. . . , . -- • " ' . ~ • - . . ... .. .• _....... .... ---.---- f :,,, r ,.: ~..._,.. 4 . . : . . . - . .. .. . .•'e , , . _ . . . . • _. .. • , .... . , ........ i rk'? 1H E.% '4 i, 1 ~ ..' ' . .. I. , , . 46 - AIML WRIGHT; Editor and Proprfitor. VOLUME XXXIV, NUMBER 3.1 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY MORNING. Office in Carpet Hall, North-westcorner of AF?ont and Locust streets. Terms of Subscription. 49me Copy paean NM"! f paidin advance • if not paid within titre monthsfromeommencementofthe year, 200 411.'Ciazi.tos a ocorry - - Notab".lcription received torn less time than sa plonths; and nopaper will be discontinued until all r a rre a. rage sure patd,uulessat the optionof the pub- - MrSlorternaybe,•emittedbymail a it hepublish ,er s rtsk. . •• Rates of Advertising. quer eta inesJone week, XO3B three weeks, 75 eachtubsequentinsertion, 10 [.12.1n es Joneweek. 50 three weeks, 100 eachtubiequen 'insertion. 25 ...I„\rreridverli.ernent , in proportion A iltiera I liscouniwi Me made to quarterly,half earl. at reorlyilvertisers,wito are strietlyconfined .otheir business. Hintrg. The Day of God. 111 080. B. 11rRI.8IGII All blessings walls with onveird feet; No day dawns twice, no night comes back; Tim car of donm, or slow or fleet, Bolls down an unreturned track. 'What we have heen we cannot be; Forward, inexorable Fate Soolots mainly to her own decree, Beyond her hoar is all too late. God reaps his judgment Geld to-day, And sills the darnel fiorit the wheat; A. whirlwind sweeps the el:aft - away, And fire the refuge of deceit. Once in a century only blooms The flower of fortune so sublime As now hangs budded o'er the tombs Of the great fathers of old time. 'Elernal-Justice sits on high And gathers in her awful scales Our shaine and glory—Slavery's I ie And Freedom's starry countervails When,falls her sword, AS fait it must In red Bellonaht fiery van, Let the old anarch bite the dust, And rise the rereued rights of ltian In vain a nation's bloody sweat, The sob of myriad hearts In vain, If the Scotched snake may live to set, Its venom in our flesh again. Priests o fan altar fired once more For Freedom in His awful name, Who trod the wine-pre.s dripping bore, And gave the Law itt lurid dame,— Oh, not in human wrath, that wreaks Revenge for wrong, and blood for blood; Not in the fiery will that seeks !!rate power in battle's stormy finod,— Go forth, redeetalrs of a land, Sad, stern and fearless for the Lord, Solemn a•id calm, with firm right hand Laid to the sacrificwl sword. The loran of treason and the whip Have called you to the dread appeal, Front the loud eannnte4 fevered lip, And the wide lia-h of bristling eteel. linoW the cello of that voice ' • Shake down their pri.on•house of wrong, They have their own perfidsou4 choice; For God is good, and Truth is strong. Their steel draw= lightning, and the bol t 13ut fires their own volcanic mine; God in their vineyard of Revolt Treads out hit sacratuentul wine! Ile this our conquest,—as they guru Their all to Treamn and the Chain, We snap the letters from the slave, And make our sole revenge their gain! (Independent. grirttions. After Long Years =2 And now, in the sad hours which I spent sitting still and silent in my lady's darkened room, two things very different in kind and very unequal in importance came often into my mind. The first of these was the strange and terrible loss of the little heir. In the hurry and confusion of that morning, in my lady's illness and the squire's death, there had been little time fur thought, and less for questioning or talking. That little red cloak found caught - against the root of a tree, fir from home, had seemed to tell us all too surely what his fate had been, and we bad mot dared to hope when his mother bad despaired. • Yet the, child's body bad • not been found, and I felt now as if we could never rest till we knew more certainly what had befallen him. Ths stream had indeed been dragged, and nothing found; but the old keeper shook his head when he saw my face brighten, and said sadly that the cur rent was strong, and the little body might well be.washed far away into the Tees be fore- then, even if it were not locked in • among . tbe rocks, which nearly filled the stream in some, places, leaving' only a deep narrow channel, through which the water rushed. Nothing was missing but his night shirt, eo he must have stolen out barefoot and bareheaded. If at times I .trove to fanay other ways in which be might have disappeared, to- think that he might have been - stolen or enticed away, two things .stopped me. 