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BY J. A. TURNER. [ VOLUME 11. |oetri). FROM THE JOURNAL OF COMMERCE. Crave of the Missouri Bride. BY MAJ. G. \\\ P ATT EX, U. S. ARMY. • On the lovely bank of a nameless stream which empties into the rapid Colorado, is a little mound, which, in the spring season, is mantled with flow ers, and near which sometimes at evening may bo traced the temporary camp of the emigrant on the overland rente to California. It is the grave of a young Missouri bride, who "left tne home of her childish mirth,” to share with her partner the vi cissitudes of a journey to the land of gold, and who perished :md was buried by the way side: Along the shore —along the shore, Which seldom foot-fall echoes o’er, There lies half hid 'mid flowrets rare, The grave of one, oh 1 more than fair. Oft at the hour when eve comes down To crest the spot with glory's crown— (When the hush’d soogters close their eyes Unconsciously as daylight dies, Ar.d the oov day-flower droops its bead. Abashed to hear the night wind’s tread,) Staid by the sun’s retiring beam, The brief sojourner at that stream Pauses to wonder “ who can lay Iu that strange grave—so far away?" Along the shore, alone—alone— Where Western winds and waters moan, Lull and by the murmuring voice of streams, Sleeping the sleep unknown to dreems, ’.Neath the blue drapery of the skies, In robes of white, serene she lies. Without a hope, without a fear, Without a smile, without a tear, — When Winter’s blast is on the heath, Never to hear its warring breath; When birds come back on joyous wing, Never to hear their chants of Spring; Alone, alone, along the shore, She sleeps, alas! to dream no more. Along the shore, alone—alone, That little mound without a stone, Is all the token to declare So lov’d a tiling is buried there. Above her ashes dear and dim There steals at eve no household hymn; And yet she is not all forgot— Love fences round that hallowed spot, And ever still those ashes burn Alive in Memory’s secret urn. And prayers go up when daylight closes, For her—the wept—who there reposes. Fort Ripley, Minnesota, Jan. 1855. Mlisrelkmtous. A Wild Legend. Oberlansitz is the name of a small mountain district bordering on Bohe mia ; and to the rough part of it, sit uated round about the town of Quit tau, the wildest legends belong. The original inhabitants are an old race of Czechs, and form the native popula tion of the highlands ; but it is a Ser vian race that occupies the plains be low. The Oberlansitzer is a lumpish fellow, phlegmatic and taciturn ; who, when he does open his mouth, heaps together vowels, so as to form the Very coarsest of the German dialects—worse even than the Silesian. lie would call what, waoiout. When excited in the beer-house or on any holiday occasion, he breaks out into exceeding wildness, and in that condition, he is quick at wrath; but, slow at forgiveness, he treasures up ideas of vengeance. Os strangers he is very distrustful. Un willing to guide them over his native ground, he hides from them what he knows, tells them none of his thoughts, and recounts to them none of his legends. Even at home, when he begins one of the stories in which he delights, he blurts it out piecemeal, from the corn er by the oven, stops to smoke, or breaks off altogether if offended by any distasteful kind of interruption. Thus it happens that the legends cur rent in the Oberlansitz have escaped the notice of the collectors. Some years ago, an educated Ober lansitzer, Herr WillkOmm, published a small collection of the legends of his countrymen. I propose to relate two or three of them—not telling them as formal tales, but setting down enough to show that what is their na ture, and suggest, perhaps, too, a pro fitable thought or two to those who, in reading them, remember what the nature is of those poor highlanders by whom they were invented. Once upon a time there was a maid en, named Swanhilda, who was the only child of a proud father, abd he was dead. Her mother had died at her birth, and she lived, therefore, alone in her castle. To this lady many suitors came, ail of whom she scorn fully and repeatedly rejected. Her delight was in manly sports ; she was repeatedly thundering through the forest on a great black Barbary cour ser, spear in hand, in search of game. Nevertheless, she was very beautiful, and her many suitors, driven to dis traction, at last me* together, and agreed to summon her to yield herselt to one of them, or else submit to be be seiged by them all ; for t.iey would combine aud march against her castle. She sent back their messenger with scornful words, aud went to bed. In the night a little ball of light % '<sl l thlii ItmTiuti:— ScSdth to literature, lolrtits, anil (fctteral Hisalfa. came up but of her bed room floor, and jumped about with a slight crackling noise that awakened her and worried her. “Be quiet,” she cried out at it. “What fool’s triilk is this. I want