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THRILLING VERSES. The circumstances which induced the writtmg of the fol lowing touching and thrilling lines are ns follows : A young ladv of New York was in the liahit ot writtmg for the Phila delphin Ledger, on the subject of Temperance. Her writing was so full of pathos, and evinced such deep emotion of soul, that a friend of her - s accused her of being a maniac on the subject of Temperance —whereupon she wrote the following lines: Go (eel what I have felt, Go bear what I have borne— Sink ’neath the blow a father dealt, And the proud world’s cold scorn ; Then suiter on from year to year— Thy sole relief the scorching tear. Go kneel as I have knelt, Impiore beseech and pray— Strive Ae besotted heart to melt, The downward course to stay, Be dashed with bitter curse aside, Your prayers burlesqued, your tears defied. Go weep as I have wept, O’er a loved father’s tall— See everj’ promised treausre swept Youth’s sweetness turned to gall— Life’s fading flowers strewed all the way— That brought me up to woman s day. Go see what I have seen, Behold the strong man bowed— With gnashing teeth—lips bathed in blood— And cold and livid brow; Go catch his withered glance and see Tiiore mirror’d his soul's misery. Go to thy mother’s side, And her crush'd bosom cheer ; Thine own deep anguish hide ; Wipe from her cheek the bitter tear ; Mark her worn frame and wither’d brow— The gray that streaks her dark hayr now— With fading frame and trembling limb ; And trace the ruin back to him, Whose plighted faith in early youth, Promised eternal love and truth, But who, foresworn, had yielded up That promise to the cursed cup, And led her down, through love and light. And all that made her prospects bright; Aud chain’d her there, ’mid want and strife—. That lowly thing a drunkard’s wife — Aud stamped on childhood’s brow so mild, That withering blight, the druukard’s child ! Go hear, and feel, and see and know, All that my soul hath felt and known. Then look upon the wine cup’s glow. See if can atone — Think if its favor you will try, When all proclaim “ ’tis drink and die!” Tell me I hate the bowl— Hate is a feeble word, I loathe— abhor— my very soul With strong disgust is stirfd , When I see, or hear, or tell Os that dark beverage of hell! m i b is iiiiifi THE BUNCH OF VIOLETS; OR LOVE OF USEFULNESS. One Saturday afternoon, little Anna skipped over the fields, with her straw bonnet hanging by its strings behind her, and her hair blowing about in the warm air. She had no playmates, for her brother had been sent away on an errand, and her sisters were grown up young ladies, but little Anna was not alone, for the good spirits, who are always with children, unless they drive them away, were with Anna, and made everything pleasant to her. “ Sweet green grass,” said she as she jumped over the meadow, “ How bright you look and how soft you are to feet—soft as my grand mother’s turkey carpet, and much prettier to look at. “Ah ! you pretty little tree, how prim and straight you grow, and how you try to hold out your arms, and wave your head, like the great trees ; but Ido not mean to laugh at you for that,” added she, holding up her head and looking grave, “ for little folks like you and me ought to follow the example of those who are older and wiser than we.” Anna went on a few steps in silence, and then she broke forth again : “ Dear little brook, I hear your sweet singing voice, before I come near enough to see you, but I shall soon be there, on your green bank, and then I shall see the large stones, which my brother Henry put into the water, that I might step across without wetting my feet. “ I see them now. How clean and white the water washed them, when the brook was so full last month.” As little Anna was stepping over the stones, she saw a violet on the side of the bank, hanging over the water. “ Oh, you pretty, sweet blue violet,” said she, “ how sky-blue you look and how beautifully you hang your head over the brook. I must have you to put in my bosom.” Anna stooped over the bank, and tried to reach the violet. She could just touch it with her th umb and finger. She broke the stem, but could not hold it, and it fell into the brook. Poor little Anna stood watching w hile it floated down the stream. When it was out of sight she sighed and said, “Well, it was not best I should have it, or it would not have fallen into the w’ater. I suppose I lost it because I was selfish, and only wished to have it for myself. It is wrong to spend all my time amusing myself. I ought to be of use to others, but what can such a little girl as I am dolor others? lam not old enough nor strong enough to be of use. “ But stop —that is the story of a wicked spirit —even a little child can be ot use, if she tries. Amv Heath would be very glad of some \iolets Ido not doubt. She loves them dearly, but she cannot come out to pick them, since she spraine her ancle running with me. She loves every thing in the fields, as 1 do. Poor girl! how tire some it must be to sit still all the time. Now, it 1 could find her a bunch of violets how