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citictt Voctrg.
IVEY NATIVE LA.IVD.
AY AIVDREIC DOWNIIVI
There are fair lands with milder air,
And warmer, sunnier skies,
Lands where the sun shines ever warm,
And Summer never dies;
Though they are called, and fitly too,
The 0 garden spots" of earth, r.
I'd not exchange for one of them
The bright land of my birth.
They may be richer far in gold,
And gems and diamonds rare,
May have more gay and tuneful birds,
.And fruits, and flowers more fair;
Their fragrant groves may ever be
• In richest foliage dressed;
Yet still I love this glorious land--
My native land, the best.
For here, church spires on every hand
Point upward to the skies,
And everywhere all o'er the land
The halls of science rise;
Worth, genius, here have their reward,
And honest toil may rise,
While Virtue holds her peaceful sway
Beneath these genial skies.
Here freemen live and move and think
And govern in their might,
Defying ev'ry tyrant's power,
And e'er upholding Might;
All the down-trodden and oppressed
Of other shores may come
Unto this favored land of ours,
And ever find a borne.
Beneath the tree of Liberty's
Wide spreading, shelVring boughs,
Millions of brave and noble xnen—
Millions of free repose;
And thus no country, East, or West,
No island of the sea,
Ilas charms like thine, my native land,
Thou bright land of the Free.
1 1 , #thrt #fau.
1,14:0-11V12-Cor•If±t4411ftmlfigOZA
A STORY OF TWO PROUD REAR.T.S.
CHAPTER 1.
A mild May morning, fresh and pleasant,
and bright ; the soft air full of the songs of
happy birds ; the wild flowers lifting up their
heads in the sunshine ; and the green leaves
rustling and waiving in the woods, as if they
were whispering secrets to the gentle wind
that stirred them.
It was a lovely day—a day to be happy in;
and yet a saddened look 'was visible on the
sweet face of Faith Egerton, as she left the
door of her house and went slowly down the
gravel walk that led to the road gate.
, Her home—the home of her husband and
phtldren—was a pretty brown stone cottage,
overhung with vines, and surrounded by beds
of fragrant flowers. Behind the house was
a level and beautiful grove, in whose cool re
cesses she had often lain when but a child,
and welched the flickering light and shade
come down upon the ground; for the earliest
years of Faith, as well as these latter ones,
had been spent in this quiet place. Here
she had been born—here her kind. mother
had died—here she had lived with a dear and
only brother—here she had married her first
love, and here her children were springing
up—the old familiar scenes smiling in beauty
around her.
She leaned upon the little gate, and looked
wistfully uv the road. She was waiting there
for the coming of her best and earliest friend,
and the sound of wheels made her start, and
sent a color into her pale cheek that had long
been a stranger there. A dusty stage coach
came whirling up beside the gates—stopped
long enough for a lady to alight and give
some orders respecting her luggage and dash
ed away again. The new corner did not see
Faith for a moment, so screened was she by
the branches of a wild rose that grew beside
the gate. The traveler. lifted her veil, and
exposed. a broad, high forehead, shaded by
silky masses of black hair, a face well fea
tured but grave and full of thought, and
deep, dark eyes, whose glances were kind and
her smiles were beautiful,
How strange a contrast between these two
-women; the one fair-haired and soft eyed,
with a meek and quiet face, on -whose features
contentment and home happiness were most
plainly stamped ; the other dark and proud,
and, self-sustained, with a look that said to
the most careless observer, " Oh, I have suf
fered I" To one, life had been a fair sum
mer's day, with only now and then a light
and happy cloud ; to the other—ah I what to
her but a bleak and stormy winter, where
everything she loved. withered and died !
And yet they were of the same age, of the
same station in life ; and side by side they
had sat at school, and played at borne, in the
childhood that lay behind them.
The tears sprang unbidden to the eyes of
Faith Egerton, as she saw the steadfast look
with which her visitor regarded the scene
around her. She lifted the latch of the gate,
and stepped out beside her.
" Gertrude—Gertrude Aleirinne—won't
you speak to me?" she said.
