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For Richards* Weekly Gazette.
“ONCE GONE, FOREVER GONE.”
By Mrs. C. \V. Dcßose.
“ There are not two mornings to one day, nor
two childhoods, nor two spring-times. ‘ Once
gone, forever gone,’ is the inscription written on
each hour of life.”— Edith Kinnaird.
Once gone, forever gone !—oh, who can know
With what a meaning these brief words arc
fraught ;
The tears, the agony, the untold grief,
The bitter knowledge by experience taught.
The pa-t, the sunbright part, with what a tear- i
ful gush
Its haunting memories o'er the sj irit rush !
Gone that young childhood of the heart, that
once
Made life so full of lovo and joy and light;
That warm impulsiveness, so fresh, so free—
So sparkling in the fullness of delight.
Th, very sad the thought, that never to the heart
Comes back the sunny warmth its spring time
could impart.
Cnee gone, forever gone—the hopes that sprung
Fresh, joyous, buoyant in our unchilled hearts,
taking within us aspirations w.vra,
And thoughts as sweet as childhood e'er im
parts.
Tho ? e sunny hopes, and can they never more re
turn —
Never again, as once, w ithin our bosoms burn’?
Once gone, forever gone—the happy trust,
! The sweet confiding earnestness of youth,
Which saw no evil in the things it loved,
RejoiHng its own pure, stainless truth ;
Oh! it is sad to know that never, never more
Comes back to the young heart the trustfulness it
bore!
Forever gone, the love that wove its eh'ii
Around our hearts in earlier, happier days—
That made earth teem with beauty, and the sky
i To wear a brighter g’ow,eaught from its rays;
That pu: e unselfish love that made itself a shrine,
And thought the thing it worshipped us almost
divine.
■ arc the dreams that once cou’dfill the soul
I With raptures, as their sunshine warm and
bland,
| Fell brightly o'er it, waking happy thoughts.
Like opening buds, by morning breezes fanned.
And cannot they come back to cheer the soul for
lorn—
Must it be said of them, “Once gone, forever
gone V*
Comes back the eager hope, the happy dream,
The warm, pare love, the sweet, confiding trust,
M ith which our early years so brightly teem ;
Once gone, forever gone, is written on each hour
That God has kindly granted, for our earthly
dower!
Oh! if you would not mourn the sinful wastes
Os childhood’s hopes, and dreams, and loving
truth ;
Keep fresh within your hearts, that spring of love
That brightly flows, in sunny, sinless youth ;
Watering for aye tho flowers that sadly else would
die,
Ar.d gone, forever gone, in solemn silence lie !
Tranquilla y Sept. 1, 18-19.
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
DULL WEATHER.
I _
L ow close the door and bolt the shutter fast,
Make sunshine in the circio, while the blast
phrieks at the shutter light the fires within,
While coldly the dim sunset in the sky
Fails, a* of wont, the upward gaze to win,
And glooms the spirit gazing thro’ the eye.
We are hut creatures of the exterior world,
With all our soul and seeking : and the sphere
I Perforce, that we inhabit, still must share
I ur sympathies, and touch us with its hues,
with will, like that of erst, which hurl'd
Phir sire from thrones ho knew not how to sway,
I ‘V i’.h the endeavor resolute, we shall choose
Our own dominion, peopling as we may.
Ti? with us still, when outward sways the gloom,
‘Vithin, with smiles and love, our homes to reil
lumc. Richard Fairfax.
For Richards’ Weekly Oazette.
THE FLIGHT OF THE HOURS.
Ti©t the dial's shade by day
Mark the hours pass away,
Too slow and heavily creeping,
While parted, Love, we pine,
Like blooms beneath the shine
Os the hot beams over them sleeping.
