Newspaper Page Text
‘ Davy, the Sheriff! to your heels f Davy
leaped like an ancient buck; the corn
blades r?sounded with his gigantic strides;
the ‘noise and confusion’ of the running
aroused ‘old Rover,’ and he let in with hot
haste. Y'elp after yelp was heard, until
lost in the distance, Davy was run seveial
miles around the village, through briar
patches, swamps, &c., almost exposing him
to a state of nudity.. His ‘wind’ failing,
he put in for the tavern,, and ‘Rover’ put
him to bay in his old resting-place, the
bar-room.
During the chase, Billy had been carried
from the field, with the drapery of death
about him apparently. This aroused the
veteran dames of the village, and they
came to the scene of blood, protesting
against such an art, and heaping severe
imprecations upon the head of the unfor
tunate Davy.
Davy had not been tong at the tavern,
ere a friend approached the bar-room, and ‘
tol l him Billy was dying, and wished to ,
see him once more in life. He consented
to see him, but with some reluctance, ashe
was fearful of the Sheriff. When Davy
entered the room, Billy, seemingly delirious,
exclaimed —‘ Davy, Davy, 1 want to see
you once more, and send a dying word to
Caroline.’
Davy sobbingly replied, ‘Well, here ar
I, Billy—say on. Oh ! me.’
‘You ought not to have shot me,’ ex
claimed Billy. ‘You have killed me. Oh!
my head and face. Look at the blood; go
and see my mother, and tell her. Oh 1 I'm
gone. Good bye, Davy; you have caused
it all. Lord save me!’
‘I didn’t want to fight,’ cried Davy; ‘I
told you not to fight—l would kill you; I
told you I would shoot you in the head.—
I didn’t want to do it—no I didn't; God
knows I didn’t-—and shill never do so
agin, if you will forgive me this time, j
Oh! Lordy !’ said Davy, weeping.
‘ A had scrape, Davy,’ said an old man
nearby. ‘lt will cost you, in all proba
bility, your life, if it is not made up.’
1 1 didn't want to do it,’ said Davy; 1 1
told the Doctor I didn’t want to he hung,
and I wouldn't fight; but they made me.
< 111! what must I do? I can't be swung up
like a dog. Oh! if I had minded mama,
and not liaye done sich bad tilings.’
At this juncture, Davy approached the
bed in a fit of frantic delirium at the pro
bable result, threw himself on the lied, and
implored the forgiveness of Billy, and was
willing to expatiate with his life. A gen
tleman by the bed, in a fit of suppressed
laughter, took Davy one side, and told him
that Billy was shot, badly shot.
‘Yes, 1 said Davy, ‘I knew it when I let
fire. I knew it was a centre shot.’
■lt was a centre shot,’ continued the
gentleman; ‘but, Davy, the ball was of
,ioke-bcrries , and did no damage.’
Divvy wV unco saw tho trick. He went
instantly to his room, packed his clothes,
and left the village that evening; and lie
is now one of the most pious and zealous
clergymen of the South, exemplifying the
old proverb, that ‘ circumstances make
men.’ What became of Billy, I know not.
MORE CURIOSITIES AT THE NEW
MUSEUM.
A sleeve worn on the arm of a lever.
The clapper of a belle of the season.
A bottle of water from the spring of the
year.
A casque and helmet worn by one of the
Arabian Knights.
A few leaves from the laurels of fame.
A line which was once attached to San
dy Hook.
Some buttons which were broken off
from the breeches (breaches) of trust.
Some of the teeth cut from the saws of
wise men by a file of soldiers.
A knot in the chord of music.
A bottle of wine saved from the feast of
reason. Also the table on which this feast
vas spread.
The razor used in shaving the face of
Nature.
A box of sand from the shore of time.
The pebble thrown from a gin-sling.
An umbrella used in protecting an audi
ence from the shower of applause.
A piece of cloth made of the threads of
a discourse.
The key to Locke on the understand
ing.
The title page of the book of fate.
The mouthpiece of the trumpet of fame.
Some butter cakes fried on the knee pan.
A broken link in the chain of circum
stances.
A note of music which has been dis
counted.
A lock of wool from the golden fleece.
The livery of a title Page.
The lesson learned by a pupil of the eye.
The forefinger of the hand of friend
ship.
The spade used in digging the grave of
the dead languages.
The corner stone of an air castle.
