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was thru turned bottom upwards and set adrift, for my companion had lost his life by attempting trrjeach an oar that slipped from his hands. The smugglers, instead of releasing me, as I hoped and implored, promising them large sums of money, car ried me to an island—one of the Balearic cluster—where was their general place of meeting. The band was very large, and had many vessel*. 1 remained with them twb years; the first, 1 was not permitted to leave the island, hut the second, they took me with them several times, because they needed my services. I was no longer Mons. de Montfort, but a slave. At the end of the second year, I made my escape, as they were making a run upon a dark, stormy night. My appearance was so altered, that none of my former acquaintances re cognized me; therefore, 1 determined not to disclose myself. I visited my chateau, and found it had been burned to ashes.— My brother-in-law had removed, and no one could say whither. Devoting my life to one object, the discovery of my children, 1 visited nearly every portion of the civil ized world. Twice did 1 cross the Atlan tic. and visit these shores, fori was certain of the fact that 1 traced my brother-in-law to his point of embarkation for the Nc.v World. By visiting so many nations, 1 learned their languages. My friend Mag nin also learned the English language from j his intercourse with natives. I rescued ‘ him, a few months since, from some ban- j ditti, as I was returning from Italy, where j I had gone in search of you two. In grat- j itude, he devoted himself to my cause, and j with what success, he himself may inform ; you.’’ The stranger, whose name was Magnin, ’ was now earnestly importuned to gratify the curiosity of all present. lie began thus: “ I will commence from the time when first engaged as a captain by your father, und give you a short sketch of my life, which is but a tissue of fraud and villainy, from beginning to end. “ When ymn father received me into his service, he took to his bosom an adder that did not hesitate to inflict its poison. I was at the head, and had the chief control, of that extensive scheme of smuggling which has been mentioned, and which poured mo ney into my coffers till they overflowed, yet did not satisfy my cupidity. No means, however base or unlawful, caused me to hesitate in my design of amassing wealth. For a very large sum of money offered me by a commercial house, th rivals and per sonal enemies of your father’s, I entered into a plot to ruin him, and bring destruc tion upon his family. Our first act was the abduction of his only son, when on a visit to Paris—but this was only a begin ning. As his chief captain, I was enabled to put my smugglers in command of his other vessels: thus we defrauded him of a vast deal of his riches. When a ship was very richly freighted, we either run it upon rocks and wrecked it, taking care to have men near, who might carry off the specie or most valuable contents, which were re ported lost—or else we permitted ourselves to be overpowered by bands of my own smugglers, sent for that purpose. About the time of his wife’s death, I robbed him of a vast quantity of wealth, by wrecking his most noble ship, the Flora. \V c final ly destroyed them all, sometimes with ad vantage to us, and sometimes not—hut rarely. By these supposed unintentional misfortunes, many persons lost their lives. What cared 11 1 had been insulted, and determined upon being revenged. Mons. dc Montfort’s calamities partially rendered him insane, for he foolishly ventured across the Rhone, as you have heard, and fell in to my power. Two days after his disap- 1 pearance, I had his chateau burned to the j ground. Thus had 1 finished my task. I should have kept him in bondage all his days, had lie not escaped. I was now im mensely rich. A prince might have envied my wealth. I rolled in dissipation, and ruined n.y constitution; still, conscience did not gnaw. What return was made for ; all the misery of which I have been the cause ‘! Why, the very man 1 had injured so much, saved my life, as I was about to he shot by brigands. My hair, from a deep black, changed to white in one night, from the terror of that scene. His hair has j been whitened by misery. From a reso lute, courageous man, 1 became the most irresolute coward breathing. . Asa slight reward, 1 endeavored, as much as lay in my power, to repair the evil done. Through agents, 1 had always kept up a correspon dence with this man, Jaques Tonquin, and knew that Mons. de Montfort’s son was living. When I intorincd him of the fact, joy nearly killed him. We took passage for New Orleans immediately. 