Wh n a the skies are deeper blu**,
And the stars are bright to view,
In the dawn of their beauty beaming ;
When the waves are clear and calm,
And the winds are breathing balm,
And the dew on the grass is gleaming:
’Neath the twilight’s gentle spell,
We’ve another way to tell
The flight of the joyous houra;
By the warble of the bird,
’Mid the blushing roses heard,
By the birth of the tender flower*—
By the dropping dews of night,
By tho billows, breaking light,
By tho star to the eastward gleaming ;
Bright is its dawn, and yet
*Tis brighter seen to set,
Like our joys when coming and going;
By onr broken sighs of bliss,
By the tender clasp and kiss,
By the tender raptures we feel, love ;
The dial tells the day,
But we have a sweeter way
For the hours o’er dew that steal, love.
t | II .
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
WILD FLOWERS.
By tho brooks side, on the meadow,
in forests dim and lone,
They are springing up in beauty,
By human hands unsown;
The vi*lot and the woodbine,
And the bright anemone,
Gaudy poppies, blushing roses,
Lillies, types of purity ;
A thousand varied colors,
A thousand shapes of grace,
With their fragrance and their beauty
Making glad the wilderness,
Thick and widely are they scatter'd,
Over dell and forest sward,
By the wild bird and the zephyr,
The winged sowers of the Lord,
jftd heedless men pass by them,
Or cru-h them ‘neath their tread,
Noting not their silent beauty
Nor the fragrance from them shed.
Even so in crowded, cities,
In the bye w.iys of the earth,
Are human flowers blooming
By many a lowly h arth ;
Truth, gentleness, and wisdom,
Gilding many a poor firc ido
With a beauty and a glory,
Unknown to halls of pride.
And the great world passeth by them
With a proud and lofty air,
Stone blind to all the Beauty
That Virtue painteth there;
Yea ! haughtily sweep by them
The proud ones of the land
Scarce dreaming these the creatures
Os their Creator's hand:
Yet resteth with these 1 wly
Bliss indescribable,
For God's ministering angels
Love to linger where they dwell.
A them t July , 18-19. Y.
?818 IB(Piffl'fllflSiaiE*
’ el:- ■: .• ‘ ‘
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
WOMAN k WOMAN’S LORD.
BY A LADY OF GEORGIA.
CHAPTER V.
The reminiscences of the past fall upon
the soul with a mournful cadence. Like
the “ music of the spheres,” which speak
the glory of God, and in their eternal mo
tion exhibit the beauty of his laws, we
feel that our souls also have been acted
upon by laws immutable and divine. We
see his hand direct the storm —his power
protect from harm the simple flower of the
field—his influence ever around us on the
path of life. Time throws over the past
his softening veil: the joys and the sor
rows of life are blended together, and to
the trusting soul, the very foundations of
his eternal future is renewed and strength
ened, by bringing his mind to join in with
the universal language of Nature, in pro
claiming the wisdom of the laws which go
vern him.
But, my reader, we must leave the rest
of Charles’s history for another time, for
merry voices advance towards Ellen’s bow
er. Two lovely girls, Charlotte and Em
ma Carey, come in with two romping chil
dren, who are glad of an excuse to be num
bered once more in the family circle. The
young ladies had’ taken a hasty ride on
horseback to see Ellen, and they were full
of life and animation.
“You see, Mrs. Oliver,” said Emma Ca
rey, “we keep up our old characters of
Paul Pry, and seek you out; but I fear,”
she said, as her eye rested on the stranger,
“we are really intruders this evening.”
“ Oh, no,” said Ellen, “ not at all; allow
me to introduce you to my cousin, Mr.
Charles Elliston.”
“ We are happy to become acquainted
with any one related to you,” said Emma;
and with the freedom of a young and in
nocent nature, she extended her hand to
Elliston.
Charlotte bowed her stately head; for
| she was a proud and queenly-looking girl
with eyes and hair the color of the raven’s
wing, and a step that seemed to mark her
decided character. Although she was po
lite to all, she soon left the conversation
entirely to her sister, while she went off
with the children in search of flowers.
11 Oh, Mrs. Oliver,” said Emma, “we
came over expressly to tell you of all the
| pleasure we had at the party in Clarksville
i last evening.”
