but theoretic;) Yet, spite of seers and poets mellifluous, We are very far, still, from that age auriferous. Coeur de Lion's reign was a war-like age, And Queen Annie’s was an age of Latin; Last century, the mania was all for the stage, But this is an age of satin ; For, Art has driven poor Nature far From the kingdom of “ Manhattan,” Ami smirks in her stead, in pinchbeck pretension, With a horrid false front and a “ double exten sion.” The brains have all sprouted away to moustache, Quite after the manner of poodles, And the aim of existence is cutting a dash, Showing off to admiring noodles, Polking through life with a pas de grace, And marrying the cash ot Miss Toodles; Whose loftiest conception of pleasure’s elysian, Are partners in plenty and bonnets Parisian. But all this is nothing to me, I suppose. I care not what brains Fashion addles— What feminines make themselves martyrs to clothes, And carry through life their pack-saddles; While alone with rouged misses and musk-scen ted fops And such lawful game, Fashion meddles ; But when childhood is forced into follies preco cious - In the hot-bed of Art, then, I say, ’tis atrocious. Alas! that neck-aprons and sweet gingham frocks Should yield to fichus of French laces ; That their hair should be tortured to corkscrew locks, And plastered to pale little faces ; And in place of the healthy and hearty old games, A French dancer should teach them the graces, While papa cannot romp with his ownjWilhelmine Without breaking that three-year-old’s steel crinoline. Time enough to rig them in gewgaws false, And offer them up to Fashion, For the valsiviana and midnight waltz To engender precocious passion. They will want all the wasted money and health They are taught to make such a dashon ; And besides, fair youth, with its innocent sweet ness, Has already too much of a fairy-like fleetness. Oh! let them remain just as long as they please— Our simple and frank little darlings ; Let them play round our firesides and climb on our knees, Sweet and shy as young, unfledged starlings— Not reserving their smiles for the parlor alone, And for home their cross snappings and snarl ings; Yes, pray let the children teceive no expansion, Save that which has Dame Nature’s genuine sanction. Let her fingers, the sweet human blossoms, ex pand, Without artificial inflatus; Put the hoops—from their petticoats—into their hands; Discard the Schottisch and French gaiters, And their elder sisters may do as they please; We have satirists enough to sate us ; And gladly I’ll leave, Saxe and Butler to rate ’em, And din in their ears “ vanitas vanitatum.” PRAYER FOR THE NEW YEAR. BY MARY E. BRYAN. Another year, Darkly enfolding in its last embrace This slur jering sphere, And speeding past th( Starry isles oi space, And past the angel h< its, its scroll has given Into thy hand, oh! LArd of earth and Heaven. All silent hang The hands of seraphs on their harps of fire, That erewhile rang With ptEans high, thrilling each golden wire, And Heaven's mute hosts bow thy white throne before, While thy dread eye readest the record o’er. Alas! no tears May blot the biood-hued crime-stains from that scroll; No sigh that sears The parched and fevered lips through which it stole, May dim a single lino that there appears— All powerless, human grief and human tears. But thou,oh! thou! Who wore for us the crown ot piercing thorns On thy pure brow, And hung beneath the darkened heavens that morn, When yawning graves gave up their ghostly dead, And Calvary shook beneath the earthquake’s tread — Plead for us, Lord, As did’st thou when theiierce mob cried, With one aecord, “ Awaywitij. him ; let him be crucified.” This,meek prayer only passed thy pale lips through : “ Father, forgive; they know not what they do.” Father, iorgive! Our father! thou whose holy, sovereign word First bade us live. The heart, whose trembling pulse thy breath has stirred; The soul that came from thee sends up its prayer— A trembling dove, half fainting in mid air— Thine eye alotte— Thy pitying eye, oh! father, sees the prifyer Borne to thy throne ; Oh ! for thy son’s dear love receive it there ; Break not the bruised reed ; to thee alone The tried heart’s frailties, griefs and fears are known. Forgive the past: We turn its blotted pages o'er, and tears Fall thick and fast. Its wasted days, its rashly squandered years Fill memory’s casque—an urn of faded flowers— And we can only weep o’er those lost hours. Grant us thy aid ; Thy strong hand give, that we may dare to tread, All undismayed, The future path before ns dimly spread. That darksome way with unknown danger teems, Full of vague horror, like our troubled dreams. ***** The flush of dawn Tints the grey clouds, like shells on ocoan’s shore. • The breeze of morn, A viewless spirit, steals the still earth o’er, And wakes