1 have ob tained his pardon, and earnestly implore , vour’s also, I hope 1 have found grace at; the Throne of Mercy. 1 feel so, and hope ! soon to leave this world of trouble—for it j is a world of trouble,” said the penitent, j weeping grievously. “I once had a son. Contrary to my hopes, he turned out to be ! a worse villain than his father. He even 1 defied me to my face, and was in turn dis inherited. I was driven to it, and could : not help it. What has become of him, I : know not. Would that I could once more behold him ere 1 sink to rest within the i cold tomb.” “Behold him then, for I ajn he.” wasut-1 tered, to the astonishment of all, by the | hitherto quiescent captain, as he stood ; proudly erect, conscious that every eye gazed upon him. “ Yes, lam he—l, the I man dreaded far and near for his daring 1 robberies; I, whose faculty of disguising! himself, and whose skill in finding and fit ting up this cave, have hitherto eluded the i most diligent search, am the son yon speak of so affectingly. Your cruelty it was ! that drove me to it. You it was that made inc what 1 atn, a felon, a thief, a man des titute of all sense of honor and generosity. I)o you doubt it 1 You shall have ocular proof. And you, villain, die for your t .treachery,” continimi th# infuriated cap tain, springing with demoniac fierceness at | Jaques, brandishing a long, keen dagger. , But the suddenly-extended foot of Herbert j threw him to the floor, and before any one i could act, he had disappeared behind the l curtains which covered the entrance of the 1 cave, and was seen no more by those he ; left behind. On the following day, howev -1 er, when officers came to examine the cave, i its entire contents were found to have been ■ burnt. He was supposed to have returned ;at night and set lire to them. After his disappearance, his father, with tears in his 1 eyes, and a broken voice, acknowledged that his punishment was just: “ I plainly see thy hand, oh, Father, in the connection of all the events which have ; brought about this result. Thy goodness | has bestowed happiness upon those deserv- j ing it, and justly-merited punishment upon 1 me. Truly are Thy ways past finding i Marie was, at this time, requested by her husband to inform them of the manner in which she had been brought to the cave. j “After your departure,” she answered, i “Captain Morgan visited me often, but i seeing that his suit was discouraged, he I brought me here, having persuaded try: to j take a ride with him.” Whilst they are meditating upon these things, we will inform the reader, that “ Capt. Morgan” was the name that gen tleman was known by in the city; his original name Was Paul Magnin; his ac quired name, “Paul the Fearful.” “Och, sure, me darlints, an’ its Misthress Ann that’s tired out and out wid waitin’.” This sentence, which interrupted the meditations of the entire company, was pronounced by a person, whose shaggy head was visible between the curtains that closed over the entrance. A messenger had been sent to Mad. Lcgare, informing her of the discovery and developments which had taken place, and she, becoming impatient, sent this prian to see what the matter might he. “Is it sittin’ here all day you’ll he doin’, whin the misthress is so impotent ?” “ Impatient you mane, Pat,” said James, mimicking him. “An’ will ye be afther tellin’ us how Misthress Ann behaved whin she heard the news?” “\ T is, begorrah: when the word came that her husband an’ son—beg yer honor’s pardon—l mane her son an’ husband, was found, wid de darlin’ Marie —top o’ the mornin’ to ye mine, if it is candle-light— jabers, but mebbe she didn't go into de be highstrikes, and blubber like a babe un born! An’ when I wur looking on, an’ wondherin’ what would happen next, te dad bud she says, says she, ‘Pathrick— that’s meself —why didn’t ye bring wather, ye gossoon.’ It’s herself, too, that can’t laugh for cryin,’ an’ when she'd be cryin’, she caiWt, for laughin’, bedad. Och hone, bud she hurried me off before I started, an’ tould me to jist ax ye for to make haste by degrees, an’ git home the nearest way, by making a cirkit. Belavc me, if I tell ye.’’ “Make prodigious haste, and get home without making a circuit you mean, Pat.” “Oh, St. Pathrick! hut its ycr honor that’s smart entirely. Ye jist took the very words out o’ me mouth. Make haste, says Misthress Ann, for she can’t stand it, ses she; an’ sure it’s herself that can’t stand at all, at all, for sittin’, nor can’t sit for walking about, faith.” After Pat had finished his graphic delin eations of Mad. Legar6’s condition, every one left the cave, and repaired to the car riage which had been sent for Marie by her aunt’s providence. The carriage could only approach within a mile of the cave, which was five or six miles from the city and in a remarkably secret dell. Bootless would it he to relate all the succeeding events. It is sufficient to say Mad. Legare was overjoyed at the recove ry of her brother. As Mons. Magnin had predicted, he died soon after. Jaques and his wife settled in St. Louis, and lived hap pily. The Mexican returned to Mexico. Mons. de Montfort took possession of the immense property left him by his friend in his will. He built a splendid mansion, where he spent the rest of his days, sur rounded by his family; and of a long win ter evening, would assemble his grand children, and relate the histories of those that were lost and found, always ending with a thrilling sketch of the scene in tiie Robber’s Cave. •LI J & 1L ‘if m > BATHING. Bathing acts morally as well as physi cally. It induces habits of cleanliness, which are found allied only with self-res pect, improved temperance, intelligence, and morality. Nothing is more soothing to irritable impulses of the passions, than the peculiar serenity which the bath im parts. The Romans in their days of sen sualiity, invariably had recourse to the bath to relieve the effects of their dissipa tion, and after great fatigue from journey ing, &c. Who is there, we would ask, that has not experienced, after a nigh's de bauch in the indulgence of luxuries, when the head and heart have been oppressed, and the nervous energies prostrated—the restorative and invigorating effects of the bath,for what allays feverishness and irrita bility and perturbation of the nervous sys tem so admirably as the cold, tepid, or hot bath, according as the offender may have been accustomed to use 1 Everywhere on the continent, baths are to be had in the greatest state of perfection. The French perform entire personal ablution daily. In Italy, Holland and Germany, they patron ize the bath to a great extent, and amongst the Turks and Persians, throughout Asia, bathing is imperative as a part of their re ligion. They consider it an absolute ne cessary of life, while we the most lcfined people of the world, are satisfied with a change of linen, ami that too, very often o ver a not very clean under garment or body ffannel.-^BuromAe. 10 0GlBill)8® IKOif ©&3SU! iLtSVtf ESS. For Richardb’ Weekly Gazette. LIFE INSURANCE—A GOOD IN VESTMENT. This is no lottery scheme, no wild spec ulation, no hazardous undertaking, no mo ney-making project, but a prudent, safe, se cure investment, in which the person in sured makes a provision for h : s family, completely free from those disastrous ao cidents which thwart anil ruin the best concerted enterprises. If a man renews his insurance from time to time, or i/ he at once takes out a policy for bis w hole life, he is certain to receive, ultimately, the amount lie has insured. He mast die some time or other, and the Company must pay the sum contracted for. The money lie has paid will surely be returned to him, and that too with interest. If he dies soon, he will receive the amount he has paid in, with large interest; if he lives to old age, with small interest; but in eve ry case, the rate at which the money in vested will be improved, will be handsome and satisfactory. I propose to submit this to calculation. In doing it, I cannot use the premiums of the Southern Mutual In surance Company, as they are not yet is suing policies of this kind. 1 will take the charges made by the New York Mutual Life Insurance Company, their rates being ; the same as those of most of the Northern j Companies. The distribution of profits in this New ! York Mutual, is not the same as in our j Athens Company. They retain all the 1 profits, and accumulate them for the bene j fit of the family of the insured. At his ! death, they pay to his widow and children ‘the sum insured and the profits accumula ted, at compound interest. Our Company 1 pays back the profits at once to the insur ed, and permits him to use them towards re ducing his annual payments. Both plans have their advantages, and l only refer to them to explain the calculations that fol low. Suppose, then, a man at 20 to insure his life in the New York Mutual Company.