pleased she would be. I think that would be a use. To be sure, it is a small one, but I am a small girl, and if Ido small uses now, I hope I shall be able to do more when I am larger.” Little Anna went along the edge of the brook, with her head bent down, looking carefully among lhe grass, hut she did not find any violets, till at length she came to a little hollow of the bank, which was sheltered from the cold winds; Theie she found a beautiful cluster of violets blue as the sky. “ O how pretty they are ? ” said Anna, full of delight, “so large, and fair and blue. Now i do believe the good spirits showed me the way to this sweet little nest of beauties. It is a pity 10 break their stems and take them away from a place where they seem to enjoy themselves so well, but poor Amy cannot come here to look at them, so 1 think it will not be wrong to carry them to her.” Anna picked all the violets and made them in to a neat bunch. “Down there, close by the water,” said Anna, “lean see some long leaves of grass. I will get them and put them with the violets, for Amy wonid like to have some green with them.” She broke the grass ofi close to the roots, and put it in the centre of the violets, so that it hung over like a bunch of plumes. It was a very pretty nosegay. Anna smiled as she turned it round and round to look at it. After she had ad mired it a little while, she ran with it to her play mate. Amy Heath loved to ramble in the fields very much, and was very fond of flowers, but she had sprained her ankle, by stepping into a hole, as she was running over the fields one day with Anna. She. was sitting at an open window, with her lame foot on a cricket, looking sadly out into the garden. The flowers smelt sweetly, and the birds sung, and the grass looked green all around, as far as she could see, and she longed to go out and enjoy them all, but she could not walk alone. “ I wish I had a bunch of wild-flowers,said she to herself. “ I suppose violets are plenty by this time —how Ishouidlike to see some of them,. they would bring the brook and meadow to me, though I cannot go to them.” Amy had no brothers and sisters, and her mother was very busy, doing the work of the house alone. Amy knew she could not leave it to go out and pick flowers for her, so she sat very quiet, and tried to be as cheerful as she could.— She knew her dear mother did everything she could for her comfort, and she did not wish to make her any trouble she could avoid, nor let her know she wished for anything she could not have ; so she sat still, but her little head was full of flow ers, and birds, and green grass, and walks in the fields. She was so busy with her thoughts that she did not see Anna, when she came toward the house, across the meadow, until she called out, “ Amy ! Amy ! ” and held up the bunch of vio lets. In a few minutes she ran in and laid them on Amy’s lap. Amy thanked her over and over again, and said, “ You could not have brought me a present I should have been so much pleased with. I was just wishing to see a violet.” “O lam so glad ! ” said Anna. “ Then this was a use. And dear Amy should you like to have me stay with you this afternoon, and play babies, or checkers, or something else to amuse you? — My mother said I might stay out till sunset.” “O, Anna, you are too kind,” said Amy, “It would be very hard that you should stay in the house with me, this pleasant afternoon, when you have had leave to stay out till sunset. How charming it is to run in the fields.” “It will not be hard at all to me,” said iVnna, as she took up the checker-board from under the table, and began to set the men. “If I can be of any use to you, I shall be a great deal happier than I should running about with myself, SENSATIONS IN A TRANCE. The sensations of a seemingly dead person, while confined in the coffin, are mentioned in the following case of trance: “A young lady, an attendant on the Princess a great length of time with a violent nervous dis order, w T as at last, to all appearances, deprived of life. Her lips were quite pale, her face re sembled the countenance of a dead person, and the body grew cold. She was removed from the room in which she died, w r as laid in a coffin, and the day of her funeral fixed on. The day arrived, and, according to the custom of the country, fu neral songs and hymns w r ere sung before the door. Just as the people were about to nail down the lid of the coffin, a kind of perspiration was ob served to appear on the surface of her body. It grew T greater every moment, and at last a kind of convulsive motion was observed in the hands and feet of the corpse. A few minutes after, during which time fresh signs of returning life appeared, she appeared, she at once opened her eyes, and uttered a most pitiable shriek. Physicians were quickly procured, and in the course of a lew days she was considerably restored, and is probably alive at this day. The description which she gave of her situation is extremely remarkable, and forms a curious and authentic addition to psychology. She said it seemed to her that she was really dead; yet she was