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JOHN HENRY SEALS. > < ,>•, 2 nd > Editors. L. i-IMOLN YEAZEY, ) NEW SERIES, VOL I. iM’BLisnro UVLIUf EXCEPT TWO, IN THE TEAR, BY JOHN H. SEALS, TEEMS: %LOO, in advance; or $2,00 at the end of the year. KA.TES OF ADVERTISING. 1 square (twelve lines or le.-s) first insertion,. .$1 00 Each continuance, 50 Professional or Business Cards, not exceeding six lines, per year, 5 00 Announcing Candidates for Office, 3 00 STANDING ADVERTISEMENTS. 1 square, three months, 5 00 t square, six months, 7 00 1 square, twelve months, 12 00 2 squares, “ “ 18 00 8 squares, “ ** 21 00 -1 squares, “ “ 2: 00 Advertisements not marked with the number ! of insertions, will bo continued until forbid, and j charged accordingly. .Merchants, Druggists, and others, may con- ] tract for advertising by the year, on reasonable terms. ) legal advertisements. .Sale of Land or Negroes, by Administrators, Executors, and Guardians, per square,... 500 j Sale of Personal Property, by Administrators, i Executors, and Guardians, per square,... 325 Notice to J tebtors and Creditors, 3 25 j Notice for Leave to Sell, 4 00 j Citation for Letters of Administration, 2 75 j Citation for Letters of Dismission from Adrian. 3 00 ! Citation for Letters of Dismission from Guardi* ansbip, 3 25 I LEG A L REQUIRE MEN TS. Sales of Lnd and Negroes, by Administrators, Executors, or Guardians, are required by law to be held on the first Tuesday in the month, between the hours of an the forenoon and three in the after noon, at the Court House in the County in which the property :s situate. Notices of these sales must be given in a public gazette forty day* previous to the day of sale. Notices for the sale of Personal Property must be given at least ten dayh previous to the day of sale. Notice to Debtors and Creditors of an Estate must be published,ft>rD/ day*. Notice that application will lx; made to the Court; of Ordinary for leave to sell Land or Negroes, must | be published weekly for tico months. Citai'qns for Letters of Administration must be { published thirty day*— for Dismission from Admin- ; istration, monthly, six months —for Dismission from (Jruardiaiwhi p, forty days. Rules for Foreclosure of Mortgage must be pub lished monthly far four months —for compelling titles , from Executors or Administrators, where a bond has - been given by the deceased, the fall spare of three 1 months. will always be continued accord ing to these, the legal requirements, unless otherwise ordered. i The Law of Newspapers. 1. Subscribers who do not give express notice to the contrary, arc considered as wishing to continue their subscription. 2. If subscribers order the discontinuance of their newspapers, the publisher may continue to send them until all arrearages are paid. 3. If subscribers neglect or refuse to take their newspapers from the offices to which they are di rected, they are held responsible until they have set tled th r> bills and ordered them discontinued. 4. If subscribers remove to other places without informing the publishers, and the newspapers are sent to the former direction, they are hold responsi ble. 5. The Courts have decided that refusing to take newspapers from the office, or removing and leaving them uncalled for, is prirtia facie evidence of inten tional fraud. 0. The United States Courts have also repeatedly decided, that a Postmaster who neglects to perform his duty of giving reasonable notice, as required by the Post Office Department, of the neglect of a per son to take from the office newspapers addressed to him, renders the Postmaster liable to the publisher for the subscription price. JOB PRINTING, of every description, done with neatness and dispatch, at this office, and at reasonable prices for cash. All orders, in this department, must be addressed to J. T. BLAIN. PBOSPECTIS OF THE TEMPERANCE (MIDI, [qvosdam] TEMPERANCE BANNER. \UT I'.VTED by a conscientious desire to further | the cause of Temperance, and experiencing | great disadvantage in being too narrowly limited in j space, by the smallness of our paper, for the publica- j tion of Reform Arguments and Passionate Appeals, Pave determined to enlarge it to a more conve- ! nient and acceptable size. And being conscious of the fact that there are existing in the minds of a large portion of the present readers of the Danner and its former patrons, prejudices and difficulties which cart never he removed so long ns it retains the name we venture also to make a change in that par ticular. it will henceforth be called, “THE