— His annual premium, for his whole life, will be $20.20 on SIOOO. At the end of 5 years, a dividend of profits will be made to him, that may amount to 400r50 percent, of his payments. Their first dividend was 52 per cent., but I have many reasons to believe this cannot be sustained : 40 per cent, will probably be divided hereafter; and there can hardly exist a doubt in the minds of those who know how their calcu lations are made, that 30 per cent, will be continued, without fail. Counting it at 40 per cent., his first dividend will be on slOl —the amount of his five annual payments. This will amount then, to $40.40, and his second dividend will be 40 per cent, on $141.40 or $56.56. If, now, he should die at the end of 10 years, his family will re ceive $1096.96, in return for $202 paid in to the Company. This will give $894.96 as interest; and the average time during which the money was held by the Compa ny being 5 1-2 years, the rate of interest will be 81 per cent, per annum. Should the death occur before 10 years, the rate of improvement will be still larger. If the insured should live 2# years after taking out his policy, his third dividend of profits will be $79.18, and his fourth sllO. 86 —supposing the rate of 40 per cent, still continued. His whole payments in 20 years will then be $404, and the amount to be received by his family will be $1287.00. The amount returned by the Company as interest on the $404, will be SBB3. The average time of the investment being 101-2 years, the rate of interest will be 22 per cent, per annum. Should the insured live 30 years after effecting his insurance, his whole payments will be S6O6 —his fifth dividend $155.20 — his sixth, $217.28 —the amount to be re ceived by the widow, $1659.48—the bal ance returned for interest, slos3.4B—and the rate of interest, 11 percent, per annum. If the insured should live to the age of 60, his whole payments will be SBO8 —his seventh dividend will be $304.19 —his eighth, $425.87 —and the amount to be re ceived by the family of the insured, will be $2389.54. Instead of the SIOOO origi nally insured, the accumulated profits have more than doubled the original sum. The rate of interest on the investment will now’ be nearly 10 per cent, per annum. If the insured should live to the age of 70, similar calculations will show’ that the rate of interest will be over 7 per cent, per annum. All these resultsare based on the suppo sition that the profits of the Company will be such as to enable them to divide, every I 5 years, 40 per cent, on the premiums paid [and on the accumulated profits. This may j be greater than the Company can pay.- I But should the mortality in the United [ States not exceed that of the Carlisle ta j files, on which the premiums are calculated, j there cannot be a shadow of doubt that the I Company will pay over 30 per cent. At this rate of profits, the interest received by the family of the insured, if he should die | at the age Os 30, would be 74 per cent, per ann. At 40, it would be 19 “ “ | At 50, 8 “ At 60, 51-2 “ “ At 70, 5 “ “ | And at 80, 5 “ “ These rates are not so high as before, | but they are still very handsome, if we re member that they are the lowest that can be expected. These calculations are made with care, and they show, almost to a cer tainty, that Life Insurance is not a hap- j hazard, uncertain lottery, but a scheme 1 wherein the insured is making a wise in vestment—one that cannot fail to return to j his family the whole original sum paid ! over lo the Company, together with a fair [ and satisfactory’ interest. A. (Dim IPBaygHKS BALiisJtX From Wliclcr’s Magazine, for August. TII E 1* OKT It V 0 F Tll E UAIN HO W. As an object of beauty anil sublimity, there is nothing in tho phenomena of Na ture that awakens in the human soul more poetical inspiration than the Rainbow. In all languages is its poetry written—for in in every human soul has it inspired some degree of emotion. To the true lover of Nature, there is nothing sublimcr than to stand upon the mountain’s side, and see the Rainbow bend over the still yet con scious waters below. I shall never forget the grandeur anil beauty of this phenome non, as it was once presented to my view while on Red Ilill. The 6torm passed over tho mountain, filling the whole arch of heaven with its blackness. Only