One of the teeth of a coxcomb.
A piece of ribbon of which the last rain
bow was made.
Some of the lime used in making the ce
ment of friendship.
One of the toe nails of a tow-boat.
A few boards ripped from a political
platform.
An epistle written with a pencil of light.
A few grains of the spice of a good
joke .—Memphis Appeal.
NAVIGATION.
The great secrets of navigation are con
tained in a small compass.
When navigators are desirous to know
the depth of the water, they generally drop
a line lor information, and it kasgenerally
lead in the end, to the obtaining the sought
for knowledge.
Ships that directly oppose the authority
of the winds by endeavoring to fly in their
teeth, are immediately put in irons, and be-
; coming naturally ill-humored under such
circumstances, have a very stern way about
them.
Vessels in high wind are addicted to low
gambling, ami do nothing but turn up cop
pers, and pilch and toss while the gale
lasts.
Ships go to divers parts of the earth es
pecially when they visit the pearl regions.
Those who go down to sea in ships, are
not very apt to turn up again.
Sailors are very lawless persons, taking
anything they need ;in fact, they sometimes
take the sun and moon.
Ships are not usually provided with gar
dens, although they have many small
yards.
Merchantmen are generally successful
in making sail.
Steamers are likely to predominate over
other descriptions of vessels, as they are
much more prolific, and have a greater
number of berths.
They never fall, although they make a
great many trips.
Clipper-built vessels are dissipated in
their habits; their masts being especially
rakish.
The most unprofitable consignment that
can he made is to ship a sea.
Vessels baffled by head-winds become
very much enraged, and go beating.
Ships have a great number of hands and
knees; the masts all have feet and steps;
the bows have figure and cat heads; the
ship itself has a fore-foot but no hind one,
| and dead eyes, so called because the see
con not come through them.
Sailors are liable to a peculiar rheumatic
affection, called the sca-attic, from their
spending so much of their time at sea aloft.
The locomotive is sufficient loading for a
vessel, at it always makes a car-go.
Kettle-bottomed ships are most likely to
| go to pot.
The most polite parts of the ship are the
bows and gallant yards.
Ships suffer but little from fair winds,
but during bead winds they wear very
much.
Captains are Robhison Crusonic in their
reckonings, keeping the acounts of the voy
age recorded on logs. On their return trip
a back log is used.
Most vessels are sociable in their man
ners, and have a companion-way about
them.
Very Fast. —A gentleman who was re
markable for the frequent and successful
exercise of punning , was accustomed to
go regularly every day, at a certain hour, to
get his bitters at a tavern near Willie’s.
One day, to his surprise and disappoint
ment, he found the door locked, and he
xvas not able to procure admittance. Af
ter knocking for some time, a servant maid
popped her head from a window.
“Why, hussey,” said the gentleman,
” what Jo you mean by nHuiting you,
friends out.
“Oh, sir, my master and mistress are
gone to church—this is a fast day.”
“ Fast day with a vengeance,” said the
gentleman. “If your master and mistress,
and all of you choose to fast, there is no
reason why you should make the doors
fast 100.
The Sea Serpent. —There is a rumor
in circulation that the clipper-ship Sophia
Walker, Capt Wiswell, was chased round
Cape Horn by an enormous sea-serpent
half a mile long, and that Capt. Wiswell
was so terrified that his eyes stuck out far
enough to hang a Quaker's hat upon. In
his eagerness to escape he wore out anew
suit of sails, and made one of the best pas
sages on record. The Boston post is res
ponsible for this startling account.
Advantages of Education.— The “Isth
mus emigrants ” find that the knowledge
of the Spanish language is almost abso
lutely necessary, as the Mexican mules do
not understand English. It is useless to
swear at them in Anglo-Saxon—not a
foot will they budge; although no sooner
do they hear the “ mulas vamos, sst! sst!”
of the Mexican donkey driver than they
dart off at a gallop. A California pilgrim,
writing from Guadalaxara, states that he
has been compelled, “at a great expense,’>
to hire an interpreter between himself and
his mule.
jtejC A stranger having entered the
apartment where the Emperor Napoleon
was shaving himself, when in a little town
in I tally, he said, “ I want to see your
great Emperor—what are you to him.”
The Emperor replied, “ I shave him.”
Some men are wise, and some arc
otherwise.
JBfc#'” Wordsworth says, “ Language is
not the dress, but the incarnation of
though.”
ip D sis snr.
