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‘ 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