TEM PER AN C E CRUS A PER.” This old pioneer of the Temperance cause is des tined vet to chronicle the triumph of its principles, it has stood the test—passed through the “fiery fur nace,” and, like the “Hebrew children,” re appeared miscorched. It has su-vived the ncitspaperfamine which has caused, and is still causing many excel lent journals and periodicals to sink like “bright ex halations in the'eveninp,” to rise no more, and it has uVW , hondded the “death struggles of many contem poraries laboring for the same great end with itself. It “stili U. -s,” and “waxing bolder as it grows older,” u now waging an eternal “Crusade” againstthe “In fernal Liquor Traffic,” standing like the “High Priest” of the Israelites, who stood between the people and the plague that threatened destruction. \y e entreat the friends of the Tomperanco Cause to give us their influence in extending the usefulness ,f flie paper. Wo intend presenting to the public a sheet worthy of all attention and a liberal patronage; for while it is strictlT a Jvurrwt, we shall endeavor to keep its readers posted on all the current events throughout the country'. r w tig heretofore, sl, strictly ui tkAvam-e. ** ’ JOFliNf H. SEALS, Editirand Proprietor. pGEtteki, *., I>#e. i, ll6§. For tiny Tcmpernneo Crusader. A TALE OF PRIDE AND SORROW. BY EMMIE EMERALD. (Cone hided.) She paused as the motionless form of her husband met her glance, but the next mo ment saw her spring to his side aiM twine her arms around him. “Ernest/’ she murmured* in a low broken voice, lie raised his head quickly, but as his eye fell on the rich evening dress of the lady, he turned away, arid unclasping her twining arms, arose, ami would have passed nut, but she cjung to fiirYi/weeping bitterly. “Ernest, forgive me?” she said, pleadingly, as she knelt beside Him. “Arise, Madam, I have nothing to for give,” his tones were gentle and courteous, but very, very-cold. “Oh, Ernest, dearest Ernest, do not speak to me thus, if you only—” “Let us terminate this childish scene, Ma I dam ! 1 am fatigued and would be alone.” j As these words, so coldly spoken, fell on * her ear, she started to her feet,’ and dashing i away the hand she held, stood proudly up j before him with flashing eyes and a lip curl ing with pride and resentment. | “I will intrude, no logger, sir. I wii/nov i er weary you with such childishness again;” ! she spoke in tones unlike the music of her | own sweet voice, and turned away; the mir ror door glided back and Ernest was alone, i adiu had gone—he had driven her from him | with cold words—had turned from her ’ pleading face and tearful eye. Now came ; a reaction of feeling, he would have gone , out after his young wife; would have taken her in his arms and forgiven all, and loved her as ever—his hand was on the door, but pride, accursed pride withheld him till ’twas too late; for while he lingered there, she had passed straightway from thrirchamber out in the night, and to the home of her child hood. Alas ’tis true that “In a moment, we may plunge our years In fatal penitence, and the blight Os our own soul, turn all our blood to tears And color things to come, with hues of night.” j CHAPTER 11. ‘•My friends were dead, Or false; my mother in her grave; Above my father’s honored head The sea had lockod its hiding wave; Ambition had but foil’d my grasp, And love had laded in niy clasp,”—Melaxif. “Alas! that heart, (as children iri their play Crush flowers,) will fling their kappinessaway.” M. A. Browne. It was midday, the planet >f light hung up in the heavens like a fiery ball, and his calid beams lay an the earth’ with a fierce and burning heat that drank up its moisture, and withered its beauty. The blue skv bad paled and the breath of our summer flowers came up with a rich odor ns if they too had breathed the fearful pestilence, the “noon-day scourge” that stalked rapidly on ward like an evil angel laying low the bra vest and fairest of our sunny land. That “harbinger of fate and woe,” that moved on with its funeral train doing a work more fearful than the blast of a midnight tempest or the rush and turmoil of a battle field.