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VOL. XVIII Tiii Trwpsn^ 3ll ba'aEMlr is Tin: O r „auof the Sons of Tern Iterance ” and of tub State Convention of Georgia: PUBLISHED WEEKLY, BY BJ3M VHIV BRASTLT. TT Terms —One Dollar a year,in advance. Letters must be Post paid, to receive at- IHeZ i39Mi jg Banner Almanack, lor 1802. ; /, 3 ; | if Hit ?|i h j! i! i-i ; 1A: .1. L W- -i-feß V ‘U July ~ 1 iNli N J®|*S!s #sl *\ .WJI S I Aus ” k is Li iil#-,;* a|3B Ff <* % • le’l’ i 5&127 ft WSwVI \ S rsdtifgs j. *l7 I J IjJx X lei Ir is io 5i, 21 21 s's|% “J ‘ vl fj 2 i 27 28'29 2i 122|2.;~1 N H, 7’ , -.j 3,1 5 Doc- l! 27141 \ OJane*- , i, 3 fij 7 8 >s li’ 11 IV IO 17 is 13 112 ta 11 1 10: U'-i i/! |S| \ - O J, ‘ ii )’ ,25 30 l!l 2*l 21:22'2:1'21,20 > - ftftftftf,]*',J V Si Every run i<in of becoming a ,lrun!:ai and who is in X the habit us drinking ardent spirit*-, /; X 1. When he in warm. S 11. When lie i“ t work. ; $2 2. When lie iseoll. ( 12. When he is idle. M 3. When he is wet. / .3. Belore meals. 8 J 1 When lie is dev. ) 14. After meals. y” 13 When hois dull. I 10. W lien ho gets up. \ li. Wheu he. is lively. ( Hi. Whenhe is.*s iu bed. y c% 7. When lie tr.vvtils. / 1!• Oh hollumys. y 9. When he i.s in company I 19. On any'lay: or H $1 §-if° Every friend to Temperance^ take the. Temperance k -l lf Temperance men will not, support \ the Temperance Press, Who will . \ maaammmwmmmaaummmmtams MORAL AND ItliLKilUtiS. Wo 7. Gome to Jesus- He is a Loving Saviour. There could be no stronger proof us this than bis corning from heaven to suit, rj and to die. His own words were, ‘Greater love hath ‘no man than Ibis, that a man laydown his life for bis frh nds.” i Why did lie leave a holy heaven for a sinful world; the songs ofungels for lie j temptations of devils; a throne of glory for a cross of agony ? It was love, only ; love. Love, not to friends, but to foes. 1 ‘•While wo were yet sinners, Christ died for us.” lie showed his tender love in a thousand ways while on earth, 1 going about doing good, healing all man ner of sickness, never turning from the j poor and the sad, always the ‘-Friend, of sinners.” How be wept over Je rusalem, as he thought of her sins and approaching sufferings. When in the’ agonies of death, how kindly ho spoke to the pehitefht thief at his side; and how earnestly lie prayed for they Know not what they do.” He might easily have called forth an army ot angels to deliver him, hut if lie had not died, we could not have been saved : and there fore, because he loved us; lie drank the bitter cup to its very dregs. Now that he has risen agaiu. his love to sinners, is as great as ever. Ldve prompts him to intercede for us, to pity us, to send, his Spirit to help us, to wait to he gra-j cious, and save us. He loves you; lie died for you; he looks down with pity on you; he calls you to come to him. His love lias spared you till now though’ you have rejected him. His love bears witli your sms, and agaiu at this mo ment, entreats you to accept a pardon purchased by his blood, it some friend had spent his fortune to deliver you from prison, or risked his life to save yours, could you treat him with neg- , leet ? Hut Jesus lias done far more, i He died to redeem you from eternal woe, and make you happy forever in heav en. He conies to you, and, showing the marks of his wounds, he says, “dee how I loved thee, sinner. I love thee still. Come unto me, that 1 may save thee from sin and from hell.” O re ject not so gracious a Saviour. Tram ple not under foot such wonderful love. You will never meet with such another j Friend. Trust him. Love him. You will always find him lull of pi(y and tenderness. Ho will comfort,! guide, protect, and save you amid all the dangers and sorrows ot life, deliver you from the sting of death, and then make you happy forever in heaven. O come to this loving Saviour ! Sen Luke 19 : 41-14; 3d : 33-13; John 10 : 1-30; 15: 13-15; Rom. 5 : <3-8; Lph. 3 : 17-19. He will be our Judge. “We must all appear before the judgment-seat of Christ.” i’he man 1 of sorrows will come again as. the Gid of glory, &■ “before him will be gathered all nations.” “Heiiold, hocomelu with clouds; and every eye shall s ■. him, and they also who pierced him. Low, encouraging to believers. He is the very person they would imve chosen for themselves; and when they sec him on the throne they will rejoice, for their 1 host Friend, wtio has promised to save j tlieift, will be their Judge, and there | tine they will feel scare. Hut how dreadful for those who have rejected j him. How terrible his.look of reproach to those who pierce him by their sinful | neglect. How dieadl'ul to hear the i voice which now says, “Come time me,” say, “Depart, ye cursed.” Suppose a : | prisoner is soon to be tried for a crime , ! for which he will loose his life. He is*] visited by a man of humble appearance, i hut great kindness, whose heart seems i to /low over with pity for the prisoner, i He has been laboring very hard for the 1 eulpriv's escape at the trial. He tells ; him what he has done, and proves that iie is,quite ableto secure his acquittal lor his pardon, if only the prisoner is i willing he should do so. lie says, “l 1 pray you, let me come forward at the : trial', and speak on your behalf; let mo ’ plead your cause. 