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i sctobsbb mmi wfm w utmmm, tm mn mb kiiiksis, mb m mwmh iimam®. ~ ‘-J For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. A MEMORIAL TO MA R Y E . LE E. BY WM. C. RICHARDS. A star may perish from the azure sky, And yet its radiance cheer the watcher’s eye ; A (lower may fade amid its freshest bloom, And still, its petals yield a rare perfume; A chord on some sweet instrument may break, Yet mournful echoes ’mid its ruins wake : So may the loved and gifted one depart, And leave memorials in each loving heart! The star, the flower, the broken lute, Are emblems all of thee; Gone—faded—and forover mute— We mourn thee, Mary Lee. Thy life, as pome fair star was pure, And beautiful to see ; Its holy light shall long endure Around us, Alary Lee. E’en as sweet violets unfold Their charms where few may see. Thy graces bloomed, and from the mould, Yield fragrance, Mary Lee. Thy song surpassed the lute’s sweet tone, So varied, rich and free; We hear it still, though thou art gone, And ldess thee, Mary Lee 1 Jan. 1,1850. if a a a® 5a a sa® sie* Fop Richards’ Weekly Gazette. THE MAIDEN’S CHOICE. BV MRS. C. W. DUBOSE. “And canst thou think, because we part. Till some brief months have flown, That absence e’er can change a heart, Which years have made thine own 1” “The love which is kept in the beauty of trust, Cannot pass like the foam from the seas, Or a mark that the finger has traced in the dust, Where ’tis swept by the breath of the breeze.’’ Mrs. Welby. “ Will you ever love me, Alice 1 ? Will you bring back the same warm heart, the same unsullied purity, the same free, gush ing joyousness, which mark you now ; or will you forget the happy hours we have passed together, and, amid the gaieties of the city, cease to think of one who loves you with all the fervor of a manly heart?” “ Fear not, Herbert; the heart that is plighted to you will not forget its alle giance, nor can the allurements of society ever win away my thoughts from our ear ly vows. 1 will be true to you.” And the young girl lifted her blue eyes, swimming in tears, to meet the gaze that was bent so fondly upon her. They were alone, that youth and maid en, beneath the blue sky, and the moon light shone full and clear upon the fair, open brow of Alice Stanley, with its clus ters of golden curls, and its expression of purity and innocence. Nor looked that moon less lovingly upon the manly form •hat stood by her side, and held her little hand so tenderly in his own. His eyes were darkly bright, and on his pale, high forehead, was stamped the seal of intellect. About his finely chiselled mouth were im pressed the lines of early sorrow, but his countenance wore the expression of the spirit’s mastery, the strong and determined will, the firm and high resolve, unconquer ed and unsubdued, now softened and spir itualized by the love which his noble heart bore to the fair and gentle Alice. Long and earnest had been their con verse; since dewy twilight had they walk ed together, and held communion of all that was in their hearts; and now, as the hour of parting drew near, they lingered still in the vine-clad porch, and their voices grew tremulous with feeling, and Herbert clasped still more fondly the hand he held. “Forgive me, my Alice,” said he, “that I seem to doubt you; but you are young and very lovely, and many, with honeyed words and flattering smiles, will seek to win this little hand. Say, shall they sue •n vain ?” “ Ah, dear Herbert, the flatteries of others can never be so dear to me as your sweet smile of commendation. Nothing can ever charm me like the music of your voice, which ever meets my ear in tones of love and kindness. Do not pain yourself with sad forebodings. Your Alice will not for get you. And now, while lam gone, be as a son to my gentle mother, nor let her miss too painfully her wild and wayward child. I grieve to leave her alone, with her sad memories and mournful thoughts ; but you will win her from them, will you not, dear Herbert 1” “\ T es, my own love, I will try to cheer her lonely hours, but who can fill your place, or supply the love that makes the light of her quiet cottage ? How we shall miss the music of your voice, and the smile that ever makes sunshine in our hearts, be the day ever so dark and cloudy. God bless you, my Alice, and bring you back unchanged to those who love you so well!” Alice Stanley was fatherless, but when with his last breath, her dying father com mitted her to her mother’s tender care, he left her to one not unworthy of the charge. For many years, in loneliness and sorrow had she watched over her darling, striving to instil into her mind those principles which would guard her from the tempta tions of the world, and secure her greatest happiness hereafter. Gifted with a supe rior intellect, it had been her delight to guide the youthful mind of Alice in its search after knowledge, and to perfect her in those accomplishments which add so great a charm to woman. A proficient in music, she had spared no pains to cultivate the decided taste which Alice