— The destructive lever had fallen on another city. Men fled affrighted before it, leaving their deserted homes to silence and the “lonely spider.” A strange hush had come upon that plague striken place ; its broad streets were desolate, and the tramp of feet mingling with the rambling of the death cart and the horse,fell on the ear from morn till night, and the aching eye was satiated with sail sights of pale faces, and stark bod ies carried hastily onward by hireling hands to one common grave. On the day that \ve have described, a! woman, habited in the gray serge dress of a nun, sat in a low, narrow apartment. That she was but a novice, and had not yet tn ken the vow, was betrayed by the absence of the black veil of the sisterhood. She was young, apparently, not more than two and twenty summers, and her face was one of uncommon loveliness, with sorrowful eyes, pale brow arid arched lip; a proud and sweet face, that haunted the memory of those who beheld it once, ever afterwards, and was associated with tales of suffering and sorrow 7 . She sat there with that sor rowful look in her eyes, gazing on a minia ture set in a golden case, a rich jeweled thing that contrasted strangely with the gloom of the cloister cell,and tiie coarse habiliments <>t the pale novice. I'he mellow crimson I light without the grated window grew faint ! and dim, till she could no longer gaze upon | the pictured resemblance of that beloved face, and then she put it carefully, tenderly 1 away*within her bosom and next her heart, i and bowing her head upon her clasped hands which rested on the table, she murmured in n low, broken, yet singularly mnsicnl voice, “Oh it is fearful to feel the heart grow dead within ere life has reached its noon, to live and yet wish to die. to have no hope nor ; ; anything on earth —as if torn by some in-! ! ward pain her bosom heaved convulsively, I and her slight form trembled with excess of I ! intense emotion. A light hand was laid .up* I i on her shoulder; she started and gazed wild-1 jty around.. One of her own sex, wearing : the same peculiaj grb as herself, and of a mild, pleasant expression of countenance, stood beside her. “What is it, my poor child/'* slie said in ‘ a kind, motherly lone, “what is it that i grieves yon thus? Will yon not nnbwden ptortek to Cmperanee, UJura% ptrnrtitre, facial Intelligence, Jletos, so. PINFIELD, GA„ SATURDAY, APRIL 5, 1856. your heart to me, and let con sole you?” and bending down'she kissed the f>ale brow of the novice, who covered her ace with her hands and replied, “Oh, no, no; it is misery even to think of it. M “But I insist on your speaking, dear daughter,” said the lady superior, *d can not bear to see you pining thus, nursing some secret sorrow that is blighting- your life. Speak, dear Mildred —confide in me,” and m the agitation and earnestness of the moment she threw her arms around the fair woman, who sat like one in a painful dream, unheeding the entreaties of the other till they were again and again repeated, and then she passed her hand across her brow, and lifting her sad eyes to the lady’s face, said slowly and faintly, “It is a tale of suffering arid sorrow, sweet mother—one that will sadden your heart to night, perchance, and disturb your dreams. Listen”—she went on without giving the other time to speak—“l am alone on the earth now, with none to love or care for, and yet once I had a happy home and kind parents; they were old and grayhaired, and I was their only child. I was beautiful, and talented, or so the world said, and the blood that ran in my veins was akin to the noblest, and yet what mattered all this if wealth was lacking? Nought, nought ” she continued, in a voice which seemed more like thinking aloud than speaking to another, “and as l soon learned, for such knowledge comes quickly even to the young and inexperienc ed, I was proud, very proud; it was not the pride of beauty, nor of genius, nor yet of birth, but an innate pride that would have been mine still, had I possessed none of these. I had high hopes, much beyond the station that the want of affluence had placed me in —bright day dreams of the future, that haunted me always—and yet I knew that the world looked down on me, and as in all pride and beauty, I was neglected and scorn ed till he—my brave, noble Ernest—sought my hand and won it, ay, dared to wed a penniless bride and make her the mistress of his lordly home. Was it any marvel that I loved him as woman never yet loved man? Ay, loved him until love became sin—idol atry, and yet,” she added in low, trembling tones and broken language, “I made that home desolate, and him an exile.” “Y ou ! how ?” asked her listener, whose womanly heart was deeply interested in the story. “I offended him past all forgiveness, and then left him,” was the brief reply. “What 1 left him you loved so fondly ? what cause had you to leave him?” exclaim ed the other. “*Xis unworthy of mention; a little thing, a light and trifling thing, and