1 have saved many a prisoner whose case was as bad as ( yours; l can savo ( you. 1 ask no pay-1 : ment. Love alone prompts me. Cen j sent to let me help you.” But the pris oner is reading, talking, or sleeping,, and takes no notice of this friend, lie douies again and again; but the prison- j er dislikes his visits; and by his actions asks him not to come and disturb him. | The trial comes on. I’he prisoner is I brought into court. He* looks at the I ci t . judge in iiis robes ot olhce, arm sees j jhe is the despised friend who catne to j him in hiseell. But uo.v his coo men- j diioe is solemn, and his voice severe, i He who was refused as a friend now ; i appears only as a judge. Sinner, ire , who, as Judge, will occupy the throne j ! at the last day, comes to thet in thy pris- j lon, and oilers to he thy Saviour. He ‘is willing to” plead thy cause', and pro mises thee a free and full deliverance lat the trial. Refuse him not-, for soon ! you must stand at his bar. Trust in him as yoyr Advocate, if you would not tremble before him as your Judge. Ac- j cept his invitation, if you would not j near him pronounce your doom. Wel come him now to your heart, that he j may welcome you then to his kingdom, j See Matthew 25 .‘ 31-40; 2 Cor. 5 : 10, 1 Ttiess. 4: IG-1S; Rev. 1 : 7. I Vhere is Jesus. It was the.language of Job, “Oh that I knew where 1 might find him, that! ! , might come even to his seat!” Is tins , thy language, poor sinner? Art thou anx 1 iuus to know whereto find Jesus ? lie, lis no longer oil earth in human form, hut has returned to heaven. There! j you may find him, seated oil a throne j [of mercy, waiting to give .eternal life! ‘to all who come to him. You may'j think it far to go, but the pPayers of ] sinners reach heaven the very tno- ] ; meht they are uttered, and are listened , ]to by Jesus with kind attention. Yet, j if this seems hard to understand, know i assuredly that Jesus is not only in] heaven, but on eaith too. He is God,! and therefore is everywhere. He said j to his disciples, “l am with you al-] ways.” He is constantly present ■ I among us. In the sick chamber there j is Jesus, ready to comfort the afflicted - 1 disciple who lies on that bed of pain. In . the secret spot to which the sinner has] retired to confess his sins, there is Je sus, waiting to say, “Be of good cheer, thy sins are forgiven thee; go in peace.” In the church or the room where many or few have assembled to praise and prav, there is Jesus, waiting to supply , their wants. “Wheresoever two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.” Rea der, tie is near to thee. Now, while! thiue eye reads this page, he, staivis close at thy side. He whispers in thine ear. He invites thee to seek him. If anxious to find him, thou hast no long journey to take, no long time to wait before thy request can reach his ear. He is nearer than the friend sitting be- | side thee, for lie is at thy heart’s door, knocking for entrance. Wherever thou guest lie Follows thee, his hands la , den with blessings, which he oilers to thee freely. He compasses thy path, and thy lyitig down; out it is always to do, lliee good. In the morning lie : stands at thy bedside, offering to clothe 1 I thee with his white robe of righteous- ; ness; and when thou art seated at the table, he asks thee to oat that bread of - life which will save thy soul from death, lie is so near that he will notice thy , first faint effort to come to him, and [will stretch out his hand to help thee. ]He is so near that he w ill see thy first I tear of penitence, ami catch thy first sigli for pardon. He is so near tliut j before you call,* he will answer, and ’ while you are yet speaking he will ; hear. Sinner, wherever you are there is Jesus. So that in all countries, un der all circumstances, by day and by night, at home and abroad, you may’ ( come to Jesus. Sec I’saitn 135; Isaiah 05: 24; Mutt.! i IS: 2d, 2 -. 20; John 14. 