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r—- • -✓v• *■ • I.H- :.'Krsr*r • • I ERMS,S2 PER ANNUM IN ADVANCE. ‘ SECOND WHOLE Nft7t. l MmMM jr'AUdL '{ MMML, MWm IQ LffSMTOB. TM MTS iB SWISS, MB TO SSMBM imilGll, 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-