" Faith, dear Faith, is it you ?" said Ger
trude.
They were clasped in each other's arms at
once. Faith wept bitterly, but Gertrude was
pale and calm, and smoothed the fair hair of
her friend with a caressing gesture, such as
one might use to soothe a little child.
" Come, Faith," she said at last, as if weary
of her tears ; "this is but a sorry welcome -to
give rue after so long a journey. You know
I never liked to see you cry."
"But you are so changed, Gertrude 1" re
plied Faith.
" Well, and if I am?" said Gertrude. "It
is some years since we met, dear Faith, and
they have not been marked with rose leaves
for me. You must not expect to find me to
be quite the same at twenty-five as at fifteen.
Life changes us all you know."
"I know," answered Faith, sadly ; " but I
never knew it so well till now."
" Well, we will let that drop," said Ger
trude. "And now are you not going to ask
mein, after my long journey 7"
" Pray, forgive me," said Faith, blushing
at her inattention. "I will show you to your
chamber myself. It has been ready for you
this week."
They went up the walk together. Two fair
WILLIAM LEWIS,
VOL. XIII.
haired children ran out to the door to meet
them. The youngest, a boy of some two
summers, held up his little hands to Miss
Alewynne with a sunny smile. She stooped
down and took him in her arms, and. walked
along through the hall with Faith.
" Are these your only children 1" asked
Gertrude.
" Yes, and they are trouble extough for me,"
replied the mother, looking at the children
with a fond smile that betrayed how little
the "trouble" was felt.
Gertrude sighed, and said brokenly, "
don't know, Faith, why every one calls me
cold and proud ; perhaps I am. But when I
take a little innocent child in my arms, some
thing stirs in my heart that nothing else can
touch. I might have been a better and a
happier woman, Faith, if I had married."
You know well what my favorite plan
always was, Gertrude. If you had only mar
ried my brother —," and this time it was
Faith sighed.
" Oh, Faith, spare me!" was the halfilaugh
ing answer.
" But you would have loved him if you had
only seen him," persisted Faith. "Heis so
noble, so generous, so handsome He is only
my half-brother, you know ; but if he had
been my own I could not have loved him bet
ter."
By this time they had reached the room
which had been fitted up for Gertrude. "Why
you have made a little paradise for me," she
said, with a pleased smile as she looked
around the chamber. " I shall never want
to leave you, Faith."
" If any pains of mine will keep you I am
content," replied Faith.
" But, Faith," said Alewynne, detaining
her friend as she was about to leave the room,
" I never knew before that your paragon - was
only a half-brother. Your maiden name was
Faith Anderson ; pray what was his ?"
" Walter Roscoe,' she replied, "he was
the son of my step-mother. My own mother
died when I was very young."
" What was his name ?" - The tone was
sharp and impatient, but the speaker's face
was turned away from Faith.
" Walter Roscoe," she repeated. "My boy
is named after him. WalterßoseeeEgerton.
The jeweled hand that had been playing
with the child's soft curls was drawn away
as suddenly as if a serpent had stung it, and
Gertrude turned a white and rigid to
wards her friend, as she put the boy down
and pointed to the door.
" Gertrude, what ails you? Are you ill?"
cried Faith in terror. She caught the bell
rope in her hand, but Miss Alewynne grasped
her hand firmly.
" Don't ring ; I shall be better soon," she
said in a low voice. "And, Faith, for the
sake of the old time when we were school
girls together say nothing of my illness to
any one, and ask me no questions now. Leave
me for a little while and to-morrow I will tell
you all."
Wondering and perplexed, Faith left the
room with her children, and went down the
stairs. Her husband met her in the hall and
stopped to speak to her. " Has your friend
arrived ?" he asked.
" Yes, Alfred," she xeplied. " Have you
seen Walter ?"
"I went to his office, as you requested me
to, my dear, and asked him to come and dine.
He consented, and was talking with me as
usual, when I — happened. to mention Miss
Alewynne's name. Ile started up and turn
ed white--but here be comes, Faith, and you
can see for yourself how strange he is." He
stopped speaking and both turned towards
the door, as Walter Roscoe entered pale and
agitated.