For Richards* Weekly Gazette.
T° ——.
Sweet is that flower that dwells afar,
Where tropie plains are wild and lone,
And, neath the gentle morning star,
Holds up its tender petals blown
There, from the glad and early sky,
Ethereal dews at dawn distil,
And from the mystic springs on high
Her heart with Heaven's own waters fill.
Now glares with noon the torrid sky,
And lo ! how droops the foliage round ;
How vanished from the wishful eye,
The verdure that the morning crowned.
’Tii then this flower unfading rears,
And still in glorious freshness lives—
For closed within her heart she bears
The stream that fadeless beauty gives.
So may thy tender heart of youth
Expand its petals in thy dawn,
And from the sparkling founts of truth,
To it be purest waters drawn:
That when the plains of life grow drear,
And many a 1 ope shall fade and die,
I’erenuial springs of beauty there,
May lading streams of bliss Supply
Charleston, S ('. (;
SO©SB!©© 8 WIISB.W ©B3S^i© a
TiaE Lilly Si A BY.
; •
THE POETRY (^MATHEMATICS.
A chapter from Longfellow's “ Kavanagli ”
“I was thinking to-day,” said Mr.
Churchill, a few minutes afterwards, as he
took some papers from a drawer scented
with a quince, and arranged them on the
study table,while his wife, as usual, seated
herself opposite to him with her work in
her hand, —“I was thinking to-day how
dull and prosaic the study of mathemat
ics is made in our school-books ; as if the
grand science of numbers had been discov
ered and perfected merely to further the
purposes of trade.”
“For my part,” answered his wife, “I
do not see how you can make mathemat
ics poetical. There is no poetry in them.”
“ Ah, that is a very great mistake ! There
is something divine in the science of num
bers. Like Cod, it holds the sea in the
hollow of its hand. It measures the earth :
it weighs the stars; it illumes the universe;
it is law, it is order, it is beauty. And yet
we imagine—that is, most of us—that its
highest end and culminating point is book
keeping by double entry. It is our way of
teaching it that makes it so prosaic.”
So saying, he arose, and went to one of
his book-cases, from the shelf of which he
took down a little old quarto volume, and
laid it upon the table.
“ Now here,” he continued, “is a book
of mathematics of quite a different stamp
from ours.”
“It looks very old. What is it 1 ”
“ It is the Lilawati of Bhascara Achary
a, translated from the Sanscrit.”
“Itis a pretty name. Pray what does
it mean ?”
“ Lilawati was the name of Bhascara’s
daughter; and the book was written to per
petuate it. Here is an account of the
whole matter.”
He then opened the volume, and read as
follows;
“It is said that the composing of Lila
wati was occasioned by the following cir
cumstance. Lilawati W'as the name of the
author’s daughter, concerning whom it ap
peared, from the qualities of the Ascendant
at her birth, that she was destined to pass
her life unmarried, and to remain without
children. The father ascertained a lucky
hnur tor ronttitcling Her in nmrriage, that
she might be firmly connected, and have
children. It is said that, when that hour
approached, he brought his daughter and
his intended son near him. He left the
hour-cup on the vessel of water, and kept
in attendance a time-knowing astrologer, in
order that, when the cup should subside in
the water, those two precious jewels should
be united. But as the intended arrange
ment was not according to destiny, it hap
pened that the girl, from a curiosity natural
to children, looked into the cup to observe
the water coming in at the hole; when by
chance a pearl separated from her bridal
dress, fell into the cup, and, rolling down
to the hole, stopped the influx of the wa
ter. So the astrologer waited in expecta
tion of the promised hour. When the op
eration of the cup had thus been delayed
beyond all moderate time, the father was in
consternation, and examining, he found that
a small pearl had stopped the course of the
water, and the long expected hour was
passed. In short, the father, thus disap
pointed, said to his unfortunate daughter, I
will write a book of your name, which
shall remain to the latest times, —for a good
name is a second life, and the groundwork
of eternal existence.”
As the school-master read, the eyes of
his wife dilated and grew tender, and she
said, —
“ What a beautiful story ! When did it
happen ?”
“ Seven hundred years ago, among the
Hindoos.”
“ Why not write a poem about it V’
“ Because it is already a poem of itself,
—one of those things, of which the sm
plest statement is the best, and which lose
by embellishment. The old Hindoo legend,
brown with age, would not please me so
well if decked in gay colors, and hung
round with the tinkling bells of rhyme.