perfectly conscious of all that happened around her in this dreadful state. She distinctly heard her friends speaking and lamenting her death at the side of her coffin. She felt them pull on the dead clothes and lay her in them. This feeling produced a mental anxiety which is indescribable. She tried to cry, but her soul was without power, and could not act in her body. She had the contradictory feel ing as if she were in the body, and yet not in it, at°one and the same time. It was equally im possible for her to stretchout her arms or to open her eyes, or to cry, although she continually en deavored to do so. The internal anguish of her mind was, however, at its utmost height when the funeral hymns were begun to be sung, and when the lid of the coffin was about to be nailed down. The thought that she was to be buried alive was the one that gave activity to her mind, and caused it to operate on her corporal frame.” Binns on Sleep, A “ SAW ” UPON A TUTOR. A certain tutor being very desirous of raising himself in the estimation of the Faculty, conclu ded that the only way he could do this, was to be very active in ferreting out the authors of all pranks cut up on the premises. He had not the ability to do this himself, and so he selected some of the students, to whom he privately and confi dentially taught their duty in case they knew of any mischief going on. He would not have them become “Faculty dogs,” and tell the Profs., but as he could scarcely be called one of the Faculty, they could tell him, and thus escape the odium of being 44 Faculty dogs !” It they would do this, it would tend to advance the interests of the col lege, and he would take care that it should be the means of their “ finding favor in the eyes ” of the Faculty. His logic, however, was of no avail, save, to the surprize of all, with one very young fellow, himself “one of the boys,” and who had been credited with the getting off of some cute pieces of waggery. He, unlike the “ ancient Zachary,” apparently surrcnded to the Tutor’s logic andpporersw r ers of persuasion. About this time a horse showed so great a desire for intellectual improvement, as to take up quar ters in the college yard, and so intent was he on obtaining some of the crumbs of knowledge which had been lost in the yard, that he continued there “ with no shelter from the heat of day or cold of night but the broad canopy of heaven ! ” The students with their characteristic benevolence had several times given up to him a recitation room for a stable ; but like the productions of genius,again their benevolence w'as unappreciated by the Faculty, and even held as a crime, and “ the authors of it demanded for punishment ” and although the students, as a mark of honor to the Tutor, had given his recitation room the pref erence several times, as a sheltering place for the poor quadruped, yet he was especially minded to punish “ the rogues.” One morning when it became the turn of his portege’s division to recite, the latter privately requested the class, as a special favor to him, to leave instantly as soon as they were excused. As soon as the recitation commenced, he was obser ved to be gazing intently out of the window. In a moment he started up, rushed up to the Tutor and whispered in his ear, “ The Sophs are put ting a horse into their recitation room !” This was the Tutor’s “consummation devoutly to be wished”—this was turning the tide in his affairs. Visions of a professorship danced before his eyes ! Hastily he exclaimed to the one reciting, “ Stop there, sir, if you please. I’ll give out your next lesson at eleven o’clock. You are excused, gentle men.” (How wonderfully condescending visions of greater greatness make the already great!) The class bolted instantcr out of sight if not out of hearing, happy at. their deliverance. The Tutor hurried towards the Sophs’ room as fast as his now rapidly increasing dignity would permit.— He had gone but about half the distance, when the informer ran up to him and said, “ Oh ! Mr, were putting in there! “ Sawed!” hissed the Tutor, as a wicked Soph, who understood the whole, struck up and sung— “ ’Tis ever thus, since childhood’s hour I’ve seen my fondest hopes decay.” The Tutor was not seen again for that day, and the next morning the President announced of ficially that “the Tutor was ill—health had obliged him to leave !” Our wag whispered, “ I wonder if the doctors ever saw such a disease !” “ Father! Father! have you got a quarter about you? The great zoological avery and circuit is coming here to-day. They’ve got some new things, father; a great boy constructor, and an African lion just from Asia, with forty stripes on his back and, nary one alike; all the monkeys on a keen jump ; children under ten years half-price. May’nt I go, father?” “Why sartin!” “Do you understand me now?” thundered out one of our country pedagogues, to an urchin at whose head he threw an inkstand. “I have got an ?7i&-ling of what you mean, replied the boy.” EXTRACT. “ Friends are lost to us by removal-dor even the dearest are utterly forgotten. But l et something that once w r as theirs