to go to sleep.” The little ball instant ly vanished; but directly afterwards the boards of the floor were broken through, and a table rose into the room covered with wine and dainty food. Then S wanhildu foj.r But the fear gave wav to curiosity, when she saw sitting around the table the figures of all her suitors, eating and drinking merrily. One lady was sit ting with them who had nothing to eat, and that was the image of herself. Little servants took to each of the. young knights as many plates of food as he had received rejections at her hands; and, whenever a knight was served in this way, there was laid down before the image of herself an empty sack, so that as many sacks (the Oberlansitzers say baskets,) as she had given she received back for her supper. I believe that an old custom of asking a lady’s hand by making her a present in a bag (sack) or basket, and taking it as an acceptance of the implied offer if she kept whatever con tained the present, and a rejection if she sent the sack or basket back, gave rise to our vulgar Euglish expression, give the sack, and to the corresponding German expression, give the basket. Swan hi Ida saw her image gradually hurried behind piles of her own bas kets, while the knights ate or drank, and the good wine and rich viands came up through the floor at an ama zing pace, disappearing again lrom the table in a way t at was quite super natural. Swanhilda, being very an gry, was about to scold, when she found to her dismay that her voice was gone. There was a whispering and giggling at the bedside. To see what that meant, Swanhilda moved aside the silken curtains, and peeped over on two little creatures in blue and green c;othing, with yellow hats, who talk ed and laughed together. She could just hear what they said. She picked up from their discourse that she was being punished by the fairies generall y for having turned her girlhood into manhood; but particularly for one act that had brought hex roystei'ing ways painfully under the notice of the fairy queen. On a certain festival oc casion, a grand fairy assembly had been held, a monster orchestra was estab lished in the wood, the queen with her whole court was present, and the en tire fairy world was then collected, crowding every flower with so much eagerness that the more adventurous had even climbed to the top of the the highest fox-gloves to look down on the imposing spectacle. In the midst of the music the ground shook, and there was heard a distant thunder; directly after wan Is, the Am azon, on her great Barbary horse, dashed through the bushes. One hoof came into the middle of the orchestra, the other three came down among the people, killing, crushing, overthrow ing, breaking heads and arms, and legs, so that the festival ground looked af ! terwards as ghastly as a field of battle, j The queen vowed that she would tame Swanhilda. Already the fairies i were at work, eating her out of house i and home. Swanhilda, hearing all ; this, turned round in bed with a thump. I “ Lid you feel that?” said one of the i little creatures. “Was not that an j earthquake.” The other was the cel | lurer who went occasionally to and fro to fetch up wine. “No,” he said ; “that beast of a Arl must be awake 1 and kicking about in bed with anger.” | “But then,” said the other one, “I | think she would get up and scold us roundly.” “No,” said the cellarer, “our queen has taken thought of that. If she awoke she was to be tongue tied, and to lie awake till cock crow looking at us.” “Fine amusement that would be,” Swanhilda grumbled to herself. “I was right,” said thecel larer, laughing tremulously, “ the beast is awake.” “Pretty manners,” thought Swanhilda. “I am a beast am I! Oh I wish I could speak.” “Ah, my young lady,” said the cel larer, answering her thoughts, “it is well for our ears that you cannot. You see,” he added to- Ins friend, “the immense destruction of property she occasioned, is not to be made good to us, the queen says, until this creature has married one of her rejected suit ors and made handsome presents to all the others. Before she can do that she must catch fish for a living.” A little before cockcrow the feast ing ended, the tables being broken up the fairies disappeared. At cockcrow Swanhilda fell asleep, and slept until noon; then she got up «nd went to her washstand. There was no water in the basin,; and falling, at once into a great rage, she called her maid. “llow is this?” she said to her. “No water I” The maid waSsure that she had put water, but she went for more. Pres ently she returned, looking much frightened. . “There is no water,” she said, “in the tub, none in the pump, none in the cistern. ” Swanhilda thought directly of the fairies, and said, “Never mind get me my break fast, I will take a sausage and two breasts of Pomeranian gdo.se.” ■ f - ipiOiiißs) umvwdib ciiia imwpvfKntfi** EATONTON, GA., SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 