yet it severed too loving hearts.” “But Ernest, how did he bear the .separa tion ?” asked her hearer, whose sympathy was enlisted in behalf of the deserted hus band. “Bravely before the world—but I watch ed him closely, and I saw that his brow grew paler each day, and 1 knew that 1 was not alone in my suffering; that his high heart was bleeding too; ay, but mine was more than bleeding—'twas breaking—and yet I bore mo gaily and laughed and jested and sought with such to stay its throbbing.” “You met, then ? you saw him after your parting V * “Yes, often; hut always in the multitude. Once a long interval elapsed ere I saw him, and then we met for the last time —in a crowded assembly. He was with a gay party: his face was turned away, but I saw that he was richly dressed, and that his bright hair was smooth and glossy. I did not like to sec him thus, it tortured me, it aroused rny pride and jealousy, and I re solved to show him I had no grief, and so I went on with a wild gayety that astonis ed even myself. I knew that he heard every light word and gay laugh, for his eyes were often on me, but I affected to sec him not. When the crowd broke up and we were passing out, I glanced at him—Oh ! God, what a pang shot through my heart as I gazed at that altered face, ’twas changed as though long, long years of suffering had marred its glorious beauty and set the seal of care on that pale brow and dimmed those sunken eyes. I forgot the time, the place, and the part that I was acting, and half sprang towards him while the agony that was in my heart well nigh burst from my lips. Our eyes met; for a moment he seem ed struggling for composure, and then the proud head was raised higher, and he mov ed on with the throng—and I never saw him more.” ‘ 9 “Poor things, miserable children,” said the listener, weeping, “but did you never hear from him again ?” “Yes,” said the novice, calmly, “I heard that which maddened me and brought the gray hairs of my parents to the grave.” “lie died, then ; died far away in a for eign land,” asked her companion, in a half ; whisper, and with tearful eyes. “No, he did not die,” regJM the other in i alow voice, covering her iaee with both ! hands, hut she did not weep, for when she i raised her head her check was dry, but pale and haggard. “Oh, better that he had, bet ter that we both had—he lived to believe me a false and heartless thing, unworthy his j love.” Again she bowed hothead, but she I raised it soon, and her cheek flushed, and I something of the old flush came into those j *-lark .eyes as she went on in a changed tone, I “1 Was snrnfnoned one night to the bedside ot a dying man—ot a false-hearted man— who, with the death stveat gathering on his brow, tolu the tale of his base villainy; how lie bad dared love me, the wedded wife of another, and that other, his dearest friend; and how he had been entrusted with a letter, a kind and loving letter, entreating me to re turn to the heart and home of my husband; that was destroyed, and so never reach*- ed ; ne, and yet/’ she continued, almost fierce ly. “a cruel, scornful reply was forged—and now I know but too well why Ernest had gazed on me with that stern, relentless look when last we met. I knew that he had cast me off torover. I heard no more, for I was bereft of sense and motion. For a long, long time I hovered between life and deaui in a state of wild delirium, of madness. At length health returned and reason resumed her throne, and then I learned that he who had so wronged me, was dead; was sleep ing in the quiet tomb, while I, the victim of his baseness, was left to drag on a misera ble, blighted life.” She paused a moment, and then resumed in a voice broken and full of anguish. “I had suffered all that a hu man being could suffer, and yet live, but my cup of misery was not yet full. I was to see my parents, my gray haired parents sink into the grave and know that I had brought j them there, for the grief that” they saw had! fallen sc heavily on their darling, killed them, while I, whose daily and nightly prayer was for death, lived on.” Her utterance grew faint and low, and moans of anguish,too deep for idle tears,burst from her lips. The gentle woman beside her strove with sympathy and sweet words of hope and comfort to soothe her troubled heart, but think you, dear reader, that there can beany hope, or comfoit, for those who have set their hearts, have fixed their thoughts upon some earthly object, and have had it torn from their grasp, wrenched from out their hearts, leaving every tendril that twined so firmly around that object, bleed ing and broken. There may be, beyond the far off heavens, but thero is none—none on earth. Night drew on, the stars came out one by one and looked down with their pale, sad eyes, as it were, compassionately, on the hushed and plague stricken city.’ Os the few who walked the lonely and desolate streets, we will note the proceedings of two only—a boy, and a woman wearing the humble garb of that gentle sisterhood, who live on earth like ministering angels. They moved on in silence, till the female asked in a voice that her companion thought the sweetest that ever fell on his ear, “You say your master is a stranger 7” “Yes, madam,” he replied, endeavoring to peer under the close hood of the speaker, “he is a stranger here, though this is his na tive place, but he has been abroad for many years, and his friends have moved away, or died, or forgotten him. He has no relations, and so he is alone in the world.” “1 pity him,” she nnswered, as if speaking to herself. “It is a sad thing to have none to love, ay very sad.” “My master must think so too,” said the hoy, “for he never smiles. 1 do not know anything of his early history, but he must have had some great sorrow, for—but here is tho hotel,” said he enterrupting himself, and pushing open the gate ho entered the courtyard. The sceno that presented itself, reminded one of an Arabian Knight tale. The stately edifice stood thore like a forsa ken castle, with its massive doors and shut ters, wide open, and yet not a living being was to be seen; ail had fled before tho pes tilence, save the landlord and servants, and they perhaps had sought to drown this fear in “droughts of fiery woe,” and were laid upon their beds in a state of abject helpless ness. The boy followed by the woman, took his way through long corridors that wore deserted and lonely, even in broad day, when the bright sunlight streamed through due windows, and lay on the floor like golden network; and by silent empty apart ments, that echoed loudly their passing foot steps, as though they were mourning over the desolation of the place. At length he paused, and opening a door, they entered a room dimly lighted by a lamp that stood in a remote corner, covered with a shade to break the light from thesickman’s couch. Mildred, for it was she, advanced towards the bed, but at the moment a strange thrill shook her slight form, and her heart trembled within. \Vhat could it be i was it that the fatal fever had smit ten her at last, and was this the sensation that was said to precede it ? She strove to shake off the feeling and drawing near, laid her band on the stranger’s pulse, light as was her gentle touch, it aroused him, for he turned upon his pillow’ and murmured iucoherentlv in his troubled sleep. What ails the novice now’? she is clinging to the bod post, with one hand pressed to her’aide, while her straining eyes are wildly fixed on the pale face of the sleeper, It seemed as if every nervein her fragile body were strained to its ut most, and that the next moment they must burst asunder. But there came a change, the fixed features relaxed, and she sunk on her bended knees and raising her clasp ed hands to heaven, cried in a voice so tilled with deep emotion that it was scarce ly articulate, ‘ I thank thee, oh my GodI” thorewas a gasping sob, a qnick*convul-j eivc motion, and then she arose calmly’ ! and bending over the fever stricken, put i back th* dark waring enrhi from W* noJ Ide brow and pressing her lips upon it, she turned away, and went about her du ties with n light step, ay, and a lighter heart for hope, a most blessed hope had once more dawned upon her darkened life. For many days Rnd weary nights she never left that bedside, but watched over the unconscious sufferer, like a fond moth er over the cradle of her first-born. Some times a shadow would flit across her fair brow and linger in her dark eyes, but anon it would pass away and she would mur mur in her sweet tones, ‘‘Oh no, he will not die; God would not mock me thus I” At length, thanks to a heavenly providence, and the unwearirig case of his gentle nurse—the sick man grew better. One night be sank into a refreshing slumber, and his dreams were no longer troubled’ but, seemed as it were of a pleasant nature’ tor he murmured gently in his sleep, and a smile wreathed his pale lips. The nov ice hung over him and watched half ea gerly, half fearfully, each changing ex pression, and listened with suspended breath to his low tone?. Old memories were busy at her heart; memories of the olden