Now hear how the book begins.”
Again he read ;
“ Salutation to the elephant-headed Be
ing who infuses joy into the minds of his
worshipers, who delivers from every diffi
culty those that call upon him, and whose
feet arc reverenced by the gods!—Rever
ence to Ganesa, who is beautiful as the
pure purple lotos, and around whose neck
the black curling snake winds itself in play
ful folds!”
“ That sounds rather mystical,” said his
wife.
“ Yes, the book begins with a salutation
to the Hindoo deities, as the old Spanish
Chronicles begin in the name of God, and
the Holy Virgin. And now see how poet
ical some of the examples are.”
lie then turned over the leaves slowly
and read, —
“ One-third of a collection of beautiful
water-lilies is offered to Mahadev, one-fifth
to Huri, one-sixth to the Sun, one-fourth
to Devi, and six winch remain are present
ed to the spiritual teacher. Required the
whole number of water-lilies.”
“ That is very pretty,” said the wife,
“and would put it into the boys’ heads to
bring you pond-lilies.”
“ Here is a prettier one slill. One-fifth!
of a hive of bees flew to to the Kadamba 1
flower; one-third flew to the Silandhara;
three times the difference of these two num
bers flew to an arbor; and one bee contin
ued flying about, attracted on each side by
the fragrani Ketaki and the Malati. What
was the number of the bees ? ”
“ 1 am sure I should never be able to
tell.”
“ Ten times the square root of a flock of
geese 3>’
Here Mrs. Churchill laughed aloud: hut
he continued very gravely,—
“ Te: times the square root of a flock of
geese, seeing the cloud* collect, flew to the
Manus lake; one-eigth of the whole flew
from the edge of the water amongst a mul
titude of water-lilies; and three couple
were observed playing in the water. Tell
me, my young girl with beautiful locks,
what was the whole number of geese ? ”
“ Well, what was it ?”
“ What should you think ?’’
“ About twenty.”
“No, one hundred and forty-four. Now
try another. The square root of half a
number of bees, and also eight-ninths of
the whole, alighted on the jasmines, and a
female bee buzzed responsive to the hum
of the male, inclosed at night in a water
lily. 0, beautiful damsel, tell me the num
ber of bees.”
“ That is not there. You made it.”
“ No, indeed I did not. I wish I had
made it. Look and see.”
He showed her the book, and she read it
herself. He then proposed some of the ge
ometrical questions.
“In a lake the bud of a water-lily was
observed, one span above the water, and
when moved by the gentle breeze, it sunk
in the water at two cubits’ distance. Re
quired the depth of the water.”
“ That is charming, but must be very
difficult.! could not answer it.”
“A tree one hundred cubits high is dis
tant from a well two hundred cubits; from
this tree one monkey descends and goes to
the well; another monkey takes a leap
upwards, and then descends bythehypoth
enuse ; and both pass over an equal space.
Required the height of the leap.”
“I do not believe you can answer that
question yourself, without looking into
the book,” said the laughing wife, laying
her hand over the solution. “ Try it.”
“ With great pleasure, my dear child, - ’
cried the confident school-master, taking a
pencil and paper. After making a few
figures and calculations, he answered, —
“ There, my young girl with beautiful
locks, there is the answer, —forty cubits.”
llis wife removed her hand from the
book, and then, clapping both in triumph,
she exclaimed, —
“ No, you are wrong, you are wrong, my
beautiful youth with a bee in your bonnet.
It is fifty cubits! ”
“ Then 1 must have made some mis
take ”
“Os course you did. Your monkey did
not jump high enough.”
She signalized his mortifying defeat as
if it had been a victory, by showering kis
ses, like roses, upon his forehead and
cheeks, as he passed beneath the triumphal
arch-way of her arms, trying in vain to
articulate, —
“ My dearest Lilawati, what is the whole
number of the geese ? ”
©UIiE {LUI
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
LIFE INSURANCE-A GOOD IN
VESTMENT.