" Faith, is it true—is she in the house ?"
he asked wildly.
" Miss Alewynne is here, Walter," she re
plied.
Ile struck his hand upon his forehead, say
ing,
" Why was I not told that she was com
ing?"
" Don't look so angry dear Walter," replied
Faith, "I intended it as a pleasant surprise
for you both."
He half uttered an oath, and Faith burst
ing into tears, cried, Oh, Walter, don't.—
Don't swear before these children, too! You
never did so before."
" It was only on account of your pleasant
surprise," he answered bitterly. "Don't ever
try another, Faith. I have only come to say
good bye. The same house can never hold
Gertrude —," he paused, and then added,
as if with an effort, " Gertrude Alewynne
and myself."
" But why, Walter?" asked Faith, clinging
to him as he turned away. "Have you ever
met before."
Ile looked at her with a strange smile, as
he replied, " Yes Faith, we met once too of
ten."
" You knew Gertrude and yet never spoke
to me of her, when you knew how much I
wished you to love each other," said Faith,
reproachfully. "Oh, Walter, !always thought
I had your confidence I"
" And so you have, Faith ; so you have, ex
cept in this one thing," he said kindly, sof
tened by her evident distress. "And when
she has left you, I will come back and tell
you all."
" Not before ?" she asked persuadingly.
• " Not before, Faith," he replied. "Let me
go now."
" Oh, Walter, I could almost give my life
if I could see you two happy together."
" Faith, Faith, how little you know of what
you talk I That woman has embittered my
life ; she has destroyed my confidence in every
human being; she has deceived, and betray
ed, and disgraced me. And yet, I know if
I look but once upon her face I should for
give her all ; for I loved her, Faith. I
her better than my own life. Sister I must
not see her. When she has left you, I will
come back again—till then farewell."
Ile kissed her fondly, shook hands with
her husband, patted the olden heads of the
children, and was gone. The young husband
and wife looked after him listfully. A cloud
seemed to have covered the bright spring sky,
and the little parlor of the cottage seemed
lonely and deserted when they again entered
it because the mystery, which might he guilt,
that was even then sheltered within its peace
ful walls.
Walter Roscoe, turning away from his sis
ter's home, thought sadly of the many days
that must elapse before he entered it again.
Of Gertrude he told himself again and again
her image came up before him, as he had
seen her last.
" Have I not wronged her ?" he thought, as
he paced the floor of his office that evening.
" Is it not possible she may be innocent, even
though appearances were against her ? Shall
I see her once ? Psha,w - what a fool lam I
Did I not see her there beside him ? Did I
not see his lips meet her's ? If I asked for
better proof than my own eyes have given
me, I must be a madman. I will leave this
place and never come back till she has gone
away."
He threw a few things into a valise, locked
the writing desk beside him, and stepped into
the street, valise in hand, locked up his office
and walked away. His residence was a long
distance from the garden of his sister's house,
and yet it was there he found himself after a
hurried walk of some five minutes. He lift
ed the latch and entered.
" It is the last time, Gertrude, that I shall
be so weak," he murmured, as ho looked up
at the vine curtained window, -where a lamp
was still burning ; " the last time I shall be
so near you! Oh I Gertrude, can you dream
what you have done, or is your heart all mar
ble ?"
He buried his face in his hands, and wept
like a child. The memory of the happy
hours he had spent with her came over him
too strongly to be borne. He could meet
such remembrances with his tears.
When he looked up ain he was conscious
of an unusual bustle. Lights were moving
hurriedly in several directions, and once or
twice he caught a glimpse of his sister's fig
ure passing the window of Gertrude's room.
'What could it be ? Was Gertrude ill?
His heart stood still at the thought. He
could bear never to look upon her face again ;
but oh, the grave must not cover it from him!
He sprang up the path, and was about to en
ter, when the door opened, and Alfred Eger
ton came out.