time, when that smile beamed for her and that familiar voice spoke words of | love and sweet endearment. “Ernest, oh Ernest!” burst Irorn her lips unconscious ly as the happy past rose thus vividly be fore fier. The sleeper started from his pil low at the sound of her voice. “Am I dreaming, ho exclaimed,” “who speaks? who called me by this name?” and passing his hand across his forehead, ho gazed wildly around—his glance fell on the mo tionless form of her who stood beside. “Mildred,” he uttered faintly, but ho had no power to clasp her in his arms; all strength forsook him, and sinking heavily back, he covered his face and wept. It touching to see a man weep; woman's tears are not much, for her heart is a light and fickle thing that may be stir red by the passing of every idle breeze, bnt the strong bosom of “God’s best and noblest work” must be deeply, deeply moved, ere tho tear-drop glistens on the manly cheek. And thus were those long severed hearts reunited. They had known affliction and suffered much and bitterly, but now— “ All the past was as a troubled dream, And they were happy. Never mom a chord la either heart by jarring thought was stirred; Yet soino from their example have been taught f llow one rash word long years of suffering wrought; And many who would vicld to scorn or pride. Quail as they think of “ Ernest” and his bride,” BOY LOVE One of the queerest and funniest things to think of in after life, is boy-love. No sooner does a boy acquire a tolerable sta ture than ho begins to imagine himself a man, and to ape inanish ways. He casts side glances at the tall girls he may meet; becomes a regular attendant, at churth, or meeting; carries a cane, holds his head erect, and struts a little in his walk. Pres ently and how rery soon, ho falh in love; ywfalU is the proper word, because it beat indicates his happy, delirious self-abase ment. He lives now in a fairy region, somewhat collateral to the world, and yet, blended somehow inextricably with it.— Ho perfumes his hair with fragrant oils, scatters essence over his handkerchicf‘,and desj)erately shaves and anoints for a beard. Ho quotes poetry, in which “love” and “dove” and “heart” and “dart” pe culiarly predominate; and he plnnges deep er in the delicious labyrinth, fancies him self filled with the divine afflatus, and sud denly breaks intoa scarlet rash—of rhyme. He feeds npon the looks of his beloved; is raised to the seventh heaven if she speaks a pleasant word; is betrayed into the most astonishing extacies by a smile; and is plunged into the gloomiest regions of mis anthropy by a frown. He believes himself the most devoted lover in the world. There was never such another. There never will be. He is the one great idolater! He is the very type of magnanimity and self abnegation.— Wealth ! he despises the groveling thought. Poverty, with the adorable beloved, he rapturously apotrophizes as the first of all earthly blessings; and “love in a cottage, with water and a crust” is his beau ideal paradise of dainty delights. He declares to himself, with the most solemn emphasis, that he would go through fire and water; undertake a pilgrimage to China or Kamschatka; swim tossed oceans; scale iuipassablo mountains, aud faco le gions of bayonets, for but one sweet, smile from her sweet lips. He dotes upon a flower she has cast away. He cherishes her glove—a little worn in the fingers— next his heart. lie sighs like a locomo tive lotting off steam. He scrawls her dear name over quires of foolscap—a fit ting medium for his insanity. lie scorn fully deprecates the attention of other boys of his own age; cuts Peter Tibbets dead because he said that the adorable Ange lina had earrotty hair; and passes Harry Bell contemptuously for daring to com pare “that gawkey Mary Jane” with his incomparable Angelina, j Happy! happy! foolish boy-love! with I its joys and its hopes and its fears; itssor* ; rows its jealousies and delights; its rap- I tm\?s ana i* tenure*; it* esMtatie fervors C TERMS; SI.OOJN ADVANCE. ) JAMES T. BLAIN, V PRINTER. VOL. XXIL-NUMBER IS find terrible heart burnings; its solemn lu dicruußiioss and its intenslv prosaic term inntion. THE MARSEILLES HYMN, i One ot the most acute musical critics of this country says The ‘Marseilles Hymn’s the French Revolution sot to mu sic,’ and although there may be some sacri fice of sense to sound in the sentence, it is, in the main, true. In a quiet, peaceful epoch, such a lyric could never have been composed; but amid the blaze of torches and ruined palaces find prisons, it sounds like