There are two modes of effecting insu
rance on life—one for a term of years, and
the other for the whole life. In the first,
the premium charged by the Company is
less than in the second—often not over
half as much. A policy is taken out for
a term of years, when a man believes him
self able, in a short time, to secure to his
family a comfortable support, provided his
life is preserved. So, also, when his chil
dren are nearly grown, and he is anxious
for their welfare only for a short [period,
believing that they will then be able lo take
care of themselves. In these and many
other cases, a policy for a short time is pre
ferred, especially as the charges of the
Company are so much less than for a life
policy. The most common mode of in
surance is for life, and this, in most cases,
is to be preferred. But whichever plan be
adopted, the person insuring is making a
good investment—one which will be al
most certain to pay him a fine interest—
one which will come to his family in the
hour of their greatest need—one which is
recommended by prudence, forethought and
wisdom, as well as by those strong feelings
of natural affection which are an honor to
the human race.
I propose to present here some calcula
tions, to show that this investment is high
ly productive, yielding a very handsome
interest. If a man dies soon after insu
rance, this is abundantly evident: if he
lives to extreme old age, the returns from
j the Company will he less than the pay-
I ments. The chances of these two results
I balance each other, and I will only con
■ sider the intermediate cases.
Suppose a man 20 years of age, to in
: sure for ten years in the Southern Mutual
Insurance Company : his first annual pay
ment will be $8.44. It is probable they
will call on him for the same amount for
every year while his policy lasts. In the
| ten years he will, therefore, pay the Com
; pany $84.40, and should he die then, at
the age of 30, he will receive his SIOOO in
j return for the $84.40 he has paid. The
difference between the amounts paid, and
the amount received, will be s9ls.6o—and
this may he regarded as interest on the
$84.40 paid to the Company. A part of
this investment has been made for ten
: years, a part for nine, and so on, for the
! other payments —the last having been made
only one year befoie death. If the ice
for each separate payment be accurately
estimated, it will be found that the insured
has received interest at the rate of 198 per
: cent, per annum. This, surely, is as rapid
an improvement of his money as any one
could desire.
If the insured outlives the first ten years,
and renews his policy, his next annual pay
ment will be $11.37. If he should contin
ue this for ten years, ar.d die at the age of
40, the amount he will have paid, in the
twenty years, will be $198.10, and the bal
ance of the SIOOO will be the interest on
his payments. If the time, during which
the money of the insured has been in the
hands of the Company, be carefully esti
mated, as before, it will be found that the
investment has made 42 per cent, per an
num.
If the insurance be continued for ten
years longer, his next annual payment will
be $14.93. The amount that would be re
ceived for interest, should the insured die
at the age of 50, will be $052.60, and the
rate of interest at which his money will
improve, will be at the rate of 14 per cent,
per annum —still greatly above the legal
rate of interest.
If a policy be now taken out at 50 years
of age, for ten years longer, the annual
premium will be $21.75, and if the insur
ed should die at 60, the amount received
for interest, over and above all the pay
ments made for 40 years, will be $435.10.
And this will be at the rate of 5 per cent,
per annum on all the amounts paid from
the age of 20 up to the time of death.
Should the insured still survive, and re
new his policy at 60, his premium will be
S4O 50, and the amount he will receive at
70, will be the sum of all the payments he
has made from 20 up to 70, and a trifle of
S3O over for interest.
It thus appears, that if a man insures at
20, and dies before he arrives at 60, his
money will, in every case, return a hand
some interest, while if he lives to three
score and ten, the usual limit of human
life, he will receive all he has paid in and
a small amount over. Should he die in 20
or 30 years after effecting his insurance,
his gains will range from 14 to 42 percent,
per annum. Should he die before he has
paid 20 annual payments, his profits will
be at the extravagant rate of 50, 100 or
1000 per cent, per annum.
If I had supposed the insurer to be 30
years of age when his policy was first
taken, his rate of profits would be 142, 28
and 8 per cent., according as he dies at 40,
50 or 60 years of age. At 70, he will re
ceive all he has paid and $114.50 besides.
If the insured had arrived at the age of
40 before taking out bis first policy, his
profits would be at the rate of 104 percent,
per annum, should he die at 50, and 18 per
cent, should he die at 60.
These calculations have been carefully
made, and they show, I think, beyond
doubt, that nr. insurance on one’s life is
not a hazardous enterprize, in which one
may or may not do well, but that it is a
safe, prudent, and wise investment, which
is almost sure to result in a handsome pro
fit to the insurer. To those who live to
extreme old age—to 70, 80, or 90—this
will not be the case. But if any one looks
around among his neighbors and acquaint
ances, and remarks the small number arriv
ing at these late periods of life, he will see
how small are the chances of loss and how
great the probabilities of gain. A.