had early displayed for it ; and often was their quiet cottage made vocal with the blended voices of mother and daughter, to the accompani ment of piano or guitar. It had been her father’s request, that when Alice was eighteen, she should be permitted to spend a year with her uncle, who lived in the city of , and it was in compliance with this request, that she was now to bid farewell to the scenes of her childhood, to test the pleasures of a city life. Her uncle had arrived the even ing before, to conduct her to his home, and to his kindly care, with many tears and blessings, her mother now confided her. For the first part of her journey, Alice sat silent and tearful, by the side of her uncle, but with the elasticity of youth, she soon recovered her usual cheerfulness, and responded readily to his efforts to amuse her. New scenes and new faces have ever their charm for the young, and Alice soon forgot her grief in the ever-changing scenes of their route. She listened with pleased attention to her uncle’s comments upon the scenery, and upon their fellow travellers, and delighted him by her artless replies and her keen enjoyment; but still, eager as she was for every new attraction, she was not sorry when the railroad train brought them to their journey’s end, and the handsome private carriage which had received them, stopped at the door of her uncle’s mansion; but she missed, in her aunt’s stately welcome, the warm kiss and fond embrace with which her own dear mother was wont to greet her, and she sighed when she thought of that mother in loneliness and sadness at home. The little village of L——, in which Mrs. Stanley resided, was secluded from the fashionable world, as well by its remote situation, as by the tastes of its inhabitants, which had led them to adopt the primitive manners of their fathers in all their strict simplicity. Mr. Stanley had been the be loved clergyman of the village, whose words had been as oracles to the loving parishioners who for years had listened to the pure and holy precepts which fell from his lips, so strongly enforced by his own example. And at length, when death snatched him from their sight, they laid him to his rest in their quiet church-yard, with tears and lamentations, and turned to comfort the bereaved wife and child, whose loss was so much greater than their own. Mrs. Stanley, unwilling to leave a spot consecrated by the memories of past hap piness, and doubly dear as the last resting place of her honored husband, removed from the parsonage, upon the arrival of the new inmates, to the little cottage which she had since occupied. Mr. Melville, the father of Herbert, was a worthy successor of their former beloved pastor, and by his fervent zeal, his warm and unaffected piety, which beautified his every action, and shone in his every word, he soon won the hearts of his simple con gregation. Nor was he alone in his untir ing efforts for their good. His wife, amia ble and retiring, but truly pious, ably sec onded his exertions. She had early sought the acquaintance of Mrs. Stanley, striving by every kind and delicate attention to win her from her bitter grief, in t \vliich she so far succeeded, that a warm friendship sprung up between them, which continued until she was cut off in the midst of her usefulness, by an untimely death, a few years after the decease of Mr. Stanley.— Sorrowing for the loss of her friend, but cheered in her sadness by the certainty of her happy immortality, Mrs. Stanley rous ed herself from despondency, to be a mo ther to the yourg Herbert, thus early de prived of the counsels and guidance of his own mother. Reared under his father’s own eye, and carefully guarded from all the temptations which beset the young, Hubert had grown up, from an ardent, high-souled boy, to a noble, firm-principled young man—one not unworthy to take the place of a father so justly honored and beloved, when, full of years and blessings, that father closed his eyes in the sleep which knows no waking. Thus bereaved of both his parents, Herbert had concen trated the whole strength of his natnre in his love for Alice, who had been his com panion from childhood, the sharer of his youthful sports and of his sterner studies —who had bent with him over the same page, and sat by his side while he listened to the words of wisdom which fell from his father’s lips—who sympathized with him in every sorrow, and shared his every joy—who was, in fact, the being whom his boyish fancy had painted in such glowing colors—the realization of his bright ideal—the one beloved object who was destined to rob life of its harshness, and make existence like a fairy dream.— Nor wonder, then, that he was sad when the hour of parting came, and Alice bade him farewell for the first time. Strong as was his trust in her truth, he still feared that, amid the fascinations of the city, she would lose some of the sweet simplicity, the winning artlessness of her character, and when the year of absence had expired, find no charm in the quiet seclusion of her childhood’s home. In his lonely walks, he missed her sweet companionship, and with fervent prayers for her happiness, he watched and waited for her return. It was mid-winter, and the snow lay like a mantle over the city. Sleigh-bells rang out merrily on the clear frosty air, and the fires blazed cheerfully in the well closed houses. A flood of light streamed from the doors and windows of a stately mansion in B street, and strains of music stole forth on the night breeze, as group after group alighted from the well filled sleighs and entered the house. The snow crackled and crumbled under foot, as groups of gaily dressed young men, with jest, and merry laughter, sprang lightly up the marble steps, and entered the hospita ble doors. The spacious and well-lighted saloons were filled with the beauty and fashion of the city. Bright eyes glanced amid raven curls, and delicate forms, clad in gossamer drapery, floated gracefully about —jewels flashed and sparkled amid silken folds, and light feet kept time to merry music, in the mazes of the giddy dance. But amid that glittering throng, Alice Stanley shone preeminent. Her robe of rich white silk fitted exqusitely to her graceful form, and her golden curls were simply looped up with a bandeau of large pearls. Her ejes sparkled, and her cheek wore the flush of gratified vanity, as whis pered praises fell upon her ear. Many eyes followed her admiringly, as she mov ed lightly through the rooms, and many lips paid homage to the grace and beauty of the leputed heiress of her uncle’s wealth. But she listened with indifference to their flatteries, for the voice of Herbert still lin gered in her memory. As one after ano ther joined the group which surrounded her, she smilingly replied to their delicate compliments, and, by some well-directed repartee, disarmed them of their point; but the flush deepened on her cheek, and her eye emitted a brighter flash, as a noble and commanding figure advanced into the throng. A mass of rich, dark hair waved over his broad and ample brow, and a keen and searching glance shot from lus dark grey eyes. He evidently was a personage of no mean importance, and commanded respect from the thoughtless group, for, as he drew near, they all made way for him ; but he seemed to note only Alice, for “Lightly heeding all beside, ho poured his yearn ing thithorward,” and bent his eyes upon her with a look of deep admiration. Alas! for Herbert, that fair young cheek glowed beneath his glance, and those clear blue eyes were raised with beautiful timidity to his face, and no sarcastic reply followed his ear nest greeting. As his musical voice fell on her ear, she listened with gratified at tention to his words—and already the whisper had circulated througli the room, that Col. D’Orville was the favored suitor of Miss Stanley. Near the recess of a curtained window, two young men stood, watching the gay group. “How lovely Miss Stanley is,” said one; “with what careless grace she re ceives the compliments of the crowd who so eagerly wait for her smiles. But see! that blue eye is lighted up as D'Orville draws near; and with what new anima tion she turns to him. Verily, the beauti ful statue has a soul, and he is a lucky fellow who wakes it into life.” “Yes,” replied his companion, “D'Or ville is caught at last. After resisting the combined attractions of all our city belles, and the manoeuvres of their mammas, for the last two seasons, the lustre of this new star has won him from his solitary orbit, and the stately D’Orville sues for a lady’s smiles.” “Methinks I have heard something of a certain lover in her rural home, and of a previous engagement, but I presume it was mere rumor; or, at least, Miss Stanley will soon forget her rustic love when Col. D’Orville bends the knee.” “ There is little of the rustic about Miss Stanley, except it be her perfect freedom from affectation ; and 1 think it will be a difficult task, even for D'Orville, the all conquering, to win that little hand, resting so daintily on the marble table. Mais nous verrons.” And the two separated, to seek partners for the dance. Alice had now been an inmate of her uncle’s house for several months, ami du ring that ttme, the genuine truthfulness of her character, and her warm affection, had completely won his heart—so much so, that he had publicly declared his intention of making her his heiress, having unfortu nately no children of his own. Mrs. Stanley, proud of her niece's grace and beauty, was resolved on forming for her a brilliant matrimonial engagement, and to that end, spared no expense in ad ding to her attractions, and setting them off to the best advantage ; and Alice Stanley soon became the reigning toast in the fash ionable circle in which she moved. This was at first irksome to her, and she often sighed for the sweet freedom of her village home, and the gentle voice of Herbert; but as time wore on, and intercourse with so ciety removed the bashful timidity which was at first so distressing, she thought less and less of home, and received with more pleasure the homage tendered to her on all sides. But great as was the number of her suitors, not one had power to move her heart, until Col. D’Orville appeared.