'how would it be Tossible for any one to get into the house at 'that hour, and persuade the child to leave it without our knowledge? And then, bow could that little cloak have got into the stream, unless, indeed, the darling bed been drowned as well as stolen? The nursery window was high above the ground; no one could possi bly get in or out that way, and who could - wish to harm the little helpless boy? So it ever came round to drowned—drowned! My • other•thottglot was about Mrs. Weston. It -might seem strange that at . such a time I should think &all about her; but she was .naturally . brougbt to my mind by the really troublesome work which her weakness of mind threw upon me. Of course the actual attendance on my lady would have been my privilege io any case, bat there were many things in which I needed skillful help, many little offices she might have done which yet fell to me. For many hours she refused to enter the sick room; and when at last a sharp message from me brought bee, sbe kept far from the bed, did what was re quired awkwardly and hastily, and then hurried out of the room. I was surprised and disappointed, for I bad before thought her a useful and clean servant at any rate —and her excuse, that an old illness had injured her nerves, seemed to me but a poor one, and I set down her conduct as being only the effect of jealousy at my taking the chief charge. My lady had shown but little sign of consciousness beyond a deep sigh now and then, or a restless movement in her bed when Mr. Harrington arrived.— Hitherto, I bad always fancied him proud and cold, but I changed my mind when lie drew me aside and heard the story, and when I saw the sorrow and pity in his face. He thought as we all did, but still he said no chance must be let slip; and so the country was scoured far and wide, again in vain. el 30 Gradually, my lady's bodily strength came back, though the anguish of her face grew deeper and more fixed each day; and on the evening after the old squire's funeral she first moved into a chair by the window and saw Mr. Harrington. His voice shook as he took her hand, and spoke a few words of affection and sorrow; but she scarcely no ticed him, and sat long gazing at the dis tatit view, the bills and woods, and the set ting sun beyond. At last she turned sud denly to him as he stood beside her. "Have they buried him with his grandfather, Fred?" she asked calmly.. We had told her of the squire's death, but I had not thought that she heeded our words. Very tenderly Mr. Harrington broke to her the truth; but it was startling to see the change which for a moment came over her face, though it soon died away. "It runs fast," she murmured to herself, "to the sea. Oh, if I could go too, and be lost in the waters with him."— After this she never spoke of her boy or hinted at her loss. She let Mr. Harrington drive her out on fine days, she let me wait on her and tend her, she even tried to eat, but her face never lost its wistful -offering look, or her voice its low despairing tone. 1 One evening, when I left her, Mr. Herring ton followed me to say that he had written to Mr. Jasper Ravensbourne to come. My heart sank, and I suppose my face showed it, fur Mr. Aarrington went on: "We have no right to keep him away, for lie is the next heir." Then he asked if I thought it would be best to tell my lady. I bogged bins to wait Mr. Ravensbotirne's answer; and about a week later it came. He simply said that, he was shocked at the news, and should prefer a month's delay before con ' sidering himself the owner of Ravensbourne. So the heart-sickening search went on till the end of the month, and thou Mr. liar rington wrote again, and spoke to my lady. She heard in silence, but when he asked if she would.go to London with him, the an swer came instantly: "I can never leave Ravensbourne; I will live anywhere in Ra vensbourne: but I will not go away." I knew that her heart clung to the place where her boy had last been seen, and I believed that away from it she would die. There was a red brick gabled house just be: yond the village, a quiet, quaint old place, with low sunny rooms and a bright garden. It had long stood empty; and Mr. Herring ton and I went ono day to look at it, and settled that this should be her home. Only one person beside myself would go with her there—the nurse Jessie. The poor girl had hardly looked up since that morning when she broughthack the little cloak. She never ceased to reproach herself for little Gerald's loss, and now her only comfort seemed to be in devoting herself to his mother. She beg ged so hard not to be parted from her, that I could not refuse, and promised to take her with us. My lady needed nu one else; nor could she afford to keep other servants, for she would not now be rich. Those were sad weeks which followed, while we bore our sorrow with us, as we went about the weary work of making that old long-deserted house like home. Help, indeed, came on all sides, for every soul in the village loved my lady, and grieved for her. The bordets were trimmed, the creepers that bad grown wild over the paths were trained, and the servants at the Hall toiled hard amidst their tears in fitting up the rooms. Most of them were staying, for Mr. Ravensbourne wished to keep all who 'desired to stay; and although a few of the old one's left, the most part were unwilling to loose a good place.