“Ah!” said Mrs. Oliver. “And what
did your pleasure consist in ?”
j “ What a question,” said Emma, “to ask
a young lady just seventeen. Pray, Mrs.
I Oliver, what did your pleasure consist in,
before you saw Mr. Edward Oliver ?”
“ 1 understand you now,” said Ellen,
j “but I will not confess to the follies of my
j sex.”
“I am glad to hear you make use of so
general a term as sex. Charlotte and 1
differ on that subject. I insist upon it, that
women are privileged to desire and love
admiration, while she insists upon it, that
it is no privilege at all.”
“ Why do you esteem it as a privilege,
Emma ?” said Mrs. Oliver.
“ Because it is natural to them, and gives
pleasure,” said Emma.
“Therefore,” said Mrs. Oliver, “be
cause it is natural to us to resent an inju
ry, and gives us pleasure to protect our
rights, it is a privilege to fight.”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Oliver, I beg your par
don,” said Emma; “that is a very differ
ent matter. My position is an innocent
one, and makes everybody happy; yours
is a sinful one, and makes everybody un
happy.”
“To judge of the propriety or improprie
ty of any- exercise of the mind,” said Mrs.
Oliver, “ we must descend to first princi
ples. If love of admiration is natural, as
you say, it must he either a legitimate or
illegitimate result of one of the faculties of
the mind.”
” And that you cannot prove, Mrs. Oli
ver ; so I am just as safe as you are—am I
not ?”
“Let us try together to unravel the
knptty question. What is the legitimate
exercise of benevolence I It is to relieve
the distressed—to pour halm into the
wounded spirit—to exercise that sweet
charity that ‘covereth a multitude of sins.’
Vet we see persons exercising a false be
nevolence, that, unlike the ‘ widow’s mite,’
will never be blessed in Heaven. Is this
not so, Emma ?”
“Yes,” said Emma; “and yet, Mrs.
Oliver, I believe that the love of admira
tion must be so natural to woman, as to
affect every faculty of her mind.”
“ Well, then,” said Mrs. Oliver, “if
that is your position, you must admit that
it is a perversion—for God, who seeks to
make the pleasure and the eternal good of
his creatures harmonize, would not subject
each faculty of the mind, with its definite
results, to an all-pervading spirit cf the
love of admiration.”
“ I must confess that I am not convinced
yet,” said Emma; “for although you say
it is a perversion of the mind, yet, as it
seems to aflect all the mind, 1 must still
think it perfectly natural. If it was not
implanted in us, my dear Mrs. Oliver, how
could we exercise it 1”
“I admit,” said Mrs. Oliver, 11 that it is,
strictly speaking, a natural result. The
love of approbation from which this feel
ing springs, is given us, that we may de
sire the approbation of the good, of our
own consciences, and of God, the Supreme
Being. It is, therefore, an incentive to no
ble actions and noble thoughts. Pervert
ing it to a mere love of the admiration of
men, is like selling our birth-right for 1 a
mess of pottage.’ ”
“Oh, Mrs. Oliver, ‘almost thou per
suadest me,’ ” said Emma. “I acknow
ledge you have read me a most instructive
lecture; and now, in place of all those
fine speeches I intended telling you, I shall
have to return home with a sad feeling of
defeat.”
“I shall not triumph over you,” said
Mrs. Oliver, “hut I shall watch that spirit,
to see whether you keep it within proper
bounds.”
“ Oh, you must give me respite for a few
days,” said Emma ; “ we are going to make
up a party for the Falls in a short time,
and we shall have a great many beaux
and a great deal of fun.” ‘'x
“Well, I suppose,” said Mrs. Oliver,
“one of these days you will choose one,
and give up your crowd of admirers. But
come, let us seek Charlotte and the gen
tlemen, for they have left us all alone.”