19-23. PENFIELD, GA. MAY 8, 1852. The Chris-ian Time-View. Tho following magnificent and sol-’ emu passage is extracted from u vol ume of sermons by the Rev. James Murtiiteaa, of England : “That Christianity did really givej an infinite enlargement to the scale of” human life,"and that this is one of list; great features, is conspicuous enough, on comparing it with the religions it; supplanted. It was not indeed that Pagan societies were without the con ception of a future; but Christianity . first got it cordially’ believed. Even! the meditative philosophy of G recce can ; present no clear instances of hearty , and deep couvictiou, except in Plato and his muster; and, whatever vrer may think of the rhetorical learnings of Cicero iu the same direction. Un practical earnestness of Rome was wholly given up, for want of higher thougiits, to-umieriat interests and out ward magnificence. The faint and spectral fancies of a possible future, | that iiquted before the mind of the puo ’ pie, scared away no crime, tranquilizeu ;no passion, disenchanted no mutant pleasure. They lay fevered and rest less beneath the broad, burning corb of this immediate life, drunk with hot in i diligence and asleep to the midnight hemisphere of faith open to the vigils l of the purer soul. Throughout Christ \ t tiddm, oil the other hand, this boundless night-scone of existence has been the great object of contemplation ; has : swallowed up the day; lias reduced ! tile meridian glare of life to an exagger | aied star-light,” truly seen as such from j more central positions where the ap ! parent dyes not distort the real. The difference between the ancient and i modern world is this ; that in the one 1 the great reality of’ being was now; in i tilts other, it is yet to eome. if you would witness a scene charac teristic of the popular life of old, you must go to the amphi-theatre of Rome, mingle with its di),()0O spectators, and watch the eager faces of Senators an I people ; observe how the mastefs of the ] world spend the wealth of conquest, ! and indulge the pride of power ; see ] every wild creature that God has made ]to dwell from the jungles of India to the mountains of Wales, from the i forest of Germany to the deserts of Nu bia, brought hither ta be hunted down j in artificial groves by th-nssuds in an j Hour; behold the captivesof war, noble ! perhaps and wise in their own land, i turned loose amid yells of insult-more terrible for their foreign tongue, tocoir ; tend with brutal gladiators trained ‘to i make death the favorite amusement, laud present the most solemn of individ ; uals realities as a wholesale public sport; mark the light look with which ! tne inullitu Je, by uplifted linger, do | mands that- the wounded combatant be i slain before their eyes; notice th , Loop of Christian martyrs awaiting, J baud in hand, the leap from the tiger’s ! den, and whey the days spectacle is layer, and the blood of two thousand vio linis stains the ring, follow the giddy [crowd as it streams from the vuni turies into the streets, trace its lazy course iu. [to the forum and hear it there scramb ling for the bread of private indolence doled out by -the purse of public cor i ruption; and see bow it suns itself to sleep in the open ways, or crawls into foul dens, till morning brings the hope !of games and merry blood; and you | have an idea of tho imperial people, arid their passionate living for the moment, which the gospel louud in occupation of the world. And if you would fix in your thought 1 an image of tiie popular imnd of Chris tendom, I know not that you could do better ihau go at sunrise with the thranrr of toiling men to the hill-side where Whitfield or Wesley is about to preach. Hear what u great heart of reality in that hyinii that swells upon the morniim ... 1 O • air, —a prophet s strum upon a people’s , lips! .See the rugged hands of labor, i clasped and trembling, wrestling with | tiie Unseen in prayer! Observe the j uplifted faces, deep-lined with hardship and with guilt, streaming now with honest tears, and flushed with, earnest shame, as tiie man of God a : wakes the life within, and tells of him i tliut bare tor us the stripe and tho cross, I and offers the holiest spirit to the hum blest lot, unu tears away the veil of] s v nso from the glad uiid awful gates of heaven and hell. Go to these people’s homos, and observe the decent tastes, ] (tie sense of domestic obligations, the care lor childhood, tiie desire of instruc tion, the neighborly kindness, the con. st;ieniious self-respect; and say, wheth er the sacred image of duty does not live within those mfnds; whether holi ness lias not taken the place of pteusurc in their idea of life; whether for them too-tlie toils of nature are not lightened by some eternal hope, and their burden carried by some angel of love, and the 1 strife of necessity turned into tho serv ice of God. The present tyrannizes over I heir character no morn, subdued by a future infinitely great; and Imrdly though they lie upon the rock of this 1 worid, they-can-live tho life of faith;’ and while the bund plies the tools of! earth, keep a spirit open to the skies.” 