— The eclat of making such a conquest, call ed forth all her latent vanity, and without any definite intention of breaking her early vows, she permitted his attentions, till, at length, the rumor of her approaching mar riage reached Herbert in his village home. The announcement overwhelmed him with sorrow, and, for a time, “ He felt that chilling bitterness of heart, which attends Tho loss of love, the trcachiry of friends,” and gave himself up to all the bitterness of despair. But this could not last long; his noble heart, early inured to suffering, and chastened by its very intensity, bowed humbly beneath the shock : and though it brought a sad awakening from all his youthful dreams, he murmured not, but a settled melancholy, “ That breathes no sigh, that sheds no tear, While it consumes the heart,” preyed visibly upon his health, till he was but the shadow of his former self. He was roused from this deep sadness by the declining health of Mrs. Stanley, which required his constant attention. It had ever been her dearest wish to see her daughter united to the son of her heart, and Herbert, fearing to add sorrow to her closing hours, studiously concealed from her the falsehood of Alice, though it wrung his very soul to hear her talk so hopefully of their union, and of their mu tual love. When Alice first left them, her letters to Hubert were long and frequent, breathing the warmest affection, and the most con stant remembrance, but gradually they had lost their touching artlessness of expres sion, and became few and far between, till of late their correspondence had ceased al together. She had now been absent nearly a year, and Mrs. Stanley, visibly approaching the grave, yearned for the presence of her dar ling, to soothe her last moments, and to re ceive her dying blessing. Wishing to spare her all grief, they had kept her in ignorance of her mother’s ill health, till the truth could be concealed no longer; and now Mrs. Stanley begged for the presence of her daughter. “Go for hei, my son,” said she. “ Let me clasp her once more to my heart, ere T go hence, and then 1 commit her to your care. Go my son —delay not —and God’s blessing be with you.” And Herbert bowed his head on her pale and wasted hand, and witli a heart bowed with anguish, promised to do her bidding. “Alice, my child, haste thee—Col. D’- Orville waits,” said her aunt’s voice in the hall below : and Alice lingered only to ar range more becomingly her new French hat, and twine a truant curl around her slender fingers, and then tripped gaily down, to meet Col. D'Orville, whose ele gant equipage waited at the door to re ceive its lovely occupant. The stately Colonel handed in (he blushing girl, and springing lightly to a seat by her side, the beautiful horses dashed off at a rapid pace. What passed during that ride, we can only guess; but on their return, the checks of Alice wore a brighter hue than usual, and Col. D’Orville, as he bade her adieu at the door, pressed her hand witli a meaning smile. Alice entered the drawing-room with a thoughtful air, and, raising her eyes, encountered the sorrowful gaze of Herbert Melville, who had arrived during her absence, and anxiously awaited her return. Slio started, and the flush on her cheek died away, for the wan face and sunken eye of Herbert, told too truly of the blight that had fallen upon his young years. She spoke not, but gazed eagerly upon him, for her heart bitterly reproached her. He took her hand and led her to a seat, and then, with all the tenderness of a brother, he told her of her mother’s illness and of his own sad mission, and urged her to lose no time in preparing to return with him to her mother’s side. She listened to his communication like one in a dream. He spoke to her gently and soothingly, till tears came toiler relief, and she bent down her fair head, and wept in the very bitterness of anguish. Then, starting up, she exclaimed wildly— “ Come, let us go. My mother, oh! iny mother.” She delayi 1 only to announce to her aunt the urg nt necessity for departure, and leaving n > message for Col. D’Orville, she hastened to her early home. During their hurried journey, there was no time for explanatii is, and her mother’s situation soon occupied all her thoughts. For a time, the disease took a favorable turn, and flattered them with hope, but this soon died away, and death approached with sure and steady step. It is beautiful to look on the last hours of a Christian — to see the lamp of life expire with a steady blaze, and the soul, full of hope and joy, patiently waiting till the last sand shall have mn out, ami angel wings shall bear it to a blissful immortality. Such was the close of Mrs. Stanley’s blameless life. “My children,” said she, as her last hour approached, “do not grieve for me. I leave you together; to your keeping, Herbert, I commit the happiness of my darling child. See that ye guard well the precious trust. Your hand, my daughter! I give it to you, Herbert; be as kind and as true to her as you have ever been to me, and a mother’s dying blessing he upon yon.” Then with a smile she closed her eyes, and gently fell asleep. Though almost entirely occupied with her mother, Alice could not fail to mark how beautifully the character of Herbert displayed itself in that trying hour of ad versity. With untiring assiduity he shared her vigils, and by his gentle sympathy, soothed the bitterness of her anguish, lead ing her with kindest words to the true source of consolation, till she was taught to say “Thy will, oh! Lord, be done!” and after her mother’s death, his thought ful kindness spared her many a pang. As the knowledge of his many virtues was im pressed day by day upon her mind, her former love for him returned with redou bled vigor, and the brief fancy with which Col. D’Orville had inspired her, was re membered only as a fitful dream, and re gretted, only that it had given pain to a heart so truly noble as Herbert’s. As she could not remain alone at the cottage, it was agreed that she should re turn with her uncle, who had come to at tend her mother’s funeral, and that Herbert should follow her as soon as practicable. The night preceding her departure, they stood again alone, in the vine-clad porch; but few would have recognized, in the pale, sad countenance of Alice, the same bright face, so full of hope and joyousness, which, but one little year before, had glan ced amid those clustering vines. Now, it rivalled in purity ‘.he jessamine that twined round the casement of her mother’s win dow. but from amidst its deep sadness, there beamed a smile of holy trust, as those blue eyes were again lifted to the face of Herbert. “I fear not, my love,” said he, “that you will again deceive me. The heart that is purified by suffering is firm and strong. But I would that you should have time to reflect. Remember that, by declining the alliance which Col. D'Orville offers you, and accepting me, you refuse not only his high station, for the humble home of an obscure clergyman, but you also resign the fortune of your uncle, who would never consent to your union with one so humble as myself.” “’Tis true, Herbert, but what is all that, compared to your love, which, alas! 1 was about to throw away so lightly. I am content to resign worldly honors and sta tion, to find a home in your true heart ; but be it as you will —the time of our separa tion will not be long. I know my aunt will condemn my choice, but my heart is your's, and your’s only, Herbert, and all their entreaties cannot win it from you.— So help me God, I will fulfil my mother’s dying request.” “ I bless you, my Alice, for that resolve, and with renewed confidence, bid you seek your uncle’s home, and await my coming. If you should yet regret this decision, you have but to let me know, and you shall never hear one wor.l of reproach, though my heart should break in the struggle.” Again, then beamed over the countenance of Alice, that smile of holy truth, and with a murmured “farewell,” they once more parted. The deeji mourning of Alice prevented her mingling in the gay society of which she had formerly formed the centre, even had her wishes led her lo it, which they did not; but Col. D’Orville had ever been a privileged visiter at her uncle’s mansion, and she frequently met him there. Hut the charm that had once hung around him was broken—her heart was true to her first love, and when, after a time, he re newed the offer of his hand, he met with a firm but gentle refusal. Her aunt remon strated in vain, and finally left her in an ger, calling her “an ungrateful, self-willed girl;” but though the gentle spirit of Alice was deeply pained by this lihkindncss, she never wavered for an instant. The letter which she that night penned to Herbert, contained the earnest outpourings of -a heart which yearned for sympathy. “ Come to me,” it ran. “In the stillness of night, my heart whispers your name, and my spirit longs for your companion ship. Oh! do not longer delay. Am I not your own—bound to you by every tender tie ? By the memory of my mother’s dy ing words, 1 bid you come to me now, for though I must resign all that the world holds dear, I freely do it for your dear sake. My uncle and aunt, I fear, arc ir remediably offended with me, but though their displeasure grieves me much, I can not hesitate; and again 1 say, come to me, for lam only your’s.” ***** A few short days brought Herbert Mel ville to her side, and her uncle, pleased with the simple earnestness of his man ners, and the true nobility of his character, ere long relented in his favor, and yielded an unreluctant consent to their union; though her aunt never forgave her for re fusing the alliance which she had planned for her. Their union was consummated without delay, and Herbert returned to his home, bearing witli him his young and lovely bride, whose cheek again wore the hue that lingers in the heart of the rose, and whose eye had resumed the smile of its earlier days. As the youthful pair stood again in the shadow of that vine-covered porch, Herbert clasped his young wife to his heart, and with a fervent voice invoked the spirit of her mother to bless and sanc tify their union, and Alice hid her tearful eyes upon his bosom with a tranquil and holy trust. Year after year rolled by, marked only by those changes which time ever brings. A few silver hairs gleamed amid the raven tresses ot Herbert, but years had left un furrowed the pure white brow of his be loved and loving wife. Another Herbert, with the same dark eyes, and a liny Alice, witli her mother’s golden cuils, now laugh ed away their happy hours in the garden of the old parsonage, and as Alice Melville gazed with pride and love upon her hus band’s manly face, she found no reason to regret her early choice. tety” The first announcement of a rail road in Georgia was made some fifteen years ago, as follows: 1 Railroad in Georgia. —A fellow by the name of John Nockumstiff was rode upon a rail in county, Ga., one day last week, for abusing his wife.’ •ifia.BiLfl©aA!E^ THE GIRLS OF HILO. [From Lieut. Wise’s now book, 1 Los Gringos.’J All classes of Hilo, (Sandwich Islands,) evince an enthusiastic admiration for flow ers, and the maidens particularly are never without natural wreaths, or necklaces of woodbine and jessamine, prettily woven for the occasion. There is a yellow bud of the candle-nut, which is not so pleasant to eye or nose, though more generally worn. But in all the tastes and diversions of the natives, there was not one that charmed us so much, and in which the natives in dulged with such wild delight, as bathing in the river of YVailuku. Along the whole eastern face of the Isl am! of Hawaii there are numberless rills and streams, that come bounding from the lofty sides of the giant mountains, in cata racts and cascades, until at last they jump from the green-clad shores into the salt foatn of the ocean. One of the largest of them is the Wailuku. No further than a league from the harbor inland, is a minia ture Niagara, of more than a hundred feet, which dashed a mass of broken water into a bowl-like basin, flashing upon either side brilliant rainbows. Retracing our steps towards the village, the bank of the river becomes less abrupt, and within a hundred yards of the bay. the water is di verted into a multitude of channels—here, a torrent boiling over scattered rocks, with a clear, sleeping pool beyond—there, the white cataract, plunging swiftly through the narrow straits, and leaping gaily down below, like a liquid portcullis to some mas sive gateway—again, whirling eddies play ing around rocky islets, until at last, by one sparkling effort, the waters re-unite, and go roaring and struggling down a deep chasm, into the noisy surf of the bay. It is here the youth of both sexes pass most of their time. Troops of boys and girls, and even little ones, scarcely able to walk, are seen in all directions, perched on broad, shelving crags, and grassy mounds, or still higher up, clinging from the steep sides, and peeping out from amid the fo liage. On every side, they come leaping joyously into the rushing waters ! There on a bluff—thirty, forty, ay, seventy feet high—a score of native maidens are fol lowing each other, in quick succession, in to the limpid pools beneath. The moment before their flight through the air, they are poised upon the rocky pedestals, like the Medicean Venus. One buoyant bound— the right arm is thrown aloft, knees brought up, and at the instant of striking the water, the head falls back, feet dashed straight out—when they enter the pools with the clearness of a javelin, shooting far away, just beneath the surface, like a salmon.— Others, again, are driven into foaming tor rents—plashing and skirling—laughing, always laughing; plunging, swimming, half revealing their pretty forms, before sinking again beneath the stream. Oth ers, still more daring and expert, go whist ling through narrow passages, thrown from side to side in the white waters -now com pletely hidden in the cataracts—anon rising up in a recumbent attitude, when away they are hurled over a cataract of twenty feet, emerging far below, with long tresses streaming behind, and with graceful limbs cleaving the river, like naught else ill na ture more charming than themselves. It is a sight to make a lover forget a mis tress, or a parson his prayers. I know it would have been my case, had I been so fortunate as to be either! Here I passed my leisure hours, never tired of beholding the beautiful panorama of life and water moving before me; and there were others, on these occasions, who were wont to mingle bravely’ in the sport —portly post captains, husbandly lieutenants, mad-cap reefers, of course, staid chaplains, too! but all declared it was pleasant, exceedingly pleasant! although mingled with a few in different remarks as to what the good mis sionaries might think of it. Many of the v'yhecnees have pretty faces, expressive black eyes, and long, jet black hair; then there are others, who make good imitations of Blenheim spaniels in the visage; but nearly all have rounded, voluptuous forms, perfectly natural and beautiful when young, with small hands