When they went out, they found them
collected near the bathing-house. Char
lotte was on the bridge, standing in the
centre of the arch, and might in ancient
times have been taken for the presiding di
vinity of the scene. Her well-proportion-
ed form shewed to the fu'b-st advantage;
her long black curls were twisted in her
comb, and fell luxuriantly around her fine
ly developed head. With all her beauty,
there seemed a soul and mind within, that
triumphed over all her outward graces.—
But let us introduce ourselves to her ac
quaintance. She had gone off with Ellen’s
children to seek flowers, and as they gath
ered them along the banks of the little j
stream, they approached the bathing-house, !
which looked likea fairy palace, surround- j
ed by a sparkling moat and draw-bridge.
As they came near, and passed on, an ant- 1
leretl buck bounded from the water in their
path, and looked as if he intended to bid
defiance to their approach.
“Oh, Miss Charlotte, let us run,” said
little Genevra, “old Willie will knock us
down.”
“No, no,” said Charlotte, “do you not
know he will run at us if we run, and he
can run a great deal faster than we can.” I
“No,” said Charley, “we will stand
here, and look hard at him.”
But Charley was not satisfied to look
hard at him. Ilis little hhnds were going
as if in defiance of old Willie, and he, tak
ing it as a challenge, advanced nearer ami
nearer to them, pawing the ground with
his tapering hoof. At last, he lowered his
branching horns, and was about coming
directly on them, when a quick step was
heard, and Charles Elliston grappled his
horns, and whirled him over in the dust.
Poor lordling of the forest! his pride was
lowered indeed ! He gave one bound into
the middle of the little stream—stood for a
moment gazing back—then bounded on
into the thickest of the park.
In tho meantime, Charlotte and the chil
dren had stepped on the bridge, which was
near by. As Charles Elliston turned to
her, she said—
“l thank you, Mr. Elliston, for your
timely aid ; for I rather think old Willie’s
anger was directed entirely at me.”
“It gives me great pleasure to be of ser
vice to Miss Carey,” said Elliston.
He stood at the end of the bridge, lean
ing on a slight iton post, that supported
the railing. There was an embarrassed
silence for a few moments, till little Char
ley commenced a conversation about some
flowers he held in his hand.
“Miss Charlotte, you must put this vio
let in your bunch, because it is like you.”
“ How is that, Charley,” said Charlotte.
“You have to be sought after, and that
is the way with the violet.”
“Have you nothing else for me in your
hand ?” said Charlotte.
“Oh, yes, here is a lily, which means
noble pride; and that suits you too, Miss
Charlotte,” said Charley.
“I am very much obliged to you for my
character. Charley. If it does not suit my
nature, ) know it does my taste.”
Charles Elliston looked upon the noble
girl as she bent to receive Charley’s offer
ing, and comprehended that she was both
proud and modest, and would have to be
sought after by the one who should aspire
to win her. Just then, Mrs. Oliver and
Emma came from the bower —the latter
singing, to a lively popular air, the old
words—
“ Oh, di not make me sad—
I can't give up the beaux;
The only thing that makes mo ma t,
Is that they won’t propose.”
Her face was the picture of innocence and
thoughtless gaiety; and there could not be
a more striking contrast than herself and
her sister presented. She was rather pe
tite, but symmetrical and perfect in figure.
Her hair, the richest a lburn, that hung,
girl-like, below her waist, in wavy, grace
ful curls. Her eyes seemed to shed soft
summer light from hazel orbs; and her
lips, when parted in smiles, seemed to cast
a witching spell around her. She knew
she was beautiful, and her gaiety and ease
of manner made her the admired of all the
beaux. This had perverted her ideas, as
you might perceive by her conversation ;
but her young heart only wanted a point
around which to cluster her affections, to
become a charm and ornament to all about
her.
They walked on to the house, engaging
in mirthful conversation about the plea
sures of the party iu Clarksville—the
beaux—and the anticipated party to the
Falls of Tallulah. Emma, with her straw
riding-hat hanging from her arm, and her
curls clustering over her bosom, as she
bent to take little Genevra's hand to lead
her to the house, went on lavishing her
sweetest smiles on the gallantries of the
young stranger. She spoke of her defeat
in the bower,when Mr. Elliston volunteered
his aid in another argument.