1 Adßic u i/r uk al! ! From llie Flow. Cabbages as a Field Crop for Stock. This, to an American farmer, who never j a 100 thought perhaps of growing over u year, which were to be carefully pre ; served for table use, will sound like I some new and strange doctrine. Yet such has been for years the practice of many excellent farmers in England, Scotland, Belgium, and Holland. The advantages claimed, and as we think justly, in favor of the practice, arc, the immense amount of food that can be 1 ‘grown upon an aero; the ease with: : which it can bo cultivated, saved and] fed in winter—its succulent qualities,, which render it fully equal to summer: pasturage for milch cows or suckling] ewes—while its nutritive qualities have j , been amply proven by analysis and ! practice. The following statement of j its nutritive value, is from the Mark I Lane Express : ■! u Comparative Nutritive Value of an 1 Acre of Cabbage with other Crops. — j Tho cabbage has lately been chemi cally examined, in consequence of the j failure of the potatoe, with a view to its! 1 substitution for that root. It is found [go be richer in muscle-forming matter than any crop we grow. It contains more fibrin or gluten, of which sub stance the muscles are made and hence i is richer in the material essenlial to the health, growth and strength of an ani ! mal; wheat contains about 12 per cent of it, beans 25 per cent, but dried cab bage contains from 3d to 40 per cent of this all-important material, of which the principal mass of tho c-1 ture is built. “An acre of good land will produce Id tons of cabbage ; one acre of 20 1 tons of drum-head cabbage will yield 1,500 lbs. of gluten , one acre ofrfwe dos turnips will produce about 30 ions, which will yield 1,00 lbs. ofgluten;! one acre of 25 bushels of beans, will i j yield 400 lbs. of gluten; one acre of j 25 bushels of wheat will yield 200-lbs. I ofgluten ; one acre of 12 tons of pota toes will yield 550 lbs. of gluten. Such !is the. variation in our general crops, ,us the amount of this gluten, ibis spe icial kind of nourishment, this muscle sustaining principle, which accounts for Mho preference given by experienced ’ fitrmers.tu the cabbage as food for stock & milk cows, although the crop itnpover isites the land,which requires much rrta. nure to restore it to fbruiei’ fertility. I The last part of the statement we do ’ not fully agree with; for wo do not be , dove a crop of. cabbage is any morn exhausting to the soil, although it is of : iho” manure, than any other heavy crop of quick growing, vegetation. True, j the land must bo rich-, or it will not! <rrow cabbage to any advantage. Its value over Swedes or English turnips, is not only shown? in the excess of pro duction, but in the -nutritive quality of 1 the food. One experienced former ob-j served sarcastically in speaking of the comparative value of the two crops, that if he had an overplus of hay which he was anxious to have his cattle consume, ,it would be desirable to feed turnips, ,just to encourage, not to satisfy the ap petite. This was rather severe upon a, crop which has done so much to im prove English husbandly within the last half century. Valuable as turnip ’culture has iieen in England, wo think tile culture of Cabbage may be more valuable in this country. It flourishes best in a moist, rich soil, such as re claimed swamps ; it is more hardy than the turnip in its incipient growth , and 1 at a stage when the whole fields of tur nips are liable to be swept off by the llv, cabbage plants, enough to set an ’acre can be effectively protected under ’ a-few panes of glass, or a yard or two of gauze in a frame in tiie-garden.— But for field culture we would recom mend that cabbage seed should be plan- j ted by the drill machine where they j are to grow with a provision of plants in reserve, in case of accident, to trails-; plant from the garden to the fudd. j fit the early stage of growth the cab. I bage requires caretul cultivation, most oi which however may be done with! the plow and horse hoe; as soon as the j leaves expand and shade the ground, j ] weeds are effectively prevented frumj growing enough to injure the crop or propagate their own seed. This leaves ! tin; field in as fine condition for the; next crop as could be desired, tiome . cultivators always grow a crop of peas upon tho same ground, that is to have a crop of cabbage in the fall, i’his may j be done if the land is naturally rich, and well coated every year with m;-, nure, and deeply plowed, particularly) iu the fall, so aslo give the frost an op portunity to grind dawn ail lumps into j a looSe friable mass. If tiie land has a ; clay foundation it must be subsoiled and so ended