— Among the rest, Mrs. Weston stayed. She certainly seemed to have no place there, but she said sadly that she had no other place to go to, and might get work at the Hall. . The last afternoon came, and when all was done I wandered into the park, to find some relief for my aching heart. At anoth er time I should. have thought much about leaving the home of thirty-five years, but now I could feel only for my mistress, and with bitter tears I prayed that she might be comforted in her misery. I had . walked far, and was turning homewards down the beech avenue, when, at the further end, I caught eight of two figures, a man and wo man, standing together with their backs to wards me. I„ was .surprised, for neither "NO ENTERTAINMENT SO, CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING." COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, AUGUST 16, 1862. looked in the distance like any of the Ra vensbourne servants, and no one else was likely to be there. But yet, as I drew near, there was something in the woman's figure which reminded me of Mrs. Weston. Could it be she? I had no time to discover, for before I had taken many steps, the person looked towards me, and almost directly af ter the two turned down a side path and were lost to sight. It was a wild, lonely spot, far from the house, and Lear the boundary of the park and•a deserted old cottage, once a keeper's lodge. dt seemed a strange place to find the timid Mrs. Wes ton, yet the likeness as the woman moved had struck me more strongly than before. I was not curious usually, but now I felt an eager desire to know who the strangers were; and leaving the avenue, I hurried over the grass, and never stopped till I reached the house-door, tired and breathless. I knew that when I left home Mrs. Weston had been at work ?a the maids' room. If she should not be there now, I would watch the door for her return. I went at once to the roam, and there, at her work, quiet and busy, sat the lady's maid, just as I had left her. I felt vexed at myself for my hurry and mistake. It was odd, certainly; but my eyes were dim with weeping, and per haps not so good as they were in my younger days, and they had played me false. The next morning we left Ravensbourne Hail. When the last moment came, and I told my lady that the earring(' was waiting . , she looked up at •me with her sad eyes, and whispered hoarsely: Must I go?" My face told her the mournful truth, and she rose calmly, and let me draw her shawl round her, and lead her down stairs, and to the carriage, where Mr. llarrington stood wait ing. All the time her trembling fingers clasped mine; but when the door closed, and turned away from the home where she had once been so happy, she let go her grasp, and with a groan, pressed her hand to her forehead. I knew that she thought of her first coming to Ravensbourne. I thought of it too, and my heart seemed well nigh breaking. She never spoke during the drive, and her eyes noted nothing of her new home as Mr. Harrington and I led her up stairs, and I think she hardly know that she had reached it. He had stayed with her to the last moment, and now he was forced to hurry back to London. When be was gone my lady turned and clung to me as though I were all now loft her; and it was long before I could still her convulsive sobs, and yet longer before she closed her eyes and sank into a heavy sleep. =I Our new life at the Grange—so they called our house—was very still and unchanging. All the day long my ludy lay upon her sofa by the window, or in sunny weather, sat under the old cedar tree, while I worked and arranged, thinking and wishing for one thing only:—her comfort and relief. We heard little of what wont on in the world be. gond our gate. I know, indeed, that Mr. Ravensbourne came to the Hall a few weeks after we left it; but it was some time befole I saw him, for I rarely' left my lady oven to the village, and ho never came to our house. One day, however, to my surprise, she said to me; "I should like to see Jasper Ravens bourne." S 3 he was sent for, and he came. lie was very much alteeed since I had last seen hint, and altered ,for the worse. That lowering look had deepened in his face; the lips were pale and compressed; and though his manner was less surly, yet I liked him no better than of old. I think he was start led when he saw my lady. When they last parted she had been radiant with beauty and joy; now, as he looked at the wasted form before him, his cheek grew pale, and he leaned against a chair fur support. He said very lithe; and except for the shrinking look with which ho watched my lady, there was no pity or gentleness about him. When he rose to go, my lady said, looking wistfully at him, "You had a brother and little nephew once, Jasper: fur their sakes you must let me care for you." But ho only drew his hand from hers, and without a word turned away and, never came again. In the village he won no love, for ho shut himself up, except when some of his foreign friends came over to hunt and shoot with him; and though be gave away money plan- , tifully ho never heeded who had it. tip at the Hall everything was changed. He had fitted up the rooms afresh, and had cut down trees in the park to raise money for furnishing. rt went to my heart to see the loads of timber going through the village, and to remember how the old squire never would have a tree touched. The servants had nearly all left; all the stablemen, and among them my old enemy Foster, and most of the women; but