24, 1855. “ Oh, miss,” the servant answered, “there’s no sausage, and no goose and no food of any kind ; and every cask in the cellar is empty, and the casks are rotten ; and the furniture’s gone out of the house, and cattle out of the stalls, and your Barbary courser’s gone, and the hay is all moulded in the manger, and the litter’s rotten; and all the fruit’s gone off the trees, and the trees are all dead, and the grass and every bit of the country round is withered up. Only look out of the window, miss ; and the servants have all gone, and oh, if you please, miss, I am going.” Swanhilda went out and found that all was true ; the fairies had really consumed all her subsistence. “ 1 won t be forced into marrying, ” she said; “and I wont fish. I don’t care. I know what I’ll do—l’ll starve my self.” She kept to this resolution for three days; but then starvation be came so uncomfortable, that she went out to look for food. Everything was dry and barren, but there was the castle lake; and when she came to that it was a surprise to see how full of fish it was, and how they leaped and swam together at the surface. There was a fishing rod close by her with a hook at the end of the line, and a worm already fixed upon it. She dipped it into the lake and a fish bit instantly. She threw the line down and was carrying home the fish for dinner, when it began sud denly to smell so detestably, that she was forced to throw it away. “Ha, ha,” chuckled the little cellar er, who was lounging upon a moss rose close by, and drinking the maddest draughts out of a small cup borrowed from a heath blossom. “We know how to tame you. Now fish.” Swanhilda picked up the fishing rod, and struck at the impertinent ell with all her might. “Infamous imp!” she cried. She knocked the rose to pieces, but the fairy bad leaped off and fixed himself upon her nose. “You have a remarkably soft nose, you vixen,” he observed. “Now fish! Do, my dear Swanhilda, take the rod, and while you are fishing I will play you the. most charming music.” Swan hilda dashed at him with her fingers, but he bit them. It was of no use to be obstinate, she was obliged to fish, and while she fished hy sat astride up on her nose, and beating time upon it with his heels, played half a dozen in struments and sang a song at the same time. In his song he bade her place the fish she caught into a basket that lay at her feet, wreathed about with flowers. It was soon full, and then she was forced to carry it to market. But if she was to go to town and sell fish before all the world, she de termined that she would at least dis guise herself. So she went first into the castle to look for some common clothes. But the cupboards and presses were all empty. No garment was left her but the one she wore, the grand velvet riding dress in which she had been used to go a hunting. She was obliged, therefore, to set out in that, and was promised a hot sop upon her return. The fairies made’ her labor light for her. She sold her fish and when she came home, found a lit tle water running from the spring, a fire alight in the courtyard, and a piece of bread beside it. She made some water hot, crumbled her bread into it, ate her hot sop and fell asleep. Next morning she awoke very thirsty, but there was no water. The little cellarer was at her elbow to re mind her that she was must go fishing and marketing before she breakfasted. She fell at once into a great rage. “ I wish,” she thought to herself, “I wish you were where the pepper grows.” At once she felt the elf upon her nose, where he began to punish her with a thick bristle, beating her cheeks and tickling her nostrils so that she half killed herself sneezing. “Wait a bit, madam,” he cried. “I’ll teach you politeness. Where the pep per grows, indeed ! pepper you.” Swanhilda fished and went to mar ket where two of her rejected suitors saw her, and came up at once to buy some of her fish and to mock her. So the year and next year passed; the suitors came one after another, jeering at Swanhilda. She took every day to market a basketful of the finest fish, and in exchange carried home so much money, that she was after all a little comforted. But she was compelled to put the money by, and live on the spare diet that the cellarer provided. And while she was thus humbled, Swanhilda saw that among all the old suitors who mocked at her in her day of disgrace, there came pne who ap proacln and her always as of old, with blushing reverence, and honored her as much as ever, though she was re duced to the condition of a fish-wife. Her lie'aat then softened, and she un derstood the worth *of love. There fore, at the end of three years, she consented to marry this young knight. The produce of marketing, iu which the fairies had always helped her to success, amounted by to a vast sum, so tluit she "had no difficulty in obeying the rest of the directions of the little cellarer, who had been made her major domo by the