“ Flirts and flirtation is the untiring topic
of conversation, whenever Emma is pres
ent,” said Charlotte
! “ Because it is such an interesting sub
j ject,” said Emma.
“I know that you consider it so, my
dear little sister. I pity the beaux and
your own heart, when you really do make
! your entree into the world,” said Charlotte.
“Never fear for my heart, sweet Char
| lotte; that will be safe enough,” said Em
i ma; and the wild girl gave such an arch
; look at Charles Elliston, that one might
j have supposed she would willingly resign
’ future conquests in his favor. But Charles’
was studying human nature, and taking
j his first deep impressions of woman's char
acter. Does the leader feel disposed to
ask if his heart is free I It had been, I
assure you, not only as free as the moun
tain air, but fortified by the sympathies
and the exertions he had been called upon
to exercise in his own family, against all
the influences of love. His affection had
always been of a practical kind—leadinv
him to make sacrifices, if required, rather
than empty profession ; and this quality of
his mind had been so called into action,
that he had found no time for the softer
emotions of the heart.
The young ladies remained to tea, and
were accompanied home by the gentlemen.
Mr. Oliver, unusually mirthful, rode by Miss
Emma. Charles and Charlotte—thrown on
their own resources for companionship—
took some steps towards throwing off the
embarrassments of the afternoon.
“ The admiration you excite is not pleas
ing to you, then, Miss Carey,” said Charles.
“The admiration of our friends should
always be appreciated to a certain extent,”
said Charlotte ; “ but when it is awarded
to mere externals, we should hold it low.”
“ You would then depreciate the value of
beauly, by robbing it of its just tribute,”
said Charles.
“ 1 would then rob it of an unreal glare,
and allow it to shine, as it ought, by the
reflected light of the mind arid heart.”
“What is the unreal glare you speak
of 1 ” said Elliston.
“It is the false, artificial, heartless ad
miration of those men who look upon flat
tery as the only vehicle between them
selves and the softer sex. They depre
ciate woman—then touch her with the
fascinating poison.”
“Is there not moral power enough in
woman to overcome this evil?” said El
liston.
“ Not while men 1 stoop to conquer’ by
false arts. Do you not know that they
have the greatest influence over woman’s
destiny ? For whom are the sacrifices
and trials of women mostly endured, if not
for men 1 And yet, though they have the
power to elevate them as a class, they
keep them bound down to social abuses,
which are only tolerated by custom.”
Charles Elliston listened with admiration
to such sentiments, from the lips of a young
lady of only nineteen summers, and as he
gazed upon her enthusiastic Countenance,
he felt that she spoke words of sincere
conviction.
On their return home, the gentlemen
rode leisurely along—for who does not
know that friends, who have been long
separated, have a thousand nameless no
things to communicate. Besides, Ned tried
to probe his friend’s heart, to find if there
was any festering wound of love there, or
if he was still impressible.
“ I wish we could transplant you, Charles,
to our own region o? country, and induce
your heart to yield to the influences of our
dark-eyed beauty,” said Ned.
“ She would have to be sought after,”
said Charles, involuntarily thinking of
Charlotte and the scene on the little bridge.
“Yes, so she would,” said Ned; “but
you, who love exertion of mind and body,
would only feel the more ardor from that
circumstance.”
“ You are right,” said Charles. “I would
accept no woman, who would volunteer
herself to me unsought. We value most
what we gain by toil. Pure gold, doubly
refined, repays the laborer’s care; and the
diamond, though it may be of the first wa
ter, shews not its brilliancy, till it receives
its polish from kindred dust.”
“Conflict of mind with mind devclopes
truth,” said Ned ; “ and I suppose you al
lude to mind and soul.”