a small quantity of rain fell as it passed swiftly on. Soon the wholo black drapery of the storm was condensed in the eastern sky, while the sun, like a victorious shield-bearer, pur sued tho dispersed and lingering army of clouds. In a few moments the most glori ous rainbow I over looked upon arched the waters of Winnepisiogee, while tho large drops of rain Hilling around me, from the the silver-fringed clouds,glistened like dia mond-weft. The drops were indescribably beautiful where they fell between the spot where I stood and the deep ebon drapery of the east. But the whole scene beggars my descriptive pen. To attempt to estimate the number of poems that liavo been written upon the Rainbow would be labor most futile. The Rainbow has been praised with much less sickly verse than “ Luna, the queen of sigh ing lovers.” Yet, although much has been written, only three poems, in my memory, have obtained a wide admiration. These are here copied as the sweetest Poetry of the Rainbow.— The first piece offered is by Mrs. AVn.n Y, the “ Amelia ” of the Louis ville Journal. I sometimes have thoughts, in my loneliest hours, That lie on ray heart like dew on the flowers, Os a ranihlo I took one bright afternoon, When my heurt was as light as a blossom in June. Tho green earth was moist with tho late-fallen showers, The breezo fluttered down and blew open the flowers, Whilo a single white cloud, to its haven of rest, On the white wing of peace, floated oflin the west. As I threw back my tresses to catch the coolbreeze That scattered the rain-drops and dimplod the seas, Far up tho blue sky a fair Rainbow unrolled Its soft-tinted pinions of purple and gold. ’Twas born in a moment, yet, quick as its birth, It was stretch’d to the uttermost ends of the earth, And, fair as an angel, it floated as free, With a wing on tho earth and a wing on the sea How calm was the ocean! how gentle its swell! Like a woman’s soft bosom it rose and it fell; While its light sparkling waves, stealing laugh ingly o’er, When they saw the fair Rainbow, knelt down on the shore. No sweet hymn ascended, no murmur of prayer, Yet 1 felt that the spirit of worship was there, And ] bont my young head, in devotion and love, ’Ncalli the form of the angel that floated übuvo lloiv wido was tho sweep of its beautiful wings ! How boundless its circlo ! how radiant its rings! If I looked on the sky, ’twas suspended in air; If 1 looked on the ocean, the Rainbow was there ; Thus forming a girdle, as brilliant and whole As the thoughts of .the Rainbow, that circled my soul. Like tlio wings of the Deity, calmly unfurled, It bent from the cloud and encircled the world. There arc moments, I think, when the spirit re ceives Whole volumes of thought on its unwritten leaves; When the folds of the heart in a moment unclose, Like the innermost leaves from the heart of a rose. And thus when the Kainbow had passed from the sky, The thoughts it awoke were to deep too pass by ; It left my full soul, like tho wing of a dove, All fluttering with pleasure, all fluttering with love. I know that each moment of rapture or pnin But shortens the links of life’s mystical chain ; I know that my form, like that how from the wave Must pass from tho earth and lie cold in thegravc. Vet O! when death’s shadows my bosom uncloud, When I shrink at tho thought of tho cofSn and shroud, May Hope, like the Rainbow, my spirit enfold, Iu her beautiful pinions of purple and gold. —The following poem is by Jon.v 110 - LAJCD, of Sheffield, England. Mr. Fier pont, in one of his school-books, attributed it toMr.CAMPBELL —a mistake rather com plimentary, though unjust. The evening was glorious, and light through tho trees Play'd the sunshine, the raindrops, the birds, and the breeze ; Tho landscape, outstretching, in loveliness lay On the lap of the year, in the beauty of May. For the Qnoen of Spring, os she passed down the vale, Left her robes on the trees, and her breath on the gale, And the smile of her promise gave joy to the . hours, While rank in her footsteps sprang herbage and flowers. The skies, like a banner in sunset unrolled, O'er the west threw thoir splendors of azure and wold: But one cloud, at a distance, roso denso, and in creased Till its margin of black touched the zenith and Last. Wo gazed on tho scenes, wbilo around us they glowed, Whon a vision of beauty appeared on tho cloud ; ’Twns not like tho sun, as at mid-day we view, Nor the moon, that rolls nightly through star light and blue. Like a spirit it came in tho van of tlio storm, And tho eye and tho heart hailed its beautiful form; For it looked not severe liko an angel of wrath, And its garment of brightness illum’d its dark path. In tho hues of its grandeur sublimely It stood O’er the river, tho village, tho fields and the wood, And rivers, fields, village, and woodland grew bright, As conscious they felt and afforded delight. ’Twasthe limp of Omnipotence, bent in His hand, Whoso grasp at Creation thomiiverso spanned ; ’Twns the presence of God, in a symbol sublime, His vow from the flood to tho exit of Timo. Not dreadful, as when in the whirlwind he pleads, When storms aro his oliariots, and lightning his steeds ; The black clouds his banners of vengeance un furled, And thunder his voico to a guilt strickon world. In the breath of his presence, when thousands ex piro, And seas boil with fury, and rocks burn with fire, When tho sword and tho plaguo-spot witli death strew the plain, And vultures and wolves are the graves of the slain. Not such was the Rainbow, that beautiful one ! Whose arch was refraction —its keystone the sun; A pavilion it seemed, which the Deity graced, And Justice and Mercy met there and embraced. Awhile—and it sweetly bont over the gloom, Liko lovo o’er a death-couch, or hopo o’er the tomb; Then left the dark scene, whence it slowly retired, As Lovo had just vanished, or Hope had expired. I gazed not alone on the source of inv song, To all who beheld it thoso vorscs belong ; Its presence to all was the path of the Lord ; Each full heart expanded, grew warm and adored. Like a visit, tho converse of friends, and a day, That bow from my sight passed forever away ; Like that visit, that converse, that day, on my heart, That bow from remembrance can never depart. ’Tis a picture in memory, distinctly defined With the strong and impcrisliing colors of mind ; A part of my being beyond my control, Beheld on that cloud, and transcribed on my soul. —And lastly follows the poem of Thom as Campbell. Triumphal arch, that fill’st tho sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art. Still seem as to my childhood's sight, A midway station given, For happy spirits to alight Betwixt the earth and hoaven. Can all that Optics teach, unfold Thy form to please me so, As when 1 dreampt of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow 1 When Science from Creation’s taco Enchantment's veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws! And yet, fair how, no fabling dreams, But words of the Most High, Havo told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky. When o’er the green undelugcil earth Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world’s gray fathers forth To watch thy sacrod sign. And when its yellow lustre smiled O’er mountains yet untrnd, Each mother held aloft her child To bless tho bow of God. Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, The first made anthem rang On earth deliver’d from tho deep, And the first poet sang. Nor ever shall the Muse’s eyo Unraptured greet thy beam j Theme of primeval prophecy, Bo still tho poet’s theme! The earth to thco her incense yields, Tho lark thy weloomo sings, When glittering in the freshen'd fields The snowy mushroom springs. How glorious is thy girdlo cast O’er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirror'd in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down ! As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam. For, faithful to its sacred page, I leaven still rebuilds thy span, Nor lets the type grow pale with age That first spoke peace to man. Charles Soutdman. Athens, Ga. IS Is Oa a 03 3 © U 3 ♦ SUNDAY READINGS, FOR AUG. 5. • PEACE. “ The fruit of the Spirit is peace.” —Gal. v. 22 The Gospel is a system of peace; Goil is the author of peace ; Christ is the Prince of peace, ami “the fruit of the Spirit is peace.” Christians ate the sons of peace. Three things may be remarked concerning this grace. What it includes. Peace with God. Our natural state is one of enmity with God, and alienation from him. By grace, enmity is exchanged for love, and we are reconciled to him by the blood of Christ. Peace of conscience. This is the imme diate effect of our peace with God. While the heart is alienated from him, there is a disturbance within, that no external cir cumstances can quell. Everything around us may be peaceful and tranquil, like the summer brook, while all within may be agitated and perturbed, like the troubled sea. Peace with another. A friendly and peaceable temper and disposition is in ac cordance with the Gospel we profess, and the Master we serve. What it requires. Personal sacrifice. There must be the exercise of self denial and forbearance.— A self-willed, obstinate temper is opposed to a spirit of Christian peace. For the maintaining of peace, we must often sacri fice pride, prejudice, our feelings and com forts. Continual watchfulness. He that has subdued his own spirit is a greater con queror than Alexander or Cmsar. How many brave generals have made the most illustrious achievements, conquered na tions, and subdued kingdoms, and at last have had an enemy within they could not overcome! Persevering efforts. Christians are not only called on to be peace-seekers, but peace-makers. We should be ready with the still water of Christian love and chari ty to quench the first sparks of discord, before they are kindled by unholy breath into a flame of unhallowed fire. “ Follow peace.” What it insures. Many privileges are connected with it. It is associated with the Divine favor. — The (levelopcment of such a disposition is an evidence of our spiritual sonship. It will promote our individual happiness. There is a delightful feeling experienced by the sons of peace, which the children of discord never knexv. It will secure the esteem of others. In dividuals who cultivate such a godlike dis position, are an incalculable blessing, both to the church and the world. How culpa ble are many professing Christians, who display a spirit quite contrary to that of their Divine Master, who was ineck and lowly in heart; and thusdishonorreligion, please the enemy, and grieve the Holy Spirit of God ! “ Hail, Source of light! arise nnJ shine ; All gloom and doubt dispel; Give peace and joy, for wc are thino ; In us forever dwell.” JOHN ROGERS—THE NUMBER OF HIS CHILDREN. A writer in the Cambridge (Mass.) Chron icle essays to settle the old and vexed ques tion, How many children had John Rogers 1 which has puzzled the rising if not the risen generation for many a year. The narrative and the wood cut, in the old New England Primer, left the number of children in a state of as much “glorious uncertainty” as usually surrounds a ques tion of law. “ Nine small children and one at the breast,” left the inquirer in doubt whether the child “ at the breast” was one of the nine small ones, or a tenth child.— A reference to the picture failed to settle the question, says the Chronicle. The art ist seemed himself in doubt, and mixed the heads of the children of the martj’r with the surrounding crowd, in such a way as to make it impossible to distinguish the one from the other. Thus the question has re mained in doubt for near tw’O centuries. In a recent edition of this narrative, “with a historical introduction by H. Hum phrey, D. D., President of Amherst Col lege,” of which over 100,000 copies have been circulated by the Massachusetts Sabbath School Society, an attempt is made to settle the dispute, by anew and more distinct picture, in which the spectators are left out, and the wife and nine small chil dren, besides one at the breast, are plainly represented. But this malicious Chronicle writer seems unwilling to allow the question to stay thus settled, and quotes the following authorities as bearing upon it, that is to say: ‘ Foxe’s Acts and Movements of these Bitter and Perilous Days’ the earliest pub lication after the Martyrdom, published in London in 1562, only scv;en years after Rogers was burnt at the stake at Smyth lield, and whilst his numerous family were still living, states that “ his wife and chil dren, being XL in number, X. able to go out, and one sucking on her breast, met him on the way as he went towards Smyth field.” In Middleton’s Evangelical Biography (vol i. page 302) it is written : “His wife and ten children by her side, with one at her breast, met him by the way.” In l 'Thg Annals of the English Bible, by Christopher Anderson, London, 1645, vol. ii., page 285,” the following passage may be found : “The people were giving thanks for his constancy; but there, among the crowd, j there met him the wife, whom neither 1 Gardiner nor Bonner would permit him to I see. His wife, the foreigner, with all her children. * * * the eldest now llt seventeen years of age; the young,, the eleventh child , an unconscious boL hanging at the mother's breast ” This Chronicle writer is not content, thisarrayof authorities to upturn tl le j. cherished opinion that the number of] Rogers’ children did not at most c\ ten, as also the well-authenticated pi, in Dr. Humphrey’s tract, but he insist on it that it has thus “been shown, the “highest English authority, (the, estand the latest,) that the number of Rogers’ children was neither nine not but eleven. The error may at first been merely typographical—aiisin® the transposition of the numerical !| XI, as originally printed in Foxe. I historians, copying at second hand, helped to perpetuate the error. ”-C, zette. Hazt.e eyes. —(Major Noah disern thus of haz.le eyes: “ They inspit first a l'la’.onic sentiment, which grail but surely expands, and merges into as securely founded as the Rock of R| tar. A woman with a hazel eye a elopes from her husband, never chats s dal, never sacrifices her husband’s cot for her own, never finds fault, never i too much or too little, always is anej taining, intellectual and agreeable creaf We never knew but one uninteresting unamiable woman with a hazle eye, she had a nose which looked, as the! kees say, like the little end of nos whittled down to a pint.” The First Blow. —George the 111. very punctual, and expected punctui from every one. Lord Kate, was thei punctual person who attended upon Majesty—he was never a second hei time. One day he had an appoint! with the king at twelve o’clock, butu passed throuh the hall the clock sn twelve, on which his lordship, in a sion, raised his stick, and broke the j of the clock. The king reminded him he was a little behind his time, vhic excused the best way be could. At next audience the king exclaimed ask tereil, “ Why Kate, Kate, how came y strike the clock “ The clock s first,” cooly replied his lordship, king laughed heartily at the gravity which Lord Kate excused himself, 11 added zest to the bon mot. Consolation.— A passenger on i the ship Regulus, of Boston, in al home, states that they had on board vessel a thin .and feeble member of company, who had been sea-sick all way out to the line. One day this went to the doctor, and in a sad, supp ting tone, accosted him with— “ Doctor, can you tell me what 1 1 he good for when I get to San Frann if 1 keep on this way!” “Tell you? To he sure I can. arc just the man we want to begin a ■ yard with /” Natural vs. Acquired Habits.—l co maintained that nature was morepi than art, while Dante asserted to thei trary. To prove this principle the j Italian bard referred to his cat, whit repeated practice he had taught to IK candle in its paw while lie supped oti Cecco desired to witness the experh and came not unprepared for the puij When Dante’s cat was performing its Cccco lifted up the lid of a pot whid had filled with mice. The creaturci instantly showed the weakness of ad merely acquired, and, dropping tlie cat (low on the mice with all its instiM propensity. Dante was himselfdiscot ted, and it was adjudged that the adw for the occult principle of native faci had gained his cause. Feeling what you give.—The Daniel Baker, in his report of a Missiot tour in the State of Texas, very pithii] marks: “Methinks one reading this rt says,—Well, I will give five dollars to cause of domestic missions. I can | this amount and not feci it.’ Suppost, Christion brother, you give twenty, feel it. Our Savior felt what he you, A remark of this kind, oncew through the pulpit, thrilled through whole soul, and made me do more l emty my purse : 1 borrowed froinafn The idea of feeling what I gave f* lightful.” An Oath Reflected Upon.— maine, hearing a man call upon ln< curse him, offered him half a crown if would repeat the oath. The man $ “What, sir! do you think I would* my soul for half a crown ?” s* [ maine answered—“As you did it ju^ l for nothing, I could not suppose you*! refuse to do it for a reward.” The I fellow was struck with the reproof, said—“ May God bless you. sir, 35 ward you, whoever you are. I you have saved my soul. 1 hope 1 1 never swear again.” Itey”’ The spirit of intolerance huv the Siroco of the desert, sometime? hi* but always with fatal certainty, l>l®-**j germ of virtue, and blighted the h® genius.— Thos. Knott. “ I'll try you!” as the sun said u fat man. Bfe£s“- A tombstone in Cleveland 1 only the words, “ Little Charley much do those two words tell of * ed hope, a withered flower, ad hearth. fifST* Mr. Emmcrson says that no has an original idea after he is tltidf Itea"’ It has been finely observed b.V S. C. Hall, that “ men sacrifice otlu’ 15 ” men themselves!”