fairy quean, lo every one of her old suitors, rude as they had lately been in recognition of her own former rudeness, she sent many fair words a*nd costly gifts. Bin liing with maidenly humility and modesty, she was led to the altar by the suitor who had loved her with a true devotion, and to the friendly fairies who attended at her wedding she made her last promise, which she kept faithfully. It was never to ride any more Barbary horses, but to am ble oft a palfrey as a gentle lady should. It is instructive to compare the grace and delicacy of this legend of Taming of the Shrew with the appa rent roughness of the people among whom it is current. —Household Words. Death- of a Charming Author and Woman. Mary Russel Mitford, the author of “ Our Village,” and of “ Rienzi,” and a great many other works that no suc ceeding age, in which the English language is spoken or read, will ever let die, is no more. The tidings iof her demise did not startle nor sur prise, for they were tremblingly an ticipated by the friends of the deceas ed lor months before. In a letter written by her to her friend, Mr. James T. Fields, the Boston poet, not long ago, she said touching ly, “You will not see your old friend when you come to England again, for I shall not be alive in the spring; but they will tell you where I am sleep- W Mary Russel Mitford was born in the little town of Alresford, in the county of Hampshire, England, in the year 1789. In the pretty village of Swallowfield, which she has justly im mortalized she died on the 10th of January, 1855, in her 67th year. Her death not only leaves a void in the circle of English literature, blit a vacancy in society that will be most keenly felt by thousands. Truly, says Fields, in a graceful tribute to her memory, in the Boston Evening Transcript, “no female writer of our day has been so loved as Mary Mit ford. To the few who have seen her, face to face, she can never be forgotten; and to the many who have never heard the sound of her voice and have known her only through her charming pages, she must be missed like a friend. She was so good and kind, so sunny iu her noble character, so warn* and constant in her friendships—that those who knew her best will mourn her loss the longest, and feel most deeply that one of the purest and best of her sex has passed away.” No writer was ever more fondly re spected among the English common people, the peasantry of the land, than Miss Mitford, and they always strove to do her honor. Her associates were the great, as well as the wise, the good, the distinguished. Talfourd, DeQuincey, Scott, John Wilson, Wordsworth, Landor, Hemans the Brownings, and many more of that bright class, were her iutimates, and loved her dearly. As Mr. Field saj’s, Miss Mitford was eminently a beautiful woman, her face retaining to the last an expression of affectionate interest and cheerful *ood nature. So we should infer from the beautiful portrait painted by John Lucas in 1852, appended to her latest work. Her manner was full of win ning kindness, and the very soul of melody seemed native in her voice. Her merry laugh rang through her cottage like bird-music, and when she read aloud a poem —her tones at such a time always takinjia kind of chant —itwas like listening to the recitative of a fine s nger. Lightly lie the turf above one of the gentlest hearts that ever beat in sym pathy w r ith the joys and the sorrows of humanity ! — N. 0. Picayune. Venality of the Press. Among the signs of the times there is nothing that so distinctly marks the character of the age, and * the corrup tions of the present time, as the reck less disregard of moral principle too frequently exhibited in the conduct of political newspapers, and while we should hold those to a strict accounta bility who set at naught the obliga tions of morality, aud make the press the agent for the circulation of false hood ana calumny, they alone, it is ev ident, are not to blame, for they cater to the wants of a vitiated public taste, and if the public did not approve 'their course, and manifested their dis approbation in a ta .gible manner, who can doubt that the evil would be at cnee corrected ? It is true that the conductor of a public journal has his own sins to answer for; the general depravity of the public mind is no ex cuse for him; but the men who ap prove his course, and manifest their ap proval, are equally guilty. Why is it that men who are honor able, truthful, and honest, in the or dinary relations of life, who would scorn to tell a lie, and who have a pro per appreciation of the truth, can yet, for party purposes, and to secure a triumph of party, lend themselves to the propagation of error arid to the promulgation of the basest falsehoods that ever disgraced humanity ? {Atlanta Republican. FROM THE MISSOURI REPUBLICAN, DEC. 25. Origin of Camp Meetings. Religious Extravagances at them in Tennessee— The Falling Exercise — The Jerking Exercise—The