suddenly our eyes, and in a moment, returning from tb rising or the setting sun, the friend ol our yo ut seems at our side, unchanged his voice and hij smile; or dearer to our eyes than ever, because of some effecting change wrought on face and figure by climate and by years. Let it be but hi name written wfith his own hand on the title-p a g* of a book ; or a few’ syllables on the margin of a favorite passage which long ago we may hav e read together, “when life itself w r as new,” poetry overflowed the whole world ; or a loci; 0 f her hair in whose eyes w r e first knew the meaning of the word “depth.” And if death had stretched out the absence into the dim arms of and removed the distance away into that bourn* from which no traveller returns —the absence and the distance of her on whose forehead once huno the relic we adore—what heart may abide the beauty of the ghost that doth sometimes at mid* night appear at our sleepless bed, and with pale uplifted arms wall over us at once a blessing and? a farewell! 4 ‘Why so sad a wmrd— Farewell? We shod/1 not weep in wishing welfare, nor sully felicity 1 with tears. But we do weep because evil lie* ! lurking in wait over all the earth for the innocen; i and the good, the happy and the beautiful; and ( when guarded no more by our eyes, it seems as if the demon would leap out upon his prey. Or is it because we are so seltisb that we cannot bear the thought of losing the sight of the happi ness oF a beloved object, and are troubled with a strange jealousy of being unknown to us, and for ever to be unknown, about to be taken into the very heart, perhaps, of the friend from whom we are parting, and to w hom in that fear we give al most a sullen fare w r ell? Or does the shadow of | death pass over us w hile we stand for the last time together on the sea-shore, and see the ship with all parts of the earth? Or do w r e shudder at the her sails about to voyage away to the uttermost thought of mutability in all created things—and know that ere a few suns shall have brightened the path of the swiFt: vessel on the sea, we shall be dimly remembered—at last forgotten—and all those days, months, and years that once seemed eternal, swallowed up in everlasting oblivion? Tropical Delights —lnsects are the curse of tropical climates. The bete rogue lays the foun dation of a tremendous ulcer. In a moment vou y are covered with ticks. Chigoes burv themselves in your flesh, and hatch a large colony of chigoes in a few hours. They will not live together, but every chigoe sets up a seperate ulcer, and hah his owm private portion of pus. Flies get into vour mouth, into your eves, into vour nose; vou eat flies, drink flies, and breath flies. Lizards, cockroaches, and snakes get into your beds ; ants eat up the books; scorpions sting you on the foot. Every thing bites, stings, or bruises. Ev ery* second of your existence you are wmunded by some piece of animal life, that nobody has ever seen before, except Swammerdam and IVlerriam. An insect with eleven legs is swimming in your tea-cup ; a nondescript, with nine wings, is strug gling in the small beer; ora caterpiller, with sev eral dozen eves in his belly, is hastening over the bread and butter. All nature seems alive, and seems to be gathering all her entimological host to eat you up, as you are standing, out of coat, waistcoat and breeches. Such are the trop ics. RcJbrvti l our Washing Bills. THE only way in which this can be done effectu ally, is to procure one of Sabin’s patent WASHING MACHINES, manufactured by Mr. Quantock, corner of Montgomery and Liberty Streets. This truly useful Machine is warranted to wash perfectly clean, without injuring in the slightest degree the finest article of clothing, in three minute! time. The most economical soap which can be used with these machines is the Soft Soap manufactured by Geo. H- Brock, 111 Bay Street. The soap is warranted to start thi dirt , and to be the cheapest Soap which can be used. Ainpl* reference can be given. mar 29 4 BOOK AND JOB PRINTING, Os all kinds, executed at thin Office, with neatness aW despatch. HAVING lately put our Office in complete oito and made large additions to it, we have now the most ex tensive Job Printing Office in the City and are prepared to execute all kinds of PLAIN AND FANCY PRINTING, with neatness and despatch, and on the most accomodating terms. Office 102 Bryan-street, entrance on Bay Lane. Savannah, March 22d, 1849. EDW ARD J. PURSE- A FRIEND OF THE FAMILY, ~ A WEEKLY SOUTHERN NEWSPAPER, PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY, BY EDWARD J. PURSE. TERMS:—T WO DOLLARS A YEAR. Three Copies for one year, or one copy three years, &> $ Seven Copies, - - - - - 10 Twelve Copies, - 15 Advertisements to a limited extent, will be at the rate of 50 cents for a square of nine lines or less, the first insertion, and 30 cents for each subsequent insert# 0 Business cards inserted for a year at Five Dollars. BP A liberal discount will be made to Post Master* will do us the favor to act as Agents. BP All communications to be addressed (post-paid) t® X. J. PURSE, SaTanMh, <*►