" You here, Walter 1" he exclaimed, start
ing back, as the pale face of his brothel. met
his eye. " Faith just told me to go for you
when I had summoned the doctor."
" Miss Alewynne is very ill," replied Al
fred, " she is threatened with the brain fever,
I think."
Oh, merciful heavens i" The unhappy
man staggered, and caught at his brother's
hand to. steady himself.
Alfred looked at him a moment, and then
said soothingly : " Walter it will not do for
me to stay here a moment. But go in and
see Faith ; she will comfort you." He wrung
his hand sympathizingly and hurried away.
Half blind, with his unshed tears, the un
happy young, man entered the house, and
seeing his sister sitting at her writinc , desk
in the parlor, sank down at her feet, and hid
his face in her lap.
" Will she die, Faith?" he asked.
"I hope not, my poor Walter. But she is
very ill," answered Faith, laying his hand
upon his head. "Our own doctor is with her
now, and Alfred has just gone for another."
" What are you doing?" he asked, looking
up at the half-finished note before her.—
" 'Writing to her brother to come to her," re
plied Faith.
"I did not know that she had one, Faith."
"Oh, yes. I have never seen him, but she
sent me his portrait once. You know," she
added with a faint blush, "it was quite a
dream with us when we were girls—that is
—she wished me to marry her brother, and
I wanted her to marry mine."
" I know—l know," said Walter, and an
indefinable expression of pain flitted over his
face.
"And so she sent me Edward's portrait,"
continued with. " Would you like to see it,
Walter ?"
"Yes," he replied quickly.
She opened her writing desk, and taking
out a small inlaid case, gave it to him. lie
gave one startled glance at it—another—and
the portrait fell from his hands, and he utter
ed a wild cry.
" Oh, Gertrude!" he exclaimed. " Oh, my
poor wife 1"
"Gertrude, your wifel" exclaimed his star
tled sister. "Oh, Walter, when will these
mysteries cease ?"
" Now—with this moment," he replied,
rising and seating himself beside her. You
shall hear all—you deserve it. Faith, you
have had your wish. For twelve months she
has been my wife."
"Oh, Walter !" she exclaimed.
"Don't interrupt me," he said. "I knew
long ago what your wish was; but I wanted
to judge of Gertrude for myself. I knew she
thought you were my sister, and she met me
as Walter Roscoe, at a fashionable watering
place, without a suspicion of my identity, I
tound her all you had so often described. I
followed her to her home and she was still
more lovely there. Still I did not make my
self known as your brother. Perhaps I had
a fancy for one of your 'pleasant surprises,'
Faith."
"Oh, go on, dear Walter," said his sister.
" I married her, Faith, and was looking
forward to a happy meeting with
. you. It
was the second evening of our marriage, and
I had walked out with a friend to whom I
wished to say good bye. The moon had risen
before I returned, and as I laid my hand upon
the latch of the gate, I remembered looking
up at the moon, and. thinking what a tran
quilly beautiful aspect it wore, and how per
fectly happy I was. Faith I have looked at
the moon many times since, but she never
wears that lovely face for me now."
He paused and sighed.. Faith kissed him
tenderly, and waited for the conclusion of the
story.
" Well it must ail be told," he resumed.—
" I entered the house, quietly, thinking to
surprise Gertrude with a kiss, as she was
watching for me. I found her—oh, Faith—
I founder with her lips pressed to thoso of
another, and her arm around his neck?"
Faith uttered an indignant cry. "Brother,"
HUNTINGDON, PA., JULY 29, 1857.
CHAPTER IL
-PZASEVERE.-
she said, "there must be some mistake here.
Gertrude is good and pure. I know it."
" Thank you for saying so," he answered
with a melancholy- smile. "I know it too,
now—would to Heaven I had known it then."
" But what did you do, Walter ?"
" What would any man do, Faith ?"
sprung upon him like a tiger—she threw her
self between us. He was about to speak,
but she cried out—" Not a word—not a word
if you love me!" Think of it, Faith I If he
loved her ? Was it not enough to madden
me ? I was mad, I believe. I cursed her
bitterly---I called her wanton and unfaithful.
She had listened in silence till then--then
she turned very pale ; and looked at me. I
can hear her saying now, in a deep low voice
—" After that, I can never be more to you."
She turned away and took his arm. They
left the room, and I—l left them go. Yes,
Faith—l was too heart broken to avenge my
self. I was too deeply deceived to lift my
hand; even when my wife left the room with
one I fully believed to be her paramour.--
From that night we have never met, and only
two cold and brief letters passed between
us."
Oh, Walter! This is what has changed.
her so
"Is she then changed?" he asked eagerly.
"She has grown cold, and hard and proud
—and she is sad—oh, so little like the Ger
trude of ray younger days !" said Faith.
" She has been drinking a bitter cup, and
my hand held it up to her lips," said Walter.
" Now hear the rest, Faith. Half an hour
ago I believed her guilty. But that fatal
portrait shows me the same face I saw on
that accursed night. It was her brother."
"And she never told you so !" said Faith.
"You little know Gertrude, I see," replied
Walter. "I wounded her in the tenderest
spot. She is the soul of truth and honor;
but if any one should doubt her, woe be to
him i. And I—oh, what a fearful doubt was
mine! I wronged her deeply and she was
far too proud to forgive me. Will she ever
do it, Faith."
"She will—she must?" cried Faith, ear
nestly. "It has been a terrible mistake,
but let us trust that all will go well. I see
it all now. Not till to-day did she know that
you were my half brother; not till to-day
did she dream that Walter Roscoe and you
were the same. Oh, how much she must
have suffered!"
A low knock came at the half open door
of the parlor, and Alfred Egerton immedi
ately entered.
".1, have been for the physician, Faith,"
he said hurriedly, "and both have seen her.
.1-111va tlie.best news of her. They say it is
only the long and hurried journey, and great
mental excitement that has prostrated her.—
They have left her quite comfortable, and
she has asked for you. Will you go up and
see her while I sit with Walter ?"
Faith grasped her husband's hand and
looked up to him with beaming eyes.
" You were ever a messenger of glad
tidings to me Alfred," she said, " and now
to reward you, you shall hear mine."
She then related what she had already
beard in a few brief words, and then steal
ing her hand into his, asked, "Now what is
to be done?"
"I should say, my dear Faith, that the
sooner those two are brought together the
better," replied Mr. Egerton, when his aston
ishment allowed him to speak.
knew you would say so 1" exclaimed
Faith.
"Walter follow me; and you, Alfred, wait
here ; I will be back in a few moments."
"They went quietly up the stairs together
to Gertrude's room. Leaving Walter at the
door, Faith entered, and went up to the bed
side. Gertrude was lying half asleep in bed.
The traces of tears were on her cheeks, and
a small gold locket lay open in her band.--
A rapid glance assured Faith that it was her
brother's portrait, and she bent down and
kissed her friend.
Gertrude started—looked up and tried to
hide her portrait. But some second thought
prompted her to lay it in Faith's hand and
say, with a sad smile, "You see, I know
him."
"Is that all Gertrude!" said Faith, gently.
"All !" said Gertrude, springing up in
bed, and tossing the black hair from her
forehead. " Listen, Faith! I loved him more
than any earthly thing—l married him a
year ago, though I never knew he was your
brother till to-day. Ile held my very heart
in his hand, crushed it to atoms! He had
no faith in me—in me—who would not have
wronged him for worlds. Oh, Faith, though
he is your brother, be has made my life a'
weary thing to bear. Leave me—to-morrow
will tell you more—but now I am too
weak."
She sank back upon her pillow and cov
ered her face with her hands. Faith stole
noiselessly away, and Walter entered and
took her place. All was silent for a few mo
ments. Then without looking, up, Gertrude
asked, 'Faith are you there?"
It was a stronger arm than Faith's that
was around her, and a moustached lip that
kissed her hand. She looked up in sudden
bewilderment, and saw her husband bending
over her with his eyes full of tears. The
sudden joy was too much for her, and all
pride was swept away in a moment.
"Walter, it was my brother," she mur
mured.
"I know it dearest—l know it all. But
can you ever forgive me, Gertrude?
"Forgive t." she repeated.
There was a beautiful smile upon her lip
as she drew him nearer and kissed him pas
sionately. The estrangement of a year was
all. forgotten in that bewildered return of
happiness. Faith wept silently forjoy upon
her husband's shoulder, in the little parlor
below ; and who can doubt that the angels
in heaven rejoiced to see so perfect and com
plete a reconciliation between those proud
and loving hearts !—for those who forgive
are dear in the sight of him who has for
given.
XoarPete says, a woman's heart is the,
" most sweetest" thing in the world; in fact,
a perfect honey-comb—full of setts. Bee-ware.
•
Some years since an eccentric old genins,
whom for convenience we will call Barnes,
was employed by a farmer living in a town
some six or seven miles westerly from the
Penobscot river, to dig a well. The soil and
substratum being mostly sand, old Barnes,
after having progressed downward about forty
feet, found one morning upon going out early
to his work that the well had essentially cav
ed in and was nearly full to the top. So hav
ing that desire, which men have, of knowing
what will be said of them after they are dead
and no one being yet astir, he concealed him
self in a rank growth of burdocks by the side
of a board fence near the mouth of the well,
having first left his hat and frock upon the
windlass over the well. At length breakfast
being ready a boy was dispatched to call
him to his meal, when 10l it was seen that
Barnes was buried in the grave unconsciously
dug by his own hands. The alarm being
given, and the family assembled, it was deci
ded first to eat breakfast and then send for
the coronor, the minister, and his - wife and
children. Such apathy did not flatterßarnes'
self-esteem a bit, but he waited patiently
determined to hear what was to be said,
and see what was to be seen.
Presently all parties arrived and began
"prospecting" the scene of the catastrophe,
as people usually do in such eases. At
length they drew together to exchange opin
ions as to what should be done. Th minis
ter at once gave it as his opinion that they
should level up the well and let Barnes re
main: "for," said he, " he is now beyond the
temptation to sin; and in the day of judg
ment it will make no difference 'whether he
is five feet under the ground or fifty, for he
is bound to come forth in either case." The
coroner likewise agreed that "it would be a
needless expense to his family or the town
to disinter him when he was so effectually
buried," and therefore entirely coincided with
the minister. His wife thought that as " he
had left his hat and frock, it would be hard
ly worth while to dig hint out for the rest
of his clothes;" and so it was decided to let
him remain.,
But poor old Barnes, who had no breakfast
and was not at all pleased with the result of
the inquest laid quiet until the shades of even
ing stole over the landscape; then he . quietly
decamped to parts unknown. After remain
ing incognito for about three years, one morn
ing he suddenly appeared (hatless and frock
less as he went) at the door of the farmer for
whom he had agreed to dig the unfortunate
well. To say that an avalanche of questions
were rained upon him as to his mysterious
reappearance would convey but a feeble
idea of the excitement which his bodily pres
ence created. But the old man bore it all
quietly, and at length informed them that on
finding himself buried he waited for them to
dig hint out, until his patience was exhansted
when he set to work to dig himself out, and.
only the day before had succeeded; for his
ideas being confused by the pressure of the
earth at the time he was buried, he had dug
very much at random, and instead of coming
directly to the surface he came out in the
town of Holden, .six miles east of the Penob
scot river!
No further explanations were sought for by
those who where so distressed and sorrowful
over his s supposed final resting place.—Ban
gor Jeffersonian.
Parental affection naturally inquires what
it can best do for the - welfare of its children
in future years, and when the bosom -which
now throbs with love to its offspring shall be
cold in death. Many plans are laid and hours
of anxious solicitude are spent in contriving
ways and means of rendering children pros
perous and happy in future life. But parents
are not always wise in the provisions which
they seek to make for their children; nor do
they always seek direction and counsel from
God in this matter.. The best inheritance
for children, beyond all contradiction, is true
piety towards God—the salutatory truths and
principles of religion, laid up in the hearts
of children—a good education—good and
virtuous habits—unbending principles of
moral conduct—the fear of God, and the hope
of heaven. This is the best inheritance . for
children, and -which all parents should be
most anxious to lay up for them. Many an
unwise parent works hard, and lives sparing
ly all his life, for the purpose of leaving
enough to give his children a start in the
world, as it is called. Setting a young man
afloat with money left him by his relatives is
like tying bladders under the arms of one who
cannot swim; ten chances to one he will lose
his bladders, and go to the bottom. Teach him
to swim, and he will not need the bladders.
Give your chile a sound education. See to
it that his morals are pure, his mind cultiva
ted, and his whole nature made subservient
to the laws which govern man, and you have
given what will be more valuable than the
wealth of the Indies.—You have given him a
start which no misfortune can deprive him
of. The earlier you teach him to depend upon
his own resources, and the blessing of God,
the better.
A Ltretn NmlnATivE.—Now, den, Gumbo
Sniff, I's jist gwine to gub you de porticlers
ob dat scrape. Fust, I axed Becky Mariar
Salamanthe, Jane Fremont of she'd become
bones ob my flesh, an' flesh oh my bones.—
Arter dreckly she sed yeth. So we made
tracks for de parsnip's house, an' I tole de
parsnip dat I wanted him to tie me an'
Becky in a konnubical knot. Den de pars
nip tole us stare up, fore we set down, and
den he ses to me : " Will you take dis
woman for your lawful wedded, wife, for bet
ter or wuss ?" I tole him dat I'd 'eider 'bout
dat. At last I ses, "I guess I'll go it"—
Den he axed Becky Mariar Salamantha Jane
of she'd take ma for better or wuss? She
ses, " Yas sah-ree I" So I gub unto de par
snip one dollah an' a harf, an' den started
off home wid my bridle on my arm.
Dar-The dissipations that sonic persons
resort to to drown care, are like the curtains
that children in bed pull around them to
keep out the dark.
Editor and Proprietor.
A Strange Story.
Laying up for Children
The African Apprentice Systeni:
The newly broached idea of African apz
prentiees to supply the place of negro slaved
proposed by France and England, meets no
m i
ore favor n our country than did the re
cent feelers of the public pulse towards the
re-opening of the direct slave trade. The
Washington States, after showing. that, it is
to compete with us in the production of cot:
ton and sugar that these Powers propose the
introduction, as laborers, into the West Inz
die Islands, of native Africans=-snot ad
slaves, but as apprentices for a term of years
—say from ten to twenty years, says, "such
a system is infinitely worse than absolute
slavery. The object is to get out of the poor
ignorant Africans, who are the only people
adapted to such service, as much labor as
possible. Without any of the ties that ol:e
fain between master and slave, the ignorant
apprentice is to be put to work under the
severest discipline, and to be required to do
as much work as is . possible for the human
frame to endure, during his term of apprenz
ticeship. The amount of labor imposed on
him, and the cruelties to which he will be
subjected, will, in nine cases out of ten, end
his existence before the expiration of his
term. As, in one or two years, his forced
labors can be made to yield far more than
will be necessary to pay the price of his
whole term, as the pay will terminate with
his life, and as his place can be readily sup
plied by a /new and fresh apprentice,
the
prolongation of his life by means of kind
treatment will be no consideration. This is
the cruelest system that was ever applied to
human labor. It is a sin that cries to Ileavz
en. If such a system were kept in opera
tion, in a score or two of years Africa would
be depopulated, instead of being christian
ized." Now as the United States is a party
to a treaty with England and France to stop
the slave trade, and is required by the terms
of that treaty to keep constantly, and at
great expense, a squadron on the coast of
Africa to prevent that trade; and as the obz
jest of this treaty is to prevent inhumanity
to the Africans, the States contends with the
Charleston Mercury that the importation of
such so-called apprentices into any of theif
possessions is a flagrant violation of the
treaty which we have entered into with
them. It cannot doubt that our Government
will hold the same opinion, and thinks that
opinion should promptly be made known to
France and England.—Pennsylvaniam
NO. 6.
Effects of Clover Say on Animals.
Some late writers have taken the position
that clover hay produces a most injurious ef-'
feet on domestic animals, particularly horses;
and. that to this cause the great increase of
diseased. horses is to be attributed. We late=
ly heard a farmer affirm, that he believed the
introduction of clover hay into general culti
vation the greatest curse yet inflicted on the
country, and assigned as a reason for this
singular opinion, its effects on animals when
used as a fodder. Late English writers have
attributed to this kind of hay the prevalence
of heaves in horses, and the great increase of
other diseases that effect the respiratory or
gans. This is a most important subject, and
should receive a full investigation. Clover is
too important a plant to be discarded or con- -
demned, except upon the most satisfactory
evidence. Its value as a fertilizer and a pre
parative for wheat, to say nothing of its use
for pasture and hay, would demand that it
should not be condemned unheard. For our
selves, we have very little belief in the inju-:
lions properties assigned to clover. We have
used it constantly for pasture and for hay,-
more than thirty years, and never, to our
knowledge, has any animal suffered from it
certainly, no horse has been taken with the
heaves when fed on it, or while in our pos- .
session. As hay for sheep, we have consid-
ered it unrivaled, and should have no fears
that any stock would not winter well, with a
supply of well-cured. clover hay.
And here lies we think, the great source'
of objection to clover hay. It is too often int- -
perfectly cured. To save the leaves and the'
heads, which . are apt to fall in handling or
curing, the hay is put into the barn while the
large stems are full of moisture or the natural
juices, and the fermentation which ensues ,
causes the whole mass to become damp; and
if not spoiled wholy, it becomes mouldy, black
and. when used. raises such a dust, it is no
wonder that horses and cattle are choked or
their lungs desiroyed. Our experience shows
that clover may be perfectly cured without
losing any of its valuable parts; cured so that
when fed out, no more dust will be flying.
than from timothy or herds-grass, and we
shall be slow to believe that from such hay
any injury to animals ever ensues.— Ohio
Valley Farmer.
The printer's dollars ! Where are they
We'll suppose one of them is in somebody's
pocket in Philadelphia, another in Boston, a
third in New York, a fourth in Baltimore,
while a fifth is resting securely in some city
or town in the West. A dollar here and a
dollar there scattered all over the towns, all
over the country, mile upon mile apart; how
shall they be gathered?
The type founder has his hundreds of del- ,
lars against the printer ; the paper maker,
the building owner, the journeyman, the grog
cer, the tailor, and all assistants to him in
carrying on business, have their demands,•
unfortunately hardly ever so small as a sin
gle dollar. But the mites from here and
there must be diligently gathered in and very
patiently hoarded, or the wherewith to dis
charge the large bills will nevey become very
bulky. We imagine the printer will have to
get up an address to his widely scattered, dis
tant dollars, something like this :
"Dollars, halves, quarters, and all manner
of fractions into which ye are divided, collect
yourselves and come home! you are wanted!
Combinations of all sorts of men that help
the printer to become your proprietor, gather
in such force and demand with so good rea
son your appearance at the counter, that no
thing short of a sight at you will appease'
them. Collect yourselves, for valuable as
you are in the aggregate, singly you will rte.'
ver repay the cost of gathering. Come in
here in silent single file that the printer may
form you into battalions and send you forth
again to battle fur him and vindicate his'
credit.
PORK.-" A fat hog is the very quintessence'
of scrofula and carbonic acid gas; and he who
eats it must not expect thereby to build up a
sound physical organism. While it contra,
butes heat, there is not a twentieth part of it
nitrogen, the base of muscle."
This is sound practical truth. Fat pork
was never designed for human food. It is
material for breath, and nothing more; see
Liebig and other organic chemists and phy
siologists; it makes no red meat or muscle,
the prize fighter is not allowed to eat it; all
that is not consumed by the lungs remains to
clog the body with fat.
tn.. A merry heart makoth a cheierfc.4
countenance-
The Printer's Dollars I
=1::