Barking Exercise , <&c. —Extravagances of the Females. We hear now and then of the strange effects which were produced upon per sons and whole communities in olden time by religious excitement, and the peculiar phenomena which marked periods of religious fervor among a simple people. In a recent lecture be fore the Mercantile Library Associa tion of Boston, Rev. Wm. it. Milburn gave a general descriptien of the early preachers of the West, particularly of Kentucky, and made a selection of a few characters to illustrate the traits of the whole. No part of the country has witnessed such schisms in the churches, and such wild and fanatical delusions in connection with religious teaching, as in the States of Kentucky and Tennessee. The statements made by Rev. Mr. Milburn were doubtless correct, so far as they went; but the selection of a few individuals as an in dex of the general character of the Western preachers of that time, gives a very incorrect idea -of the actual facts. Some years since, during a tempora ty residence of a few months in the £tate of Kentucky, I chanced to have ab opportunity of examining a historic al''work, which is there acknowledged as \he best authority, and in which I noticed many of the incidents describ ed ih the lecture of Mr' M., and in which are-also found many interesting statements with regard to that early time, which go to indicate that there was a vast amount of imperfection con-, nected- with many of those whose char acters was delineated under the head ing of “Saddle-Bags.” Some of the incidents of that day and region are scarcely credible on account of the strange perversion of the human intel lect which they show. The churches were torn and wasted ten years by in testine feuds, and, in consequence of the dissensions then existing among the churches, infidelity prevailed more or less throughout that whole region. The writer to whom I have referred says that “ nearly half of the ministers of that period, were fit one time or an other subject to church censure for va rious faults.” Camp meetings originated among the. Presbyterians of Kentucky. The first camp meeting was held near Goose berry river, in July, 1800. The min isters present were Messrs. MeGready, Wm. McGee, and a Mr. Hoge. The author, whose language I quote, says: “ Camp meetings being once introduc ed, the plan spread like wild-fire. The laborer quitted his task, the youth for got his pastimes, the plough was left in the furrow, age snatched his crutch, the deer enjoyed a respite upon the mountains, business of ail kinds was suspended, dwelling houses were de serted, whole neighborhoods were emp tied, bold hunters and sober matrons, young men aud maidens and little chil dren flocked to the common centre of attraction—every difficulty was en countered, every risk ventured to be present at the camp meeting.” In connection with these camp meet ings a great variety of strange exer cises grew up. Children ten or twelve years of age were prominent actors. Under paroxysms of .feeling, persons fell down, and this was called “the falling exercise.” There were also “ the jerking exercise,” the “ rolling,” the “ running,” the “dancing,” and the “ barking exercises,’” besides “ visions” and “ trances.” At Cabin Creek camp meeting, May 22, 1801, so many fell on the jhird flight that, to prevent their being trod on, they were laid out on one side of the meeting house floor, like so many corpses. At Boone Creek sacrament two hundred fell; at Pleas ant point three hundred, and at Cane Ridge three thousand, August 6,1801. It is said that children eight months old, were affected by these strange in fluences. The first instance of the “jerking exercise” was at a sacrament in East Tennessee. Persons would be jerked in all directions, and over whatever object happened to be in the way. — They were always left to thsmselves, because the people said that to oppose them would be to resist the influences of the Spirit of God. Sometimes those who had long hair, it is said, had their heads jerked so swiftly that the hair snapped like the crack of a whip. It is said that none were injured except those who rebelled.against the opera tion of the Spirit and refused to com ply with the injunction it came to en force. Some who went to the meetings with whips in their hands to flog oth ers had their whips jerked out of their iiands. In the “ rolling exercise,” they dou bled up and. rolled over, and over; and it made no difference whether there was mud or filth of any kind in the way. In the “ runningexercise ” they would run over every obstacle and keep running till quite exhausted. In the “ dancing exercise,” a writer of that time says they had the privi lege of exhibiting, by a bold faith, what others were moved to do by a blind impulse. In one instance a Mr. ' ! Thompson, a minister, commenced dan cing after meeting and danced an hour and a half; and said he, ‘‘This is the Holy Ghost!” A girl danced