the wild pine’s melancholy moan— A requiem for the year forever flown. Thus may the morn Ot thy millenial love in glory break, On earth forlorn, And Irom the lips of sorrowing ones, awake The song that shall with heavenly choirs accc rd, “Peaceto the earth and praises to the Lord.” The oldest peice of furniture is the multiplica tion table. Tt was constructed more than two thousand years ago, and is yet as good as new. New Series, Volume Y. —Old Series, Volume XIV. No. 1 SELECTIONS. HIGHLAND MARY. Thb mother of Burns’ Highland Mary, who re sided in Greenock for & long period, died there on the 27th of October, 1827, at the advanced age of eighty-fiva years. This venerable looking woman remembered, to almost the last moment of her existence, with an affectionate regard, the one who inspired Burns’ finest effusions, and was the object of his purest attachment; and it was impossible to hear her enter minutely into the particulars of her daughter’s life, and the amia ble qualities of her heart, without feeling con vinced that Mary Campbell had something more than ordinary attractions to fascinate the mind of the poet. Were we to judge from the appear ance of the mother, whose fine black eye, and regular features, at her advanced age, gave indi cations of early beauty, he would say that “High land Mary” probably had also personal charms, which would have influenced a less sensitive mind than that of Robert Burns. Among the little stores of the deceased, there was nothing to be found as mementoes of the gifted bard, but the Bible which he gave his beloved Mary on that day when they met on the banks of the Ayr, “to live one day of parting love.” It is, indeed, a curiosity, and has written on the first leaf, in Burns’ handwriting, the following passage of Scripture, which is strikingly illustrative of the poet’s feelings and circumstances : “Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but perform unto the Lord thino oaths.” It is well known, that after this they never met again, and that time could not efface the solemnity of this parting from his mind; and it is to be regretted that two letters, which we wrote after her death to the afflicted mother, have been destroyed—the old woman saying, “ she could never read them without shedding tears.” The mother and daughter are now sleeping in the West Church-Yard: “and is “ Mary” to remain without a stone to tell the stranger of her place of rest?— Teasing. UG LI N ESS. Ordinary persons, peradventure, may not have remarked (what may prove a comfort to them) that true ugliness is almost as rare a gift as true beauty; for how very few ill-favored visages do we encounter that possess not some redeeming feature or expression ! I have known many an ugly face improve ; nay, almost grow handsome, upon acquaintance; and, indeed, although beauty may boast of the lavish bounty of nature, ugli ness may honestly vaunt of her plain dealing. I am far from regarding ugliness in a woman as unfortunate ; I rather consider it as an antidote to vanity, and a prompter to the emulation of goodness. And beauty, after all, (as wrinkled old maids and “ have-beens” sagely declare,) is but skin deep. In my boyhood, I well remember a young man (whom I have often bad the pleas ure of meeting) whose physiognomical posses sions might certainly be classed under the title of ugliness ; in sooth, he was no extra -ordinary young man, both as respects his lineaments and his learning. He was deep read—pale— pitted by the small-pox, and pitied by every female wlio beheld him. But he had a mind that minded not their impertinent commiseration : and,-when hi3 conversational talents began gradually to be de veloped by the genial influence of social con verse, his opposite remarks, liis critical reading, and his sound arguments, won all the listening senses of his auditors ; while insipid beauty was lost in the fluent language of eloquent ugliness. The “ pretty men” of the party felt the unintelli gible desertion of the fair ones, and glanced cau tiously round at their sweet persons, reflected in the mirrors, as they lounged listlessly about, im agining that some alarming revolution had taken place in their collars or cravats, or some rebel lious lock had stretched itself ungracefully forth from their close curled Roman crops or poodles— . then finding all in statu quo, wildly wondered “ what the girls could psssibly see in the fellow to pay him so much attention V’ while others lisped forth in a voice half strangled by their stocks, “ I s’pose the belles are quizzing the Gor gon !” Ugliness hath charms that pass not away like the bloom of a summer flower ; therefore, let not ugliness be put out of conceit. If there be but wit and good sense behind the repulsive mask, ugliness may even win the favor and coun tenance of beauty. AN