Mrs. Weston was still there—not in the house, though, but lodge-keeper at the gate, and she bad her little girl now living at home with her. It used to try me to see her standing at the gate; for my lady always said in old times that I must live there when I was past ser vice; and the eight of her always reminded me how things had changed. I believe she bad the place as a reward for remaining at the Hall; Mr. Ravenebourne had been very vexed at so many leaving. In spite of her good fortune, she looked as low spirited and nervous as ever, and did 'not seem to find much comfort in her child, find as she was of her. I was standing at our parlor-window one day watching :Sally Weston, a nice bright faced little girl, running merrily along to school with her work bag in her band, and wondering how the child kept up her sprits with such a sad mother, when suddenly she jumped from the raised footpath to cross the road, just as a cart came rattling down the the hill; and whether she lost her balance in the jump, or was startled by the driver's shout, I don't know, but down she fell, and the wheel passed over her. I cried out, and my lady started up; and before I had time to think we were both in the road beside the little girl. She was not insensible though seemingly a good deal hurt and frightened; and as others gathered round, something was said about carrying her to the doctor's. My lady spoke: "My house is nearer; bring her there." So they carried her in and laid her on the sofa, while some one fetched the doctor, and my Lady sat by her, striving to sooth her fright. It was she who first remembered, to send for the mother, and it seemed as if pity and anxiety bad given her for the time new strength. The injury proved but slight; and when the mother came in with a white face, and bending over her, asked trembling ly if she was hurt, the little thing was able to smile up in her face; and Mrs. Weston turned to my lady with low but earnest thanks. "Isn't she kind?" I heard the child whisper; but her mother only kissed her, and hid her face in the pillow. "There is not much the matter, I trust," my lady said gently; "but it is a pity to dis turb her: let her stay here to-night, and go home to-morrow. ‘if But of this Mrs. Weston would not hear. In vain we reminded her that the drive was a long one. Sho seemed now, that her alarm was stilled, only anxious to get the child away, and insisted on returning at once; and half an hour afterwards they were off in a borrowed cart. I have said that there was little change in our life; but now, ns the months rolled on, I began to fancy that there was a change which it chilled sty blood to think about, fur I thought my lady was dying. Little by little, she had grown weaker and thin ner, and though my fears sometimes left me fur a time, they ever came back. She was very patient, very tranquil now, happier too, I thought, as she felt she would soon be with her boy. She lay for hours sometimes reading a few words, but more often musing, and ever in her hand, or on her lap asketch, made long a„ o, of a baby face with laugh ing blue eyes and flaxen curls. I was not the only one who noticed the change; Jessie saw it; and Mr. Harrington, too, when he came from time to time. No ono else ever came. My lady had been an only child, and her parents hod long since died, so she was almost alone in the world, and there would be few of her own kin to grieve over her death. But to me the fear was too ter rible for words, for she was all the world to me. My own people had died; and been scattered over the world; and though I had sorrowed fur each, I had always turned to her and been comforted. I was fifty now, and ever since my girlhood I had lived among the Ravensbournes, and loved them; and of all the Ravensbournes she was the dearest and the best. =I After this change became clear to me, I never left my lady when I could help it; and it was with much doubt that I made up my mind one summer evening, about nine months after Sally's accident, to go to Mrs. Weston's on the morrow about some needle. work which I wanted her to undertake fur me. She no longer lived at the lodge— for some reason—l did not know what—she moved to a lonely cottage, quite on the other side of the park, and little Sally had left off coming to „ the Ravensbonrne school. I was sitting that night in my lady's room, my work in my hand, and listening anxious ly to her .