“Yes,” said Charles, “to # the ‘innercourt
of the temple,’ where abide truths and trea
sures, which are unfolded and ever unfold
-1 ing to the kindred soul. If I have ever
thought with pleasure of one day loving, it
would be one who would shew a mind
j above the too common desire for admira
tion which prevails among women.”
“ Do you not think that a very excusa
ble weakness in a beautiful girl l ” said
Ned.
“ If we could look upon them as formed
but to bless an hour of easy mirth, we
1 might think ft excusable,” said ChatlesJ
“ but if you remember what stations they
are to occupy as wives and mothers, you
will feel that even ignorance would scarce
excuse them for burying their noblest
feelings beneath so specious an exterior.”
“ You cannot believe, then, that the love
of admiration, with woman, is a principle
of her mind 7” said Ned.
“No. I believe that it is an abuse of
one of the noblest incentives in our nature,
and that, like our imaginations, it is capa
ble of an infinite degree of perversion.—
One who indulges that spirit to excess, will
also indulge the imagination to excess:
and then, jiray tell me, what becomes of
the realities of life 7”
This was spoken by Charles, with
warmth and earnestness, for he had wit
nessed many of the fashionable follies of
the day.
talk like a philosopher, my dear
Phorloo )l , n l.l H7-J l lia >
tell me what great harm does it do, for a
beautiful woman to demand what she is
sure to receive—the admiration of men?”
“You come now to the point of the
question, my dear friend,” said Charles.—
“A moral evil is bad enough in itself; but
its effects are incalculable.”
“ Your conclusions begin to be alarm
ing,” said Ned.
“ Not more so thau the reality, in my
estimation,” said Charles. “A specious
exterior in one, begets it in another; and
thus society, in its revolving scale, acts
one upon another.—destroying really the
very foundations of truth and honesty.—
We know that it is often the boast of man,
that he tells the same tale of devotion to
different ears, and that all listen willingly
to the syren song. And why is this?—
Because the flattering tale lulls to rest the
realities of truth, and wakes up the vague
imaginative life of the sensual mind.”
“My favorite creed is, that there is no
evil in life without a remedy,” said Ned:
“ but what is the remedy in this case?”
“Women must be truthful,” said Charles.
“ They must elevate the standard, and men
will act up to it. Men will then be more
honest; they will not waste words of flat
tery on unheeding ears, or tell a talc of
pretended devotion, where they are sur •
there is no credulity to meet it.”
“ I think, Charles, we might be consid
ered the benefactors of woman,” said Ned,
•‘ if we could only carry out our ideas of
reform. I, by the power of the law, would
reform them physically and socially ; you,
by the power of truth, would reform them
morally and intellectually.”
“ Yes, and men would be the gainers by
it, in happiness and comfort,” said Charles,
“which, combined with the consciousness
of having given life to the impotent, would
doubly repay them for having yielded to
the voice of reason and the voice of truth.”
They had arrived nearly at home, when
they were interrupted by strange sounds,
which seemed to proceed from several men
on the road-side. On riding up near to
them, they found that they had a man who
they were attempting to bind. Ned Oliver
asked “who he was, and why they were
doing it ?”
“ Because,” said one man, “ he is a run
away from justice, and we are taking him
to put him in jail.”
“Yes,” said another man, “here is the
advertisement describing him. He killed
his wife, and ran off with his neighbor’s
money—so we intend giving him lynch
law for stealing, and then hang him for
murdering his wife.”
“Oh, poor Peggy! oh, poor me!” said
the man.
“Well,” said another man, “you are a
poor apology for a man. Kill your wife,
steal for a living, and then, to cap the cli
max, black yourself like a negro, to hide
from justice. Will you tell us what your
name is now ?”
“ Ye-e-es, sir,” said the man.
“ What is it ?”
“Jimmy Day, sir.”
“How can that be, when Jimmy Day
says he is a man when he’s drunk. You
have taken a whipping like a dog. I pro
nounce you no man when drunk, and that
you are fit for nothing but the Penitentia
ry, where they will make you work.”