that surface water can. ; not stand, us that is sure death to a young cabbage plant. , Tho necessity of deep tith may be seen by an examination of the long fib- , rous roots, which penetrate to a great depth when unobstructed. Anv rich compost or well rotted manure is good for cabbage; coarse or unfermented manure is not good. Ashes, plaster of Paris, bone dust, poudrette, and a little suit will be found beneliciul. Guano is excellent. Storing for Winter. —Select some dry piece of ground frrim which tne water drains readily, and having carted the crop convenient, one hand seizes the roots, while ui,other strips off a few of the lower leaves, and doubles the others around the head, and holds it 1 upon the ground, while tho other hand] 1 lays on dirt enough to keep it in pluce. Afterwards go over and earth up tho j rows nil into smooth straight ridges | that will shed the rains into the furrows, ] Which ill their turn will earfyoff’all the [ water that fulls. Three or four inches ]of earth will preserve them from any j injury from frost quite effectually, i Unkeaded Cabbages. —There are oft en many of these when the crop is gath ered at the approach of winter, common ly thrown away as useless. They muy be rendered fine for spring use by trans planting them in a close double row, i and then covering them with boards or 1 slabs like the sleep roof of a house, with an additional coating of a few in ches of earth. They should then be properly ventilated- By next spring a large portion of them will L e found well headed and dtdicately blanched. Application. —We hope none of our readers are so like the kind mentioned under the last head as to prevent them from applying the advice of this article to their immediate use—because, Now is the lime to Sow Cabbage Seed. —Not exactly this particular month in all parts of this country where we shove our Plow, because this is u great coun try, but by now we mean tliut each man who reads this cabbage-article, unless he had an article of the same kind on his shoulders, or lacks the arti : cle entirely, or is very wrongheaded, I shall take the matter into his head now, and consider the propriety of adopting the advice of raising cabbages as a field i crop. The dawn of Spring. The following description of the! Dawn of tipring, deals in familiar im- ] ages, and will, perhaps, strike no one by its originality. But it breathes the - fresh life of nature with such inborn ; sympathy, that it has all the effect of, gazing on the landscape with our own ; eyes v I love to truce the break of Spring, ! step by step; 1 love even those long ’ rain storms that sap the icy fortresses * of the lingering Winter, —that melt the snows upon the hills, and swell the mountain brook, —that make the pools , heave up their glassy cerements of ice, and flurry down the crashing fragments 1 into the waste of ocean. I love the gentle thaws that you can ] trace, day by day, bv the stained snow-1 batiks, shrinking from tho grass ; and i by the gentle drip of the cottage-eaves. 1 I love to search out the sonny slopes by a southern wall, where the reflected J 1 son does double duty to the earth, and where the frail anemone, or the faint blush of the arbutus, in the midst of the ; bleak March atmosphere, will touch your heart, like a hope of Heaven, in a field of graves ! Later come those? soft smoky days, when the patches of winter grain show green under the shelter of leafless wood*, and the last snow-drifts, reduced to shrunken skel etons of ice, lie upon the slope of nor thern hills, leaking away their life. Then, the grass at your door grows into the color of the sprouting grain, and tho buds upon the lilacs swell and • hurst. Tho p aches bloom upon tbe wall, and the plums wear bodices of white. The sparkling oriole picks string for his hummock on tho sycu- 1 more, and tho sparrows twitter in pairs. I j J'lie. old elms ilirow down their dingy llowers, and color their spray with green; and the brooks, where you ; throw your worn* or the minnow, float down the whole fleets of the crimson ! blossoms of the maple. Finally, the oaks step into the opening quadrille of .Spring, with grayish tufts of a modest ■ verdure, whieh, by and by, will bis ; long and glossy leaves. The dogwood pitches his broad, white tent, in the edge of the forest; the dandelions lie ! along the hillocks, like stars in a skv ! of green ; and the wild cherry growing 1 in nil the hedge rows, without other cul- j ture than God’s lifts up to Him, thank- i fully, its tremulous vvJiito lingers. j, Amid all this, come (he rich rains ofi Spring. The alfeciions of a boy grow j up with tears to water them; and the year blossoms with flowers, hut the I clouds hover over an April sky, timid : ly—like shadows upon innocence. The I