-,..stless movements. It was grow ing late, but yet I could not bear to leave her, fur this evening I had thought her fee. bler than usual. Long I listened, and then leaned back in my chair, thinking over the years we had spent together, until, tired and exhausted by the heat, I fell asleep. I must have slept some hours for when I woke, my lady's watch pointed to four o'clock. I went softly to the open window; a faint gleam of light was in the sky. and a faint breeze blew upon my brow. I stood a few minutes enjoying it, and was just about to draw the curtain, and go into my own room, when a sound below startled me, and look ing down into the garden I saw standing close by the gate a figure gazing intently at the house. My heart gave a bound of ter ror, for we were three lonely women; but as the person came shortly forward I saw that there was no cause for fear, though much for wonder, for it was a child who crept silently to the door. Quietly crossing the room I stole down stairs, opened the door, though cautiously, for I thought there might be others concealed, and called out: "Who's there?" ' There was minute's silence, then a quiv ering voice answered, "Please ma'am it's me—Sally Weston;" and as she spoke, the child came close up to me, and I saw that it was indeed Mrs. Weston's daughter. The poor little thing was trembling with fright and sobbing bitterly. Fearing that She would arouse my lady, I drew her in hastily, fastened the door, and then leading her to the kitchen, asked why she came. It was some time before she could falter out: "0, ma'am, mother's so ill; the says she's dying; and she would not let me fetch any one but you. She made me come to you, though it was all dark, and I was so frightened; and she wants you to go to her, and she is all *lane. There came over me a strange feeling that I must go to her at once, spite of the hour, my lady, and everything. I could not think calmly fur the impulse was too strong, and I hastily wrapped a cloak around me, and fastened on an old bonnet which hung in the kitchen. Then I paused to think. My lady would probably not need me for some hours; Jessie was fast asleep. At first I drought of rousing her, but my expedition seemed so strange that I was not very will ing to speak of it, and I might perhaps be back before she came down stairs; if not I could explain when f returned; so I set out, locking the door, and carrying off the key. Together the child and I went quietly down the road till we came to the lodge-gate, and I was just about to turn into the park, when she stopped me with her hand on my arm: 'Mother said t was'nt to let any one ,see you; so we'll come this way, please;" and she po , nted up a lane running just outside the park palling. A feeling of fear again came over me fur a minute as I wondered at this mystery, and whether any harm could could be meant me; but a second thought made me ashamed of my cowardice, and I steadily followed my little guide, till at length c:ossing a stile, we turned into the park just within sight of the low thatched cottage; and passing through the plantation, came out on to the open ground. The dew lay thick upon the grass, and beside our selves, there was no living creature stirring within sight. Our walk had been a long one, and we had met no one. Now the child's pace quickened, and my heart beat fast as we reached the door, for now I was there, the recollection of all Mrs. Weston's odd ways crowded upon my mind. The girl hurriedly unlocked the door, whispered me to follow, and ran up the creaking, stairs into the room where I had once before been. The sick women lay with her pallid face turned to the door, and as I entered she ex claimed: "I thonght you would come too late. I thought I should die without seeing you." Every feature was quivering with excitement; but as the child flung herself sobbing on the bed, the mother's voice softened: "Nay, Sally, don't cry. I told you it must come soon, and you've been a good girl to me, far better than I deserved; so kiss me now, dear, and go down, for I must speak to Hannah Pearce alone." Tho little girl still lingered, till I promised to call her if her mother grew worse, and then she slowly went. Mrs. Weston did not spook at once, but lay with one hand pressed to her forehead, the other clutching the bedclothes for some minutes, then she said feebly: "I've been ill very long. knew the end was coming, but this is sud den. Pain and trouble, pain and trouble have brought mo to it," she repeated.— There was another pause, then her lips moved and, and she broke out; "Never mind me; I have so much to tell you, and my head is so confused; they made ate keep it, but I dare not go to my grave with that on my mind. Did any one see you come?" she continued suddenly. I told her not a soul had been about; that it was still very early. "Alt," alto said, "if Mr. Raveshourne only knew, he would have killed you before lie would have lot you came to me. He made me live here, to be out of your way, and he threatened dreadful things then if I over saw you; alt mei" I was wondering in my mind what it could signify to Mr. Ravensbourne, when she went on: "When your lady was so kind to my Sally, she little thought what 1 had done to her." "To her?" I exclaimed. "Yes," she said, solemnly; "she never knew what became of Master Gerald, but I knew only too well." A sick horror came over me, and fur a minute I could neither speak nor move. At last I gasped out: "Was it you who took him away?" and she slowly answered "Yes." I struggled and labored for breath, and got out the words, "Is ho alive?" and her answer came, "Ile is aliie." It was too much; I sank down beside the bed, and for some minutes I seemed to know nothing. [TO BC CONTINUED.] General McClellan The Atlantic Monthly for July contains a delightfully pleasant papor "chiefly about War Matters," written by a "Peaceable man." The "Peaceable man" is Mr. Haw thorne. We take from the article the fol lowing description of Gen. McClellan: "The Goaeral was dressed in a simple, dark blue uniform, without epaulets, booted to tie knee, and with a cloth cap upon his head; and at first sight, you might have ta ken him for a corporal of dragoons, of par ticular neat and soldier-like aspect, and in the prime of his ago and strength. He is only of middling stature, but his build is very compact and sturdy, with broad shoulders and a look of great physical vigor, which in fact, he is said to possess,—he and Beaure gard having been rivals in that particular, and both distinguished above other mon.