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M iwimaffili X A. TURNER. EDITOR. | VOLUME 1. (Ontiiiutl. 'OH THE INDEPENDENT PKFSS. WINONA * AN INDIAN LEGEND OP LAKE PEPIN. Winona young was gay and light, And loved her warrior true— Her fortune yet \va.-> fair and a* bright Ah drops of morning dew. The loveliest of her tribe was she— Her eye was bright for one, Who vowed that eye should ever be His beacon and bis sun. Her haughty sire—a mighty chief— Betrothed her as a bride— Then soon her bosom filled with grief. And hope and pleasure died. For Logan was the youth she vowed should o’er her bosom reign, But Mingo came, a chieftain proud, And sought her heart to gain. In vain did Mingo bend the knee, And worship at her feet— Her maiden heart could only bo With him she loved to meet. Ondaygtia—proud and haughty sire— Vowed Mingo she should wed, Or Logan his avenging ire Would number with the dead. By moonlight, on Lake Pepin's shore, With Logan by her side,' Flie thought the saddened question o’er, Would she be Mingo's bride? Then jumping in their light canoe, The oars did swiftly splash, And on the little vessel flew, Mid rays of lunar hash. • Winona, why that pensive gaze. Why heaves that bosom now? Why darkly mid the lunar rays } ppears thy saddened brow ? “The moon is gently shining bright, The stars are smiling too— All nature now is gay and light, And naught is sad hut you, “Has warrior dared impeach thy famo Or chieftain dared offend? ."•peak out his base and dastard name— Great Spirit, vengeance send! “Tell who has done the hateful deed— Let anger wake its fire : That warrior by my knife shall bleed, To slake my burning ire!” Winona answered with a sigh About the spirit land, And raised unto her weeping eyo Her light and gentle hand. he sobbed, “We meet on earth no more, But see yon azure sky— My spirit, soon, will thither soar, And there these tears will dry.” Ondaygtia came with Mingo then, And bore her thence away, Amid a crowd of savage men, Like raving beasts of prey. To save her Logon, she professed Tliat sho’d consent to be The bride of Mingo, as she pressed Her haughty lather’s knee. The nuptial hour was hastening near," The banquet was prepared:— Winona's heart was sail and drear, Os peace on earth despaired. At eve, just as the setting sun Ha<l lit. the western sky, Her heart was on her idol one, And she resolved —to diet ]b-r brow no longer pensive seems— With smiles her face is bland, For now she’s filled with golden dreams About the spirit land. fTo gather berries for the groorn, And bluff sho wanders o'er, shrubbery all in richest bloom, Upon lake Pepin's shore. Her maids with laughter rent the air— Winona only smiled— They knew not of the canker there That gnawed Ondaygua’s child. Ftill on they wandered o'er the bluff Upon its'shaded brow, Where nature’s works are wild and rough— And, lo! they’re silent now. Upon the bluff Winona stands, Her death-song fills the air— To heaven she lil’td her clasped hands, As if in fervent prayer. ' Farewell, my sisters, I shall go Unto the spirit land— And leave this barren waste below, To join the heavonly band. >‘My warrior soon will meet me there, And clasp me to his breast— To seek me Mingo shall not dare, I shall be so much blest.” Thus having sung, she made a leap, Into the lake below, And left be friends upon the steep, To tell her tale of wo. * For the Legend of Winona, sco Sou, Lit, Mess. voL 13, p, 404. fit was the custom with the Indians for the maiden who was betrothed aa a bride, to go. out with her companions, on tbo eye ,of her marriage, to gather berries and wild fruit for the groom, I Mcclilj journal:—lltMeii to pewtui pitas, wit general Pstellm. Peep in the bosom of the lake Now sleeps the Indian girl- The billows o’er her body break, Her hair the mermaids curl. Then Logan—made a madman—strayed, To find Winona fled, But only found his faithful maid, When numbered with the dead. Jan. 1848. i.. i. miscellaneous. FOR THE INDEPENDENT PRESS* Jjoose Paragraphs. T . Mr. Stiles, in his very eloquent, pol ished and scholarly address, on the (’ommeneement Day, at Oglethorpe University, said, that “Grey was eight years composing his celebrated ‘Ele j gy;'” and he adduces this, among others, { as an example, to prove that genius can accomplish nothing great, without the aid of severe labor. In this one of his illustrations, the orator was unfor tunate. Grey was not eight years composing his “Elegy,” although that length of time elapsed from the time he wrote the first verse, till he gave his production to the world, lie labored very little. When the spirit moved him in such a way that he could write, without much effort of mind, he wrote, and at such times only, did he write. It was seldom he felt in this way ; conseqently he wrote but little. Nor does the fact that he went through with a prodigious amount of reading, prove the incorrectness of my position; for, “ what writing was to Cowper, reading was to Grey—occupation with out fatigue,” or labor. In a short address on the same Governor Johnson said, in effe* V r no one conld be a true orator, a!,I ’ ,t] • •' u was not possessed of deep feeling, or passion. lie seemed to give Nature more credit for the powers of the mind than did Mr. Stiles ; and in this he was certainly correct. Governor John son’s remarks caused me to think of a remark 1 have often made in reference to actors —that “no one can act trage- dy, who does not feel tragedy.' 