“Ye-e-s, sir,” said Jimmy Day, “I will
do anything you say, sir.”
“ Well, then, remember what I say, sir.
The marshal will call upon you to sign a
temperance pledge, or go to the Peniten
tiary.”
“Ye-e-es, sir,” said Jimmy Day.
“ Swear that you will do as you are
ttrid”
And the poor wretch, completely sobered
by the fright, looked pitiable indeed, as he
knelt and raised his blackened hands, and
swore that he would do whatever they
wanted him to do. Then, when liberated,
!he went off in his old pacing gait, directly
thtough the woods, in the direction of home
As he got out of sight, the woods reverbe
rated with the mirth of the party. One ot
them was Peggy’s brother, who had tried
every means ot curing Jimmy of his love
of the bottle. When he was sober, he was
too stupid to listen to reason —when drunk,
too gieat a braggart to be controlled. That
evening they had caught him in Clarks
ville, and by main force had blacked him
well. They then came after him on his
way home, took him up as a suspicious
character, and gave him a good scare, t
convince him that he was anything but a
man among men when drunk.
[To bo continued ]
LIFE IN AUSTRALIA.
BY E. W. LANDOR, ESQ.
From “ Tho Bushm in,” or “ Life in a now
Country ” —a recent English publication.
Notes on Native Habits.
The natives are polygamists. Each
male is entitled to all the females who are
related to him in a certain degree. A new
ly born child is therefore the betrothed
spouse of a man who may be thirty year®
of age, and who claims her from her pa
rents so soon as she is marriageable, when
she is twelve years old, or earlier. Some
men have, consequently, four or six wives
of various ages, whilst others have none
at all. The latter are therefore continual
ly engaged in stealing the wives of other
people.
This causes incessant wars among the
tribes. When the legitimate husband re
covers his wife, he does not restore her to
the full enjoyment of domestic happiness,
until he has punished her for eloping.
This be does by thrusting a spear through
the fleshy part of her leg or thigh.
The natives are very good-natured to
one another; sharing their provisions and
kangaroo-skin cloaks without grudging.
The head of a family take® the half-baked
duck, oppossom or wild-dog, from the fire,
and after tearing it in pieces with his
teeth, throws the fragments into the sand
for his wives and children to pick up.—
They are very fond of rice and sugar; and
bake dampers from flour, making them, on
a corner of their cloaks.
A Cow Hunt. •
The cattle who had begun their retreat
at a steady trot, increased their speed as
they saw me gallopping up to them. I
was afraid of their crossing the plain, and
escaping in the thick forest beyond, and so
pushed my good horse to his utmost speed.
He seemed to be as much excited as my
self, and in a few minutes I headed the
herd, and tried to turn them back ; but they
would not deviate from their course, and
would have rushed through a regiment of
foot, had it been in therr way ; 1 therefore
avoided the old bull, who came charging
along at the head of the phalanx, and found
myself in the midst of the herd. It was a
moment of delightful excitement; some
skill was required to avoid the hurting for
est of horns, but I turned round and gal
loped with the mass; and having perfect
confidence in my horse and horsemanship*
I felt that I could pick out any of the ani
mals I pleased. My gun, however, was
wanting to bring the huge bull to his bear
ing. He looked so enormous as I gallop
ed alongside of him, that I despaired ma
king any impression with a pistol, aztd re
solved to limit my ambitiou to the slaugh
ter of one of the cows. We were now.
across the plain, the bull had entered the
forest, and the others were in the act of do
ing the same, when I rode against the out
side cow, in the hope of turning her away
from the thick cover, and keeping her in
the open plain. She would not, h or
turn aside, and 1 fired my first pi
eye, and though I only grazed h
succeeded in separating her from t
panions,and turning her up the lo b pum.
At this moment, four kangaroo-dogs (a
cross between a greyhound and a blood
hound, bold, powerful, and swift,) that had
followed me in the chase, but ha,l only
galloped alongside of the cattle, finding
nii* seriously, engaged with one of the mutt-