the oracle of a divinity, frantic with passionate love for our race* Its author, Rouget De Lisle, was an of ficer in a corps ol French engineers, sta tioned at Strasburg, in 1792. He was born amid the mountains that hem SonsU- Sahiier in the Faza, and amused himself and his soldier companions by composing and singing love ditties during the leisure of garrison life, lie is said to have com posed quite a number of songs, but the fame of the Marseillaise has entirely ob scured his other productions. , fk i® ijuite clear that no musical compo sition ot any age has had so much influ ence over the minds of men as this hymn of Do Lisle. In a week it had spread throughout France, kindling the most in tense enthusiasm in every hearer. The political clubs of Marseilles, by resolution, adopted it to be sung at the opening and close of their session, and named it after their city. Its author became obnoxious to the Government, and was obliged to escape in disguise from the land of his birth. France was jubilant with the soul stirring anthem. Despite the vigilance of keen officials, copies were sold in the streets of Paris, at prices within the reach of the cannaiUe , and sung with bated breath in the wine cellars of infected quar ters. The battalions of the sans cuh>tte shouted it in unision as they threw up bar ricades in the Parisian highways; even the victims of revolutionary zeal rent the air with its notes as they marched to the guil lotine. Wherever its melody was known or heard, the fiery impetuosity of the pop ulance swept every thing before it, Its effect was maddening, and intensified a thousand-fold the horrors of the French Revolution—sufficiently awful, one would think, without any adventitious circum stances. Nor has its influence waned since 1700. It still stirs a Frenchman’s heart to its in most depths. Pariant pour lu Syrie. al though composed by the mother of the present Emperor, does not and cannot fill its place. It wants its fire, its potent eJec tricity. “It is like criticising sunlight to criticise this famous hymn. Musically, its proportions are faultless as its words arc glowing and spirited. It has fullness, rotundity, ryfcbra, accent, progress, culmi nation, all in perfection.” To-morrow evening M’ll Parodi sings the French National Anthem for the first time in this city. Expectation is on tip toe.— M’lle Rachel electrified Paris, in 1848, by a species of musical declamation. To night Parodi will electrify Philadelphia witli declamatory music. Wo have never heard it as Parodi will sing it; and from the performance we may catch some faint idea of the manner of Rouget de Lisle, when the inspiration of its first perform ance wits upon him. Let no one miss to night, for the same opportunity may not occur again, and we are quite certain that no living artist can give greater expres sion to its thrilling sentences than Parodi. —Philadelphia Paper. MAHOMETAN HONESTY, Is what strikes the Christian in the East more forcibly than any other trait of char acter. There seems to be no distress so deep, and no temptation so great, as to in duce a follower of tho Prophet to take what does not belogto him, or in any pe cuniary way to wrong friend or foe. The history of human society does not show an instance where the teachings of any one man has made such lasting impression as Mahomet’s in this particular. Centuries have passed since he has gone, but his standard of honesty has not been lowered among his followers—and no Christian community in Europe or America, can in this, begin to compare with them. Theft is a crimo unknown to them; and but one single iD6tance of robbery has happened in Turkey for twonty years. A recent wri ter, speaking upon this point, says : “While travelling, it is not uncommon to see a Janissary enter the Cafine, heave several bags of gold in a corner, and go out to sleep with his horse! A merchant returning from Smyrna, travelling early in the morning, saw a horse tied to an ol ive tree, and several bags lying on the ground. Curiosity led him to examine them —ho found that they all contained gold, and that several of the pieces had nearly worked through the cloth. On look ing around ho saw a Janissary at some dis tance in a profound sleep. “Friend,” said the merchant, on waking him, “whose gold is that?” “I have the charge of it,” was the reply. “But are you not a freaid to leave it there ?” “No,” said the Janis sary, it can’t runaway.” * “But travellers may steal it,” said the Frank. “They can’t steal it,” replied the Turk, “for it belongs to a man in Smyrna!”