7 Avery strong illustration on this point is fur nished us in the ease of a smooth, fat, good-natured, common-place John Bull, who has been in our State now, some thing over twelve months, attempting to enact high tragedy. His attempt to act the part of Macbeth, on one occa sion when 1 was present, was a most signal failure. Perhaps no two terms in the Eng lish language are less understood than these —courage, cowardice. A full exposition of what I understand by these terms, would cover many sheets of paper. A short space, however, will suffice for the expression of a few leading thoughts. All men arc cow ards, and all men are brave. That is, every man regards some things with fear, and there are certain things which every man can look upon without fear. Os course all men do not fear the same things ; and this is what con stitutes the difference, as the world re gards it, between a brave man and a coward. One man may fear above all things else, the pangs of remorse ; because nature has given him a sensi- five and uneasy conscience. The same rnan may be' so constituted by nature as to be able to endure much physical pain without shrinking. Such a man, if the alternative were placed before him, would suffer wrong and blows, rather than take away the life of a fel low man. The world would call him a coward ; and lie is u coward, if fear constitutes cowardice. Another man, placed in the same situation, may be possessed of a callous conscience, and he may feai, above all things else, the scorn and jeers of the world, as well as the upbraidings of the pugnacious spir it, which nature has given him. Such a man would kill his antagonist, rath er than submit to insult or wroim— O The world would call ]dm a brave man; but he, if fear constitutes coward ice, is as much a coward as the other; differing from him only in that he fears one tiling more than all the rest, while the other fears a different thing, more than all the rest. The truth’"seems to be this. Kacli man, when placed in. a position of dif liculty or danger, will do the thing which he, in accordance with the nat- EATONTON, GA., SATURDAY AUGUST 12, 1854. ural constitution of his mind, least fears to do. lor instance ; suppose a man to be placed in a situation where he must either kill, be killed, or run away. He who fears death, least of all these alternatives, will suffer death, rather than inflict it, or run away. He who fears the renjorse consequent on homicide least of all these things, will kill his antagonist, rather than be kill ed or run away. lie who fears the name of coward—running away—least of all, will run away rather than kill or be killed. Nor does the result of such contests as I have mentioned, always prove which of the three things mentioned is least feared by a man. The difficulty seems to be, to convince a man of the certainty of the alternatives placed be fore him. Most men think that the exchange of a few blows, will be the beginning and ending of a difficulty ; or they think that the other party will yield and that there is, consequently, no danger. Such men frequently meet death, not because tlieydu not fear it, but because they arc unconscious that it is impending. Once convince such a man that death is impending, and he will give up a point, rather than face it. This is why we so frequently see a man who, in one contest, will con duct himself with great apparent cour age. and seem perfectly reckless of death, in another contest, will show himself to be an arrant coward. He is convinced that his antagonist, in the first instance, will rather yield than push the contest to the “bitter end,” while he knows that the other will place before him the stern alternative— “kill or be killed.” It is then, true, that all men fear danger to some extent; while some are q/yorc ersily persuaded of its existence i o ,v.ian others. Those who are easily convinced of its existence constitute the cautious elnss, while those who ai*e not easily pursuaded of its existence, constitute the reckless class. And nine times out of ten, the cautious man in the hour of extreme danger , proves to be more courageous than the reckless man. “Mr. De Quincy, in his preface, hopes that there is no trace of vanity in thus exposing his most sacred confidences,” &c. Aye, but there is vanity Mr. Dc Quincy. No man ever yet published anything, one of whose objects, at least, was not the gratification of vani ty. However, Mr. De Quincy expres ses himself more modestly on this point than do the greater number of the writers of prefaces. He merely “hopes”—he is not certain —he mere ly “hopes that there is no trace of van ity” &c. Most writers roundly assert that vanity, or egotism has nothing whatever, to do with the publication of their writings. Why can they not give the subject the go-by, taking it for granted that the world, as a mat ter of course, will know that the grati fication of vanity is one of the chief ob jects they have in view in publishing their writings ? —or, if they must say something about it, say “they but grati fy the vanity natural to the human heart, in thus giving their, writings to the world? ” • Lying, the mark of a coward.