BBlkaißg® 83.
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
CRUCIFIXION OF CHRIST.
BY T. S. II .
Robed in purple, and with a crown of piercing
thorns
Rankling upon his gory head, the Saviour
Stood at Pilate's judgment bar, a criminal
Without a crime. As one full conscious of his in
nocence,
Ilis lips quivered not; nor from his eyes beamed
forth
A single ray of guilt. Calm, and unmoved,
He heard the vociferated cries, “Crucify him,”
“Crucify him,” as Gabbatha’s royal seal stamped
His eternal doom. Seized by unbelieving Jews,
A cross was bound unto his back, and as the lamb,
In innocent submission, shuns not the deadly
Steel, so did he, from Heaven’s precious fold, the
chosen
Lamb of God, submit his lovely form to human
Butchers, a living sacrifice, without a murmur
Os resistance from his lips. Thus, in toil to Cal
vary’s
Height, the holy Jesus bent his weary steps.
The vesture-blue changed deeply red, from the
bloody
Sweat that trickled down his side.
The cress was reared, upright,
And, on its dark and gloomy front, the naked
Form was nailed, and venomed spikes, like adders
teeth,
Pierced the spotless flesh. Writhing in agony of
pain,
Ho asked a cooling draught to quench his thirst,
When lo! the cup, red with the bitter drug,
Was lifted to his parching lips, to drink;
And ere he sipped its pungent stream, his eyes
grew dim,
And paled his cheek; and then his scorching
tongue was cooled
By Death’s cold, icy cup.
Athens , June, 1849.
j SUNDAY READINGS, FOR JULY 22.
THE CHRISTIAN IN CHRIST.
I “ Who also were iu Christ before me,.” —Rom.
xvi. 7.
The persons here spoken of, are Andron
icus and Junia, of whom much is said in a
few words. It appears they were related
to Paul, and suffered with him for the
Gospel’s sake; were eminent among the J
apostles, and had experienced a saving
change, previous to the period of Paul s 1
conversion. From this passage we learn,
It is the character oj every Christian that j
he is in Christ. We may be great profici- 1
ents in knowledge, and yet not be in 1
Christ. Knowledge is a flower that may j
grow to a great height in the wilderness |
of corrupt nature. We may be regular in 1
the performance of the outward duties of j
religion, and yet not be in Christ Judas, 1
Demas, Ananias and Sapphira, Ilymeneus,
and Philetus, once renowned astrueChris
tians, made shipwreck of their faith. But
what is it to be in Christ I It is
To be united to his matchless person. —
There arc three mysterious unions in
our holy religion: the spiritual union of
the three Divine Persons in one Godhead :
the personal union of the Divine and hu
man natures of Christ; and the mystical
union is real. This is evident from the fig
ures and phrases by which it is expressed
in Scripture, John xv. 1; Eph. ii. 20: v.
30. This union is mysterious. It is a
mystery that shall be better understood in
ihe light of glory. “At that day,” says
Christ, “shall ye know that I am in my
Father, and you in me, and lin you.” It
is indissoluble. It is only cemented by
age, and strengthened by death ; Rom. viii.
38. 39.
‘Io be interested in his saving relations.
Asa Prophet, he is our light; as a Priest
he is our propitiation and Advocate; as a
King, he subdues the enmity of our hearts,
and defends us from the enemies of our
souls. He is our Friend to confide in;
our Physician to heal us.
To partake of his inestimable blessings.
Those who are in Christ have a rich inher
itance. They have peace with God, and
peace of conscience ; Christ is theirs; his
Spirit is their guide; his covenant is their
charter for the holy inheritance ; his right
eousness is their garment for the marriage
supper of the Lamb; his fulness is their
treasure ; h'.s promise is their security;
and his heaven will be their everlasting
home. It is the condition of all the un
godly that they are without Christ. Seek,
therefore, to be in Christ; not only by pro
fessing his name, but by partaking of his
grace, and living to bis glory. Here is the
test: “If any man be in Christ, he is a
new creature.”
“ Oh the rich depths of love divine,
Os bliss, a boundless store !
Dear Saviour, let me call thee mine,
1 cannot wish for more!”
[ill 3 c£j ©l£iL -L liil tTo
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
TO ]***•*.