INDEPENDENT WOMAN. A lady —a youg lady, we will warrant—thus expatiates, in tbe columns of our esteemed Buf falo namesake, upon a very delicate topic:— Balt. Pat. “ A woman who loves unsought, ‘deserves the scorn of the man she loves.” Heaven forgive me! but may the man who penned that never see another bonnet! May no white dimpled arms ever encircle his cravat, or buttons vegetate on his shirts; may no rosy lips ever press his moustache, and the fates grant that his dickey strings break short off every morning; may no woman’s heart over learn to beat faster—except with indignation=r-at the mention of his name, and may his stockings al ways need darning. We feel greatly inclined to say Amen to that prayer, horriblo as would be the condition of him in whose behalf the lady's fervent prayer might bo answered. But when the indignant fair one adds: % And when his nerves are all unstrung by dis ease, and his head throbs with pain, as though an earthquake were brewing in it, may he have nothing in his sick chamber but boot-heels, and see no one inch of muslin or calico, Wc must hold back our assent to the maledic tion, and dare wager our gold pen against the largest negget California or Australia ever pro duced, that dear Ruth herself would be the first to hasten to the poor wretche’s sick chamber and, with those tender ministries which reveal the angelic nature of woman, tenderly soothe and nurse the afflicted one. But here is a smart hit: Deserves scorn ? Why ? Because she gives her love where there is no hope of a return ? That docs look like a bad speculation; but she has the Bible on her side. “If you love them that ove you, what reward have you; for do not even the Publicans so ? And here, too, a burst of true womanly feel ing: Gives her love unasked I Oh! with a truo hearted man, this would, mo thinks, be the rea son of reasons why he should love her. She gives to him her whole heart —for in these things true woman does not work by halves not from gratitude, because he loves her; not for pity or charity, because he has begged it of her; but because—because —dear me I it will take more of a philosopher than I am to account for the un deniable fact, that women do sometimes love those horrid creatures called men. Ruth Glam ing- “Walk, as it were upon the border of the ocean of eternity, and listen to the sounds of its wa ters till you arc deaf to every other sound be side.” AN ENCOURAGING WORD FOR OLD MAIDS. A writer in Tait’s Magazine says: “Mar riage is not often the golden reality young wo men seem to think It; neither does it so mate rially alter the character as they would fancy. The 1 cross old maid,’ if she had changed her state, would have been Bimply the cross old wife. ‘The boy is father to the man;’ and the young woman may fairly be called the prototype of the ■old one. If a woman be a cheerful member of her own household, smoothing every difficulty in her path, and culling happiness as the bee draws honey, even from poison flowers, then she will grow into that most estimable of all good beings —a cheerful, benevolent, beneficent 1 old maid,’ an honor to the name, a glory to the sex. There will be no repining, nor selfish regrets at what might have been. She will take the cup that God holds to her, and though it be not highly spiced, raise it to His praise. Among England’s women, thousands of such are to be found; but they make no noise in the world, for content is silent—discontent noisy and obtrusive. Thus, while the offences of the spinsterhood are per petually thrust upon us, the quiet virtues of others pass unheeded ; and therefore the world, judging as it always does by appearances alone, passes judgment on the whole, and adds its mod icum to abuse already cast on the overloaded back of 1 old maidenism.’” A Hard Case. —A Father’s Punishment of a Daughter. —A well-known citizen of Boston died recently, leaving property valued at from $450,000 to $500,000, his disposition of which is thus narrated by the Ledger, of that city: “Some few years since, one of his daughters saw fit to marry a gentleman of high moral char acter, although poor in this world’s goods, be longing to the marine corps ol the United States. The father opposed the marriage, and has ever since refused to recognise his daughter, or to do anythipg for her. She has lived in a very hum ble way in Newport with her family, consisting of her husband and lour children. Learning that her lather was very ill at the Tremont House, and knowing that her mother and only sister were abroad, she came to Boston, and, through a mu tual friend, solicited the privilege and pleasure of ministering to his comfort, and be with him in his last moments. Her appeal was repulsed with scorn, and she was thus deprived of the opportu nity of doing what every right-minded woman would seek to do