— | In “Father Brighthopes.” a curious and interesting book, we have a story aboutaboywho was dreadfully ad dicted to lying. After a remarkable case, in which he had been adding one lie to another, with the hope of saving his back from the rod, “Father Brighthopes,” an “old clergyman,” who was spending a “vacation” in the family, had a talk with him on the fol ly anil wickedness of lying. “I am sure,” said lie, in conclusion, “that with as much real good in you as you have, the falsehood has cost, you more pain than half a dozen flog gings.” ■' s Sam acknowledged the truth. “Then, aside from the wickedness of the thing, is not falsehood unwise? Don’t you always feel bettor to be frank and honest, let the consequences be what they will?” “I knowed it all the time,” sobbed Sam, “but I daren't tell the truth. I wish I had told it; but I daren't." t “Then we may conclude that lying is usually the mark of a coward. Aten would tell the truth if they were not 1 afraid to.” , ' “1 s’pose so; but I never thought of what you say before,” Now let our readers, if they are ever tempted to utter what is not true, remember that lying the Shark gs a coward, “without ff.iii, r.tv'on m *iFFECTio.r” Small Eater. —When Jmes kept the United States hotel, at Philadel phia, it was a favorite hous't with us. Jones always liad the first gt’eu peas, and the earliest strawberries One day, when young pigs first came round, Jones, as usual, secured the only four there were il market, for his dinner-table. A tall, lank in dividual, with a sort of yellov>‘h phiz, sat at. our elbow. lie looked although a basin of gruel or barley‘vTotli at most, would be as solid fare as hTs sterny ach could contain. A waiter, think ing him to be very sick, asked him in a commiserating tone, what he would be served with. !‘Nothin’, as I knows on,” replied the sick man. “I am not quite well to-day; but I’ll take a bit of the pork.” One of the pigs was placed by the side of the plate, which disappeared in double quick time, under his succes sive and determined attacks. “Will take something moie?” asked the waiter. Casting, his eyes up and down tie table, with a sharp piercing look; at the three empty dishes. I say, landlord ,’ he inqu ired , “have you got any mare of them young hogs?' Conjugal Affliction.—One of our merry friends hands us the follow ing, for the Berkshire Cos. Eagle, which is verp “coot” in him : A wealthy Dutch farmer in Pean sylvania, having the misfortune to lose his wife by death, went to the store of Messrs. Duncan & Foster to buy some crape. It was a peculiarity of the worthy man, whenever he met either of the firm, to use the partnership name in full, and on the morning in question he began as usual: “Coot morning, Misder Tuncan & Vauster.” “Goot morning, Mr. Fike.” “Mr. Tuncan & Vauster, ’ave you cot any ov dem tings vot dev'put arount tehats ven de mammies tie?” “I suppose you mean crape , Mr. Fike.” “Yes, grapes ; dem’s um; dats vot Bets told me. Misder Tuncan & Vaus ter, vill you measure off enough of dem grapes vot will go around my hat? Sad worlt dis, Misder Tuncag, -and \ Illisloi, mitt n ...li, ...,1 .. v-i It.*’ “Yes, Mr. Fike, we have heard of your late misfortune and sympathize with you warmly.” “Oh, tear, tear, tear! I had racier lose ary one of my horses; and den, she was such a boogur to work!” One of the Know Nothings.— Some years ago, a lady noticing a neighbor who was not in her seat at church on Sabbath, went on her return home to inquire what should detain such a punctual attendent. On entering the house she found the family all busy at work. She was surprised when her friend addressed her with : “Why, la! where have you been to day, dressed up in your Sunday clothes ?” “To meeting.” “What day is it?” “Sabbath day.” “Gal, stop washing in a minit! Sab - bath day! Well, I did not know it, for my husband has got so plagued stingy he won’t take the the paper. We know nothing. Who preached?” “Mr. B “What did he preach about?” “On the death of our Saviour.” “What, is he dead?” Well, all Bos ton might be dead, and we know noth ing about it! It will not do, we must have a newspaper again, for every thing goes wrong without the paper. Bill has almost lost his reading, and Polly has got quite mopish again, because she has no poetry or stories to read. Well, if we have to take a cart load of onions and potatoes to market, I’m resolved to have a newspaper. (Reader go thou and do likewise.) — At a tavern, at which Judge Dooly of Georgia hoarded, there was much complaint among the lawyers and boarders, that the victuals were not prepared in a cleanly manner. Judge Dooly took the landlord aside, and said he had something to communicate to him that might be advantageous to liis house. ‘lt relates,’ said he, ‘to your table. If you were to have the' dirt on one plate and the victuals on anoth er, and let your guests mix to suit themselves, according to their different tastes, it would be a decided improve ment in the entertainment.’ Poison Antidotes.— For oil of vitriol, or aquafortis, give large doses of magnesia and water, or equal parts of soft soap and water. f For oxalic acid, give an emetic of mustard and water, afterwards mu cilages and small doses of lauda num. For opium or laudanum, give an emetic of mustard and use constant motion, and if possible the stomach pump. For arsenic, doses of magnesia are useful, but freshly prepared hydrated oxid of iron is considered best. —— Circulate no report unless you know, that it will do no harm, American Manners. —Dr. Potter, in a recent address at Albany, N. Y., said: “I am a little afraid that a great many people in this country are rather too prone to undervalue this part of education. Certainly we have no ad miration for anything finical or affect ed in manners. We do not want the manners es a village dancing school. But genuine good breeding, gentle manners, ease, modesty and propriety of bearing, we do exceedingly .value. W hen shall w*e cease to be described as a lounging people? when shall we cease i’o be known by our slovenly speech, y our practice of sitting with our feet igher than our heads? During an ex ursion of several months in Europe ist year, I met hundreds of English fit home, and on the continent in ev ery situation. I never saw one spit. I cannot remember that I ever saw i'one, however fatigued, lounging or sit ting in any unbecoming manner. So long as the State shall feel itself oblig ed to provide spittoons for its legisla tive halls—so long as the directors of our railroads shall find occasion to put inside their carriages printed requests to the passengers to use the spittoons and not the floor, and not to put their feet upon the seats —so long as we shall continue to fill our conversation aud our political harangues with the slang of the fish-market, let us not be sur prised nor angry, if foreigners some times make themselves witty at our expense, and in the meantime, let all those who are entrusted with the care of the young, use their utmost sefforts to correct these national barbarisms, and to form the manners of the rising generation after a model more elevated, and more refined.” • Tiie Evening Prayer. —We can scarcely imagine a scene more full of beauty and meaning than that presented by the little child who kneels at his moth er’s knee to ask God’s blessing upon the sleep into which he is about to en ter. There is a great deal of signifi cance in the nightly prayer. It recalls the past to-day, and it reminds of the future to-morrow; leads us to feel how much to-day’s words and deeds will af fect to-morrow’s; and above all, to teach us that the greatest physical or moral power which we may possess is but lent to us by a kind Creator. Sir T. Urowne says’mar “Sleep is Death’s younger brother, and so like him that I dare not trust him without my prayers.” Who will deny that the night’s rest is sweeter for having received a Father’s blessing?— received, we say; for does not every one who asks receive ? You look upon the babe asleep in liis cradle, and say it is a picture of perfect repose. The child will grow to manhood, and his face will no longer wear that happy look of peace and faith, unless he has learned to turn from a mother’s to a Father’s care and love. If at his mother’s knee, he has daily asked for that love, he will still have the trustful child’s spirit which hung so beautifully over his infancy, and grew every day more like those who, having “become like little chil dren,” are ready to enter the kingdom of Heaven. A lady, about forty years old, had suffered'for twelve years from period ical attacks of palpitation of the heart, so violent as to shake the bed on which the patient lay. During one attack, feeling thirsty, she expressed a desire for some soda-water. No sooner had she swallowed the first draught when her palpitation left hex’, and recurred no more until the period for the next attack. As soon as it commenced she sent for the medical attendant, and told him what had occurred a month pre viously, and requested to be allowed to try the same remedy a second time. He consented, but wishing to ascer tain which of the ingredients of the soda water had relieved the complaint, he gave her a dose of the critic acid by itself. This had no effect. He then gave her a dose of carbonate of soda, which also failed. He then mix ed the powders, and gave her some ordinary soda-water, placing his hand at the same time on her heart. The moment she swallowed the first mouth ful, the palpitation ceased, and recur red no more for that time. From that period, whenever the palpitation came on, she could always stop it by this simple remedy. It appears from the experiments made by the medical men, that -carbonic acid was the active ele ment in relieving the complaint, be cause until the gas was liberated by the mixtxxre of critic acid and the car bonate of soda, no benefit accrued. [Journal of Health. An Overheard Conversation.