showers come gently, and drop daintly j to the earth, —and now and then a glimpse of sunshine to make the drops! bright—like so many tears of joy. Tim rdn of Winter is odld, and it i comes in bitter scuds tbut blind you;; but tbe rain ot April steals upon you* coyly, half reluctantly,—yet lovingly —like the steps of a bride to the Altar. It does not gather like tbe storm clouds of Winter, grey ami heavy along the horizon, and creep with sub tle and insensible approaches (like age)i to the very zenith; but there are a score of whito-winged swimmers afloat, that your eye has chased, as you lay fatigued with the delicious languor of an April suu ; nor have you scarce no ticed that a little bevy of those floating clouds hud grouped together in a som bre company. But presently, you see across the fields, the durk grey streaks | stretching, like lines of mists, from tho green bosom of the valley, to the spot of skv whore the company of clouds is loitering ; and with an easy shifting of tho helm, the fleet of swimmers come drinftingover you, and drop their bur den into the dancing pools, and make the flowers glisten, and the eaves drip witii their crystal bounty. The cuttle linger still, cropping the new-come grass ; and childhood laughs joyously al the warm rain;—or under the cottage roof, catches with eager ear, the patter of its fall.— Dream Lite. Political Tranquility Abroad and at Homo. I here is u paralysis of action undor the blight of despotism in Europe— here a paralysis of political opinion,, springing from the enervating influ ence of prosperity ami abundance. Europe has lost everything—we have gained everything, tihe has lain down in the hopelessness of her dungeon— we are surfeited with boundless Free dom. There patriotism is inactive, for it cun do nothing—here it is inactive, because there is nothing to be done. Europe cannot get^worse—America cannot get better. we witness from different causes,for the first time, listlessness over tho two conti nents—like an equilibrium of heat at the poles. On one side of the Atlantic’ everybody can do as he pleases—on tha oilier nobody. Whether it be from wine or famine, the two giants sleep.- The camps are still, whether it be the ’ repose of victory, or tho stilness of the ’ dead. A pull is spread over tho mangled’ corpse of Hungary. Austria is trying to wash the blood [ stains from the steps of the Uapsburg. ; throne, and borrowing what money she cun to caulk the seams the late storm opened in her foundering empire. Prussia is talking about imposts, and . trying to keep Europe still. The grisly Cossack has crawled baok I to his icedeu, and will not come out till i iie hears a noise in his hole. Over Italy broods the night of tha grave. Spain has gone to chorea with Isa bella, to thank the Holy Virgin for sav ing her life from the dagger of tha as sassin. In France every man feels the point of a bayonet on his naked breast. Tho ear of Liberty ran off a very steep em bankment one night (Dec. 2,1861,) and’ nobody dreams of trying toget it oil the track again, or even of picking up tho pieces. Louis Napoleon is stripping up the rails.- The Wnig ministry of England died quietly from inanition—no doctor is call ed in--nobody went to the funeral—in fact there was no funeral to go to. The Tory ministry comes in, with no floor isliof trumpets, but rather like a bevy of timid school grils venturing out upon weak ice, expecting every minute to* fall in. Earl Derby thinks he will do nothing—precisely what the Whigs had been for six years—and he would do still less if ho could. And in tho Palais Bourbon lies the gorged anaconda, digesting Lamartine’s Republic—and all the Emperors, and Kings, and Queens, and Popes, and statesmen of Europe, with clubs in their hands, stand looking on, and trembling at every ‘wiggle’ of his redoubtable tail! —Herald of the Union. ! Intellect.-— Wo bow to no other arity j tooracy; we recognise no other. Wo , spurn and with our whole soul, the con temptible narrowness and littleness of spirit which some men exhibit in doing homage on uccount of wealth und up pearunce. A man is no better than we, because he owns a fine span of horses or because he can give a costly party ,> or drink a dearer drink than we, or has more maid or man servants. A peas ant may be us good as a President, j Not what a man puts on without, but what he has within him proves to us j his manhood. 1V th-* aristocracy ot ] mind and heart we bow;- we reverence j the intellect for what it has done and j for its possibilities, but the outward ! pfoves uotbin-g; it t nothing in eoinpar. ison with mind. I No man is so truly groat, whatever other titles to i minance he may have, as when, after taking an erroneous step, fie resolves t-> “tread that step backward,” NO. 19.