under similar circumstances. He died, and she, notwithstanding all that had taken place, attended his funeral and saw his mortal remains deposited in their last resting plaee. The will of the deceased has just been oponed, and it is found that he has put his whole property in trust, excepting, we believe, one legacy of ten thousand dollars, providing for the payment to his wife of SB,OOO per annum, and a single daugh ter (now with her mother) and two sons fivo thousand dollars each per annum, on the condi tion of forfeiture if either of them ever gives one farthing tp the married daughter. And, to meet the requirements of law, he gives to this married daughter the pittance of four hundred dollars per annum, to show the relentless hostility to one of his own blood, who saw fit to bestow her affec tions upon one she loved. GOD S DISCIPLINE WITH MEN. In a time of war, when men left their dwellings, there lay, unused, in an old mansion, a stately instrument of music—a piauo. The dust cov ered it, and little by little the weather contracted and expanded it till the wood had cracked. The different strings of the instrument were out of tune with each other; so that not one of them was, right. By-and-bye peace was declared, and the long exiled owner returned to his house. On coming home, looking about him and seeing everything out of order, he cleansed the kitchen, cleansed the parlor, cleansed the various rooms through the house, and at the last he says, “ 1 will have this instrument put in order.” He sends for a tuner, who comes and looks at it and says, “ A noble instrument, indeed; by one of the best makers !” He opens the lid, and the dust flies up in clouds. “ Sadly negleetcd ; but a noble instrument!” He looks through it, runs through the scale, and begins to dust, to cleanse and to tune it. Taking first the central note, oh, how wretchedly that is out of tunfe ! But he takes his tuning fork, and brings up the next string, and the next, and the next; and so he goes all through—flats and sharps and all—from top to bottom, bringing every note up to its proper pitch. During the time that he is correcting it, nobody wants to stay in the room ; but by-and by, when he has set it all right, he sits down and tries it; and, as be begins to play, the first chord is grand I Then, as he takes one of Beethoven’s harmonies and begins to play, the servants run up; the children stop in the midst of their Bport to hear; everybody stops to listen, or comes to the door! The people that went out of the room come back and ask, “ What magnificent instru ment is that? Ah, it is that wailing instrument that drove you out! That is what it is, now chorded ! And if it were Beethoven himself who sat at it to play out the swelling thoughts of his owu soul,, how majestic would those melodies have been, and how magnificent “as an army with banners” would have been the march of all those accordant harmonies! Oh, you are ipt struments of music now neglected, sadly unstrung and discordant I God has already taken hold of you, and brought some of the principal strings up to concert pitch, and he is bringing One after another to that. By and by, when men say that your heart strings have broken, God will say “No; it is nothing but the last touch in chord ing.” And then, when every faculty shall have been attuned, God shall bring joys like music uuto your soul, such as you never thrilled to be fore I Do not be impatient of it! Have patience with God while he is tuning you ! By and by, when the work is done, you shall thank God for ever and forever, that he is willing to tako such a shattered, wretched instrument to tune, and to let its notes mingle with the harmonies of the eternal world.—H. W. Beecher. Only the Heart’s Offering Accepted. —The other day, in walking down the street, a little beggar boy—or one who might have begged, so ragged was he—having discovered that I loved flowers, came and put into my hand a faded little sprig, which he had somewhere found. I did not look directly at the scrawny, withered branch, but beheld it through the medium of the boy’s heart, seeing what he would have given, not what he gave; and so looking, the shrivelled stem was laden with blossoms of beauty and odor. And if I, who am cold, selfish and ignorant, receive so graciously the offering of a poor child, with what tender joy must our Heavenly Father receive the sincere tribute of his creatures, when he looks through the medium of his infinite love and com passion! Christ does not say, “ take the noblest things of life, and bring them perfect to me, and I will receive them.” Hesays: “Takethelow est and most disagreeable thing; and if you bring it cheerlully for my sake, it shall be to me a flower of remembrance, and I will place it in the book of life, and keep it forever.”— H. W. Bee cher.