for an hour in an empty pew, and others dan ced in so violent a manner that they could not be held by strong men. The writer whom I quote says:— “ One might be tempted to think that the climax had already been reached, but there was a piece of extravagance to complete the degradation of human nature. The 1 barks ’ frequently accom panied the ‘jerks,’ though of later or igin. This exercise consisted of the individual taking the position of a dog, moving about on all-fours, growl ing, snapping his teeth, and barking with such exactness of imitation as to deceive any one whose eyes were not directed to the spot.” All classes became affected by this degrading mania, and the only method of securing relief was to engage in a voluntary dance. It was supposed first to be inflicted as a chastisement for re missness in duty. Such as resisted the impulse and declined the dancing con tinued to be tormented for months and even years. From being regarded a mark of guilt, the barks at last be came to be regarded as tokens of di vine favor and badges of special hon or. “ Ridiculous as it may seem to us at this distance of time to hear such ex traordinary sounds as bow, wow, wow interspersed with pious ejaculations and quotations of Scripture, we are’ not at liberty to doubt the truth of the assertion that then the effect, or at least one of the effects, was to over awe the wicked and excite the minds of the impious.” In the midst of these disorders those preachers who labored to direct the minds of the people to the true marks of grace, were denounced as deistical, and thus their influence was greatly diminished. Some of the results were, the people would be singing half a dozen n.ymns at the same time, very loud, with violent motions of the body. Sometimes a dozen would be prayiiig at a time, for they said the Lord could hear even if they all spoke at , once. The preachers were often in terrupted with singing in the midst of their sermons. Whoops, cries, hyster ical laughter and the repetition of the words of the preacher even louder than he uttered them, constituted a combi nation of annoyances to which the waves of the sea, harangued by the Athenian orator must have been a tri fle. These cases are enough to show what a state of things existed in Kentucky in the beginning of this century. Our author asks, “ Will it be easily cred ited that in 1803 the females from 14 to 40 years of age, got in the habit of hugging and embracing every one in their vicinity, and that the men, es pecially the preachers, came in fora good share of their embraces?” FROM THE NEW YORK MIRROH. Ruth Hall —By Fanny Fern. Here is a remarkable book—a book to create a profound sensation. We have read it through--the volume of 400 pages—in six consecutive hours, and we accept its revelations as the ver itable “ Life Sketch of Fanny E’ern”— a leaf from her own life-tragedy. It is a romance without fiction, and every character introduced is drawn from life, not imagination. The heroine, “Ruth Hall,” is Fanny herself, and the disclosures made in her autobiog phy will astound the world. The prin ciple persons shown up in the volume are the author’s nearest relatives, not one of whom, with the exception of her husband and children, inspires the reader with any other feelings than un mitigated disgust. Her father, (Na thaniel Willis, of Boston,) under the name of “ Mr. Ellet,” is represented a cold, cruel, canting, miserly hypocrite, who would occasionally and grudging ly toss his famishing daughter a dollar as he would toss a starving dog a bone ; and her brother, (N. P. Willis,} who figures largely as “Hyacinth Ellet,” is made to play the part of a heartless, cowardly, mercenary fop—“a misera ble time-server, whose God is Fashion; who recognizes only the drawing room side of human nature, and who can sympathize only with sorrow in satin.” Her father-in-law and mother in-law are also exhibited as despicable specimens of Puritanical bigotry, cru elty and hypocrisy. The characters are all powerfully sketched, but in this labor of vengeance for foregone wrongs we must admit that Fanny evinces a pertinacity of inverted affection for her family as unnatural as it is rare. It is true the brutal treatment she received from those tv ho who were under bonds to nature to succor and assist her in her heart-crushing affliction, was enough to call down the wrath of heaven on their guilty heads ; but Fanny should have remembered in the midst of her great wrongs, the words: “Vengeance is mine—i will recompense, saith the Lord;” . That Fanny could not love such an unfatherly father—such an unbrother ly brother, we can readily understand. There is no tie of consanguinity that can bind the outraged affections of the human heart. But how a woman, so full of the “ milk, of human kindness” as Fanny Fern, could deliberately pour I j rur *33 mm mm: am * j $2.00 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE. NUMBER 8. but in print