— “Jim, when you grow up, do you mean to be a lawyer, or keep a con fectionary store?” “I havn’t made up my mind, Tom, but ma wants me to be a minister.” “Oh, don’t be a minister, Jim, for you can’t go to circusses then.” “I know that, Tom, but a minister, ma says, is the best profession. You know how Mrs. Lovegrow adores Mr. Prettyface, arid should’nt you like to be adored, Tom ?” “Perhaps I should, but then you can’t drive fast horses.” Y": " ; “Oil, yes you can, ministers drive fast horses nowadays; and besides that, Tom, when they have a billious at tack, the worshippers send them on a foreign tour; he gets remembered in wills, too, and often has presents, and ma says it won’t be long before every minister has his conntry seat, and a collegiate to write his sermons. Won’t that be high ?” Tom acquiesced, and the juveniles indulged in another game of marbles. Mr. T womb ley’s Mistake.—Mr. Twombley had drank but six glasses of brandy and water, when he, being a man of discretion, returned home at the seasonable hour of 1 A. M., and went soberly to bed. Mrs. Thomas Twombley was too well accustomed to the comings and goings of the said Thomas, to be much disturbed by the trifling noise he made on retiring; but when she discovered that he had his boots on she requested him to remove them, or keep his feet out of bed. “My dear,” said Mr. Twombley, in apologetic tone, “’skuse me! How I came to forget my boots I can’t con ceive, for I’m just as sober as I ever was in my life.” Mr. Twombly sat on the side of the bed, and made an effort to pull off his right boot. The attempt was success ful, though it brought him to the floor. On regaining his feet, Mr. Twombley thought he saw the door open. As he was sure lie shut the door on com ing in, he couldn’t'be mistaken, he was certain. Mr. Twombly stagger ed towards the door to close it, when to his still greater surprise, he saw a figure approaching from beyond. — Twombley stopped, the figure stopped. Twombley advanced again, the figure did the same. Twombley raised his right hand, the figure raised its left.— “Who's there? ’ roared Twombley be ginning to be frightened. The figure made no reply—Twombley raised his boot in a menacing attitude—the fig ure defied him by shaking a similar object. Cried Twombley, “I’ll find out who you be, you sneakl” He hurled the boot full at the.head of the mysterious object, when—crash ! went the big looking-glass which Twombly had mis taken for the door. A Magical Duet on the 4w»*i f *»»*. Bonnet, in liishistoire de la Musique, gives the following extraordinary ac count of a mathematician, mechanician and musician named Alix, in Provence, about the middle of the seventeenth century: Alix, after many years’ study and labor succeeded in constructing an automaton figure, having the shape of a human skeleton, which, by means of a concealed mechanism, played, or had the appearance of playing, on the gui tar. The artist, after having tuned in perfect unison two guitars, placed one in the hands of the skeleton, in the position proper for playing, and on a calm summer evening, having thrown open the window of his apartment, he fixed the skeleton with the guitar in his hands in a position where it could be seen from the street. He then, tak ing the other instrument, seated him self in an obscure corner of the room, and commenced playing the piece of music, the passages of which were faithfully repeated or echoed by the guitar held by the skeleton, at the same time that the movement of its wooden lingers, as if really executing the music, completed the illusion. — This strange musical feat drew crowds around the house of Alix, and created the greatest astonishment. But, alas ! for the ill-fated artist, this sentiment was soon changed in the minds of the ignorant multitude, into the most su perstitious dread. A rumor arose that. Alix tvas a soccrer, and in league with the devil. He tvas arrested by order of the parliament of Provence, and sent before their criminal court, La Chambre de la Tournelle, to be tried on the capital charge of magic or witch craft. In vain the ingenious but un fortunate artist sought to convince his judges that the only means used to give apparent vitality to the fingers of the skeleton were wheels, pulleys, and other equally unmagical contrivances, and that the marvellous result produc ed was nothing more criminal than the solution of a problem in mechanics.— His explanations and demonstrations were either not understood, or failed of convincing his stupid and bigoted judges, and he was condemned as a sor cerer and a magician. This iniquitous judgment tvas confirmed by the par liament of the Provence, which sen tenced him to be burned alive in the principal square of the city, together with the equally innocent automaton figure, the supposed accomplice, in his magical practices. This infamous sen tence was carried into execution in the year 1664, to the great satisfaction and edification of all the faithful and devout inhabitants of Aix. . / ‘Ma,’ didn’t the minister say last Sunday that sparks flew upward? ‘Yes, my dear, how come you to be thinking of it?’ ‘Because, yesterday I saw one of cousin Sally’s sparks staggering along the streets and tall downwards.” ‘Here, Bridget, put this child to bed; she must be getting sleepy.’ | TERMS, 52.00 A YEAR' NUMBER 17. Authorship of the Dible. There are in all sixty-six books which comprise the volume of Holy Writ, which are attributed to more than thirty different authors or writers. Os the whole, half of the New Testa ment was composed by St. Paul, and the next largest writer is the gentle and beloved St. John, With the sin gle exception of St. Paul, neither his tory or tradition has testified that those powerful thinkers and writers ever en joyed the benefits of education, or that they ever were trained to scholarship and reasoning, yet how ably Lave they written, what eminent characters have been chronicled by them, what great events recorded for time and eternity. Jeremiah is sorrowful; Isaiah sublime; David poetical; Daniel sagacious; Hab bakulc and ITaggai terse and denuncia tory ; but they all seem to have exer cised their natural gifts under the in fluence of divine direction and inspira tion. Moses with his vast knowledge, and proud intelligence—the legislator, the reformer, the believer, commenced the work; and John, with his depth of feeling and exquisite tenderness and simplicity, completed it. And what do we know of the lives of all these, or even of the last two mentioned ? Nothing that human vanity might ex ult in. Moses was rescued from the oozy rushes of the Nile, and John died in his old age a lonely exile on the small island of Patinos. My Peace I give unto you. How many bring reproach upon the cause of Christ by failing to maintain peace in their hearts, when surrounded by the petty trials of everyday life!— Yet these same individuals flatter themselves, that should God lay his hand heavily upon them, should sick ness and distress be their portion, they would bear with fortitude and Chris tian resignation all that God, in his wisdom, should mete out to them.— But, like the haughty Syrian, they chafe under these insignificant tests of their submission, and think if God would try them by some marked dis play of his judgment, would call upon them “to do some great thing,” they would be able to convince the world of the strength of their faith, and exhib it a lively exercise of the Christian graces. Alas! there are too many who man etv we would not call in question, but who permit their daily trials so to dis turb the equanimity of their minds, that they neither enjoy peace them selves, nor suffer those around them to do so. When will such consider that by patience and cheerfulness they may preach a sermon, which, with God’s blessing, would win the hearts of those within its influence to the love of the religion of Jesus? Counsel to Parents.— Be very vigilant over thy child in the April of his understanding, lest the frost of May nip his blossoms. Wile he i& a twig strengthen him; while he is a new vessel season him; such as thou makest him, such commonly - thou shaft find him. Let his first lesson be obedience, and the second shall be what thou wilt. Give him education in good letters, to the umost of thy ability and his capacity. Season his youth with the love of his Creator, and make the fear of God the begin ning of his knowledge. If he have an active spirit, rather rectify than curb it; but reckon idleness among his chief faults. Above all things, keep him from vain, lascivious, and amor ous pamphlets, as the forerunners of all vice. As his judgment ripens, observe his inclination, and tender him a calling that shall not cross it; forced marri ages and callings seldom prosper. — Show him both the mow and the plough ; prepare him as well for the danger of the skirmish as for the hon or of the prize. If he choose the pro fession of a scholar, advise him to study the most profitable arts. Poetry and. mathematics take up too great a lati tude of the soul, and, moderately used, are good recreations, but bad callings, bring nothing but their own reward. If he choose a trade, teach him to forget his father's house and his moth er’s wing; advise him to be conscien tious, careful, and constant. This done, thou hast done thy part; leave the rest to Providence, and thou hast done it well. A Trap for a Troublesome Tongue. —Sheridan was one day much annoyed a fellow by member of the House of Commons, who kept cry ing out every few minutes, “Hear! hear!” Du ring the debate he took occasion to'dfe*| scribe a political cotemporary that \ wished to play rogue, but had only,, sense enough to act fool. “Where’ exclaimed he, with great emphasis “where shall we find a -more toolish knave or a more knavish fool than'he? ’ { “Hear! hear!” was shouted by the troublesome member, fchcridan turn ed round, and thanked him for the prompt information, and sat,down amid a general roar of laughtej*. ' jj Affection ceases not while living— neither docs it at death—-Faith j|omes to its assistance at the raouthjjpfi the grave and it finds its way to H<«n.