— His complexion is dark and sanguine, with dark hair. Lie has a strong, bold, soldierly face, full of decision; a Roman nose, by no means a thin prominence, but.very thick and firm; and if he follows it, (which I think likely,) it may be pretty confidently trusted to guide him aright. His profile would make a more effective likeness than the lull face, wb ich however is much better in the real man than in any photograplithat I havo seen. the forehead is-not remarkably large, bat comes forward at the eyebrows; it is not the brow nor immanence of a prominently $1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IF NOT IN ADVANCE intellectual man, (not ,a natural student, I mean, or abstract thinker.) but one whose office it is to handle things practically and to bring about tangible results. His face look ed capable of being very stern, but wore, in its repose, when I saw it, an aspect pleasant and dignified; it is not, in its character, an American face, nor an English one. The man on whom he fixes his eye is conscious of him. In his natural disposition, he seems calm and self-possessed, sustaining his great responsibilities cheerfully, without shrink ing, or weariness, or spasmodic effort, or damage to his health, but all with quiet, deep-drawn breaths; just as his broad shoul ders would bear up a heavy burden without aching beneath it. "After we had sufficient time to peruse the man, (so far as it could be done with one pair of very attentive eyes,) the Gen eral rode off, followed by his cavalcade, and was lost to sight among the troops. They received him with loud shouts, by the ea ger uproar of which—now near, now in the centre, now on the outskirts of the division, and now sweeping back towards us in a great volume of sound—we could trace his progress through the ranks.— If he is a coward, or a traitor, or a hum bug, or anything else than a brave, true and able man, that mass of intelligent sol diers, whose lives and honor he had in charge, were utterly deceived, and so was this present writer; for they believed in him, and so did I, and had I stood in tho ranks, I should have shouted with the lustiest of them. Of course I may be mistaken; my opinion on such a point is worth nothing, although my impression may be worth a little more; neither do I consider the Gen erals antecedents as bearing very decided testimony to his practical soldiership. A thorough knowledge of the science of war seems to be conceded to him; he is allowed to be a good military critics; but all this is possible without his possessing any positive qualities of a great general, just as a literary critic may show the profoundest acquaint ance with the principles of opio poetry with out being able to produce a single stanza of an epic poem. Nevertheless I shall not give up my faith in General MoClellan's soldiership until he is defeated, nor in his courage and integrity even then." London Beggars Army and navy beggars abound, as we all know,:in every part of the country, and more especially in parts remote from garri son towns and from seaports. Experienced persons can easily detect the imposture, acrd real soldiers and sailors soon catch them in details, for which they are not prepared.— Mr. Halliday relates that he was once walk ing with a gentleman who• had spent the earlier part of his life at sea, when a "turn pike sailor" shuffled on before them. They had just bee conversing on nautical affairs, and Mr. Holliday said to his companion, "Now there is a brother sailor in distress; of course you will give him something." "lie a sailor!" said the friend with great disgust. "Did you see him spit?" Mr. Halliday an swered he had. "Ile spits to the windward," was the reply. Mr. Halliday asked what of that? "A regular landsman's trick,"•said the true salt. "A real sailor never spite wind'ard. Why he could'at." So great are the delicacies of the art, and so hard is it to counterfeit nature. But Mr. Halliday tells a story of one who stood a contest with his detector, and had the best of it. The "turnpike sailor" was giving a vivid and minute account of an en gagement during the Crimean war, and was telling an admiriag circle of hearers how he and his mates boarded the enemy and did wonders. Mr. Halliday let him finish the yarn, and then determined to show him up. "I saw" be said, "the account of the action in the newspapers, but they said nothing of boarding. As I read it, the enemy were in too shallow water to make it possible. The vessels were more than half a mile