her hate in such a lava tide against one who was pillowed and nurtured on the same bosom with her self passes explanation. It surprises us even more than the fraternal cruel ties of which she so bitterly complains; and we must class it among those fem ine enigmas whose solution baffles our philosophy. r fhe poignancy of Fanny’s tragedy is briefly this: She married young, and gave her husband her heart as well as her hand. The only drawback up on her connubial bliss, was the afflic-, tion of a devil of a mother-in-law one of those sour drops which an all wise Providence frequently lets fall in to the cup of rfiatrimonial honey, to prevent the beatilic pair from dying of excessive sweetness. Iler husband prospers in business; and Fanny now finds herself “ living in clover, and a cottage orne a few miles from Boston, where little “Daisy,” the first flower of wedded love, “only blooms to die.” Two little angels, Kate and Nettie, are sent after Daisy to console the mourn ing mother; and then the great be reavement, comes. Fanny is stricken pennyless, with two orphan babes. Her relatives who flocked around her in strawberry time, and fed on her hus bands generosities, now push her from them with their icy shoulders, and tell her, “go to work for a living.” So sadly true are the -words of the poet: “ The friends who in our sunshine live, "When winter comes are flown.” Then came the struggle, the humil iation, the suffering. Fanny, with her two little ones, were starving in a gar ret in a wretched street, in the rich city of Boston, while her own father whs going round “ taking up contribu tions for the distant heathen ;” and her luxurious Hyacinth brother was squandering thousands on trifles, and making lachrymose appeals through the columns of his journal in behalf of poor actresses and other fashionable candidates for charily. Such is the difference between seeming and doing good. Fanny tries to live by sewing at sixpence a da} r , and tries to get a situation as a school teacher. Both ef forts fail her. Then, seeing a carrier leave a newspaper at a house across the street, the thought strikes her to try her hand at writing for the papers. Her applications to the Boston editors are coldly received. But she perse veres. Her communications are ac cepted. They attract attention; and are universally copied. A New York editor finds out her secret, and out bids the Boston publishers. She binds herself to write exclusively for one year for the New York journal. In the meantime she collects her “ Fern Leaves ” (which she touchingly says grew upon her husband’s grave,) into a volume. The sale is immense, and a certificate for SIO,OOO in Bank, is the result. And now with the laurel on her brow, and plenty of friends in her pocket , the Priests and the Levites of her own family, who passed her coldly by in the winter of her distress, she in turn chooses to disown and expose. Such, in brief, is Fanny’s book and Fanny’s history. The story is told with extraordinary power and pathos. There are pages in “Ruth Hall” equal in tragic description to anything in the works of Dickens. It is a book that will make a sobbing among mothers and widows, and cause a general sigh ing over the sins of the rich, and the sufferings of the poor. But, Fanny, both you aud your readers have abun dant reason to kiss the rod that has afflicted you. There is truth as well as poetry in the words of Longtellow : “ Who hath not bread in sorrow eat, He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers.” The Supreme Court of Georgia. Florida has lately abolished the Act establishing the Supreme Court of that State, and our lawyers are canvassing the utility or inutility of our own Court. In the Macon Telegraph, a writer presents the Court in a very un favorable light—showing that instead of rendering the law more certain and uniform, it is more confused under its administration than before, and instead of decreasing litigation, it has inereas* ed it, and all this at an expense to the State for the nine years it has been in existence of $666,420. The writer says the Court in its decisions grows worse with age. The first were the best, and yet these early decisions are now declared bj r the, judges to be mere opinions, and not law. The writer thinks there can be no remedy for these evils until dunces and demagogues can be kept out of the Legislature, and that contigency being very remote, he suggests the expedi ency of falling back upon the Circuit Judges and special juries as far more reliable than the Supreme Court. We are not prepared now to give an opinion upon this subject. We used some exertion in a very favorable po sition to secure the establishment of this Court, and still believe, if rightly administered, it will prove highly ben eficial to the State. It has fallen un der the control of partizan spirit for the present, but, we are not prepared to abandon all hope of its usefulness. [Cherokee Georgian.