’Tis out of fashion, now, I’m told, to marry with
out plunder,
And folks that haven’t got the dimes, their loves
are rent asunder;
So wags tho avaricious world, and merit loses
station,
Compared with wealth, no matter what tho moral
situation
Os those who w ell ’tis known have pewter in their
pockets,
Whose Ma’s and Pa’s, by fortuno’s luck, just
shoot ’em off like rockets;
And when in air, and shining there, with a
brightness new begotten,
Are much admired, but, coming down, are in
stantly forgotten.
Hut lam ono, who scorned to seek fortune’ 3 fa
vors ever,
And what is more, (you’ll trust me. sure.) iu wi
ving 1 shall never:
Ten times the Rothschild’s wealth, with more—
ton thousand years of life,
I’d give up for an humble lot with J***** for my
wife. Bachelor.
HOME-A SONNET.
Forgetfulness—an t can it steal,
Insensibly, its gliding way
Upon my soul! The love I fed
For homo-scenes, where I loved to stray,
In happy boyhood’s mirthful hours,
When weary of my noisy play,
And lie and muse among life’s flowers.
Can it be erushed in slimy folds,
Or rooted from my memory 1
My mind’s eye will, while vision holds,
Prevent such dire calamity;
And form again, in fnney’s moulds,
The butterflies I used to see,
And chase among youth's sunny bowers.
J. N. W.
A Novel use of a Kiss. —The girls at
T .e wist on Falls must be strong tetotallers,
as the following from the Journal of that
place will show. We are inclined to think
however, that they use a rather dangerous
test of a man’s temperance principles, since
i one might be tempted to drink, in order to
! have the pleasure of passing inspection :
“A gentleman not many days since, and
not many miles from Lewiston, returning
from a sleigh ride, on arriving at the pa
ternal mansion, gave ami received a kiss
of friendship, as he supposed ; but, alas!
the sequel will show how much he was
mistaken, for the door having been closed
he overheard the following conversation :
“ Why, Lucy, ain’t you ashamed to kiss
a man out there all alone with him?
When 1 was a girl I would not have done
it for the world.”
“No, ma, I am not,” answered Lucy:
“ for 1 only kissed him to smell of his breath
to see if he had been drinking.”
A Lf.an Man. —We have a man in
Mississippi, so lean that he makes no shad
ow at all. A rattle snake struck six limes
at his legs in vain, and retired in disgust.
He makes all hungry who look at him: and
when children meet him in the street they
all run home crying for bread. He was
“ ruled out” of a company which started
for California lately, lest his presence
should increase the sufferings of that al
ready starving country. — Jackson Missis
sippi n.
Js@“- When Carlyle was asked, by a
young person, to point out what course of
reading he thought best to make him a
man, replied in his characteristic manner:
—“lt is not only by books alone, or by
books chiefly, that a man is in all points a
man. Study to do faithfully whatsoever
thing in your actual situation, then and
now, you find either expressly or tacitly
laid down at your charge—that is your
post, stand in it like atruesoldier. Silent
ly devour the many chagrins of it—all sit
uations have many—and see you aim not
to quit it, without doing all that is your
duty.”
Shade Trees. —Downing recommends
above all others the American Weeping
Elm and the Silver Maple.
EDITOR’S DEPARTMENT!
WM. C. RICHARDS, EDITOR. |
i
” (2/1
fc-jljr - *
Sltljcits, ©Torjjta : I
Saturday Morning.... July 21. Mgfl
LEAVES FROM OUR DIARY. I
Rome —not the “ Eternal City”—her
her Rivers, A Questionable Policy, ImliaU
JVames, Appearance of Rome, A City A
hills, The Court House and AcademiM
Dwelling-Houses, Its Scenery, VWo|
Quarters, Musquitoes,Churches and 7V>gfl
pies, “ Saint Peter’s at Rome,” The Ifuul
Clergy, A Magnificent Bathing ifmotH
Rushing for Dinner, A Peep at the Co urA
“ His Honor,” Ijnvyers, Trade and PnA
peels of Rome, Her Schools, Hotels, -VonA
papers, Kingston, The Memphis Brat |A
Rail Road. \
July 6th. We cannot say that tho sig|
of Romo kindled any remarkable degree A
enthusiasm in our breast, when it bunl
upon our sight this evening in the soft ril
diance of sunset. We were not able to dl
lude ourself into the pleasant fancy that,l
were approaching “ the eternal city”—til
boasted “ mistress of the world”—for a Is; I
there were no marble palaces upon the hfl
—no long collonades, gleaming in the crinfl
son light of evening—no splendid
lilting their tops among the clouds—no gnifl
gcous domes, flooded with the last
the dying day—no sweet cadences of
bells, floating on the wings of the zephyr-B
no solemn processions of whitc-stoled prusH
—in short, no single feature of the worliH
renowned capital of Italia! Here, howe^|
er, let us qualify our negation, at least A
far as the skies are concerned, and confeA
that, ceteris paribus, we could have takA
the heavens above us to have been those A
Italy —so deep was their azure —so brilliA
their dyes of crimson ami of gold—so pA
and so soft the haze which invested the A
rizon like a zone of scarcely visible gosA
mar. The waters of the Etowah were tioA
ed with a celestial glow, as they swept A
1 to tlieir marriage with those of the diA
Oostanaula —and we could not help thiiA
ing, that if ancient Rome had the el at A
Tiber to boast of, her modern prototjA
might reasonably be proud of the two liciA
tiful rivers already named, which, mingliA
their tides at her very feet, roll onward A
getlicr in the broad channel of the Coosa B
We hardly know whether to approve A
condemn the prevailing custom of givingA
new and insignificant places in the NA
World, the time honored and glorious moA
of the cities of Europe and the East. lIA
contrasts thus suggested are certainly : A
orous, and sometimes painful; nay, weliiH
felt something like indignation, at findingA
mere hamlet, or a mushroom town, beanA
the ambitious name of Carthage, of banal
i cus, of Athens—or of Rome ! And yet,A
the founders and “ fathers” of these aqiinfl
towns are willing to bear the
of the comparisons, or contrasts
which they compel, there is probably
reasonable objection to their taking vIH
names they please, in this land of unrestriA
ed freedom ! We cannot help thinking,
ever, that it would be infinitely morenpi'lA
priate—more American, certainly —to
our villages, towns and cities, the
names which are familiar in their
What appellations can be more
than those of the three rivers which
Home—and why not have named the
after some Indian warrior famous in
parts, or some lovely Cherokee
whose memory lias outlived the misfortuiM
of her tribe ? •
As we rode up from the “ station” to
Hotel, we passed through the
tion of the town, and had a fair view ‘! A
whole extent. It is situated, like its illifl
trious god-mother, upon a series of hillH
but that would be a scanty arithmetic
would confine their number to the seven H
the City of the Caesars ! Except upon dH
main street, which has been partially
every house, yea, every particular builraM
has its own independent hill! Towerinjß
one of its pinnacles is a red brick coM
house, so difficult of access, that we
its architect considered Law of solittlepM
lie benefit, that he placed its sanctuary
much out of the way as possible!
Still above that, however, is an
reminding us of the imaginary steep
“ Where Fame’s proud temple shines afetßg
Its pupils certainly must afford living
pies of “ the pursuit of knowledge
difficulties.” jm
All around are hills, crowned
mestic temples, looking comfortable V
pleasant, but in no single instance, csfci'W
ing architectural elegance or refined t;V B
The absence of these features has
us deeply, and unsatisfactorily, for the■
port which had reached us of the pi'oßl'dß||
of Rome, had prepared us to expect the !l W|
stantial evidences thereof, in tasteful ‘•3
elegant mansions, which, it must b j
fessed, would well become the
positions that are everywhere found
We are scarcely in a mood to write m f
partially, however, for notwithstnwli 11 ? j||
moon is shedding her silver light ’’l 1 " 8 ■■
earth, the air is oppressively warm, 9
is our fate to be the occupant of 9 j
which Mr. Dickens would have imm o Jjj
ized by his inimitable pen, bad lie oaIDJ'J
its tenant. We have not tried the hrl j
ment of turning round since we g ot
in, though possibly our petit di nlCll
may allow the feat. If the bed
in its centre, wc would defy the tlij 9
ghost of Hades to glide around it.
are at least three mosquitoes already
narrow quarters, and we tremble lw*
should be reinforced by the time *’
compelled to “ turn in.” [Mein. “ .wll|
visit Home again in July, to carry*’ Bf
a musquito bar.] Jm
July Bth. Home has “ sanctuary P , jM|
leges” beyond the lot of most towns 111 V