apart." The rogue saw his advantage, and with the utmost cool ness, replied. "The noospapers—the noes papers. You don't believe what they say, surely. Look how they served out old Char ley Napier. Why, sir, I was there and I ought to kn3w." Mr. Halliday noticed ono man who search ed for crumbs thrown out to birds. When he found them, he mumbled and munched at them until he had attracted attention and half-pence. At last, one day Mr. Halliday followed him. He wanted to see the end of the performance; and, after a proper allow ance of bird crumbs, the beggar made his way to a beer shop in St. Giles', where Mr. Halliday found him comfortably seated, with his feet upon a chair, smoking a long pipe, and discussing a pot of ale. When we hear of all the trouble and ingenuity that is expended in deceiving us, we may well feel inclined to ask, as Mr. Halliday asked a beggar of his acquaintance, "Don't you think you would hate found it more profita ble had you taken tolabor, or to some bon ester calling than your present one?" But the candid answer returned is suggestive:— sir, I p'raps I might." he replied, "but going on the square is so dreadfully confining."—Mayluac. SUPERSTITION Or TILE AUSTRALIS NS.-Dur ing his residence among the black fellows, Davies had traveled as far, be thought. as 506 miles to the northward of Morton Day; being passed along from tribe to tribe, like a blind man soliciting charity, from one farm house to another, lit Scotland. By [WHOLE NUMBER 1,669. every tribe, however, which he visited - in-bis journey, he was uniformly taken for a dei ceased native returned to life again; and his arrival among any tribe that had never seen a white man before was generally an event of intense interest to the natives. They would gather around him in a crowd, and gaze at him for a time apparently in silent awe and veneration—endeavoring to discov er any likeness between him and any de ceased native whom they supposed• he re sembled, asking him whether he was not that native come to life again. And when any such resemblance was recognized. the relatives of the deceased, if not at band, were apprised of the fact, and a scene of mingled lamentation and rejoicing, such as one might anticipate in such circumstances, immediately succeeded; the relations of the deceased native cutting themselves with shells or sharp•odged weiwns, till the blood would stream down, and tho supposed dead man come to life again being henceforth treated with the very best the tribe could furnish. On some occasions, however, the black natives could not discover any resem blance between the white stranger and any of their deceased friends, and in these cues the onus probandi, in remit to the identity of his person, was thrown upon himself, as in such cases, he was asked who he had been, or what had boon his name when he was a black fellow, and before be died.— This was a rather difficult question for Da vies to answer, without getting himself into scrapes either by betraying his ignorance of the nomenclature of the tribe, or by exhib iting no resemblance to the individual whom he might otherwise have prentended to per sonate. I could not help admiring, there fore, the ingenuity with which ho extricated himself out of this dilemma—for, being nat urally remarkably shrewd and intelligent. his uniform answer in such eases was,•tbat it was so long since ho died that belied quite forgotten what name he had when he was a black man; and with this answer the'sitss• pie natives were always satisAel Ace.—lt is not true that every woman always Ojeda to her age. Some women will readily own their age when,they Elsie lived to be eighty or ninety years old, ana have given up the expectation of being mar• ried if single, or of getting re-married if their husbands •should Ale. A very aged lady who has sense enough that she earl, and could, under any circumstances, n:o longer hope for a wooer, will even agorae neously proclaim her age, when that' in formation is likely to elicit the remark that she is a wonderful woman. A woman will also declare her age, if she is so young looking rts to be liable to be mistaken for a child. She will not mina telling her ago if she looks very old,..but is not nearly so old as she looks. The girl who, if she were ;much oldei., would not tell her age, will tell hei youth fast enough, unless she looks old enough to be considered marriageable, and is not. • Age, in meat, is corrected by ciioliery; old fowls .are best curried or ,stewed. A mon or woman:that is no chicken shotild dross themselves accordingly, like old birds as they are. Stained hair and whiskers set off a withered face the Wrong way, so as to aggravate its diserepitude; whereas, if_ the fool who dyed them Sad let:them. along, their natural hue might have characterised it with dignity. • An old gentleman or lady, wearing a pork-pie hat, fur the matter of test might as well eat bacon with roast beef, or mint sauce with leg-of-mutton. Ago is generally called,;venerable, and considered ridiculous. Small boys are apt, as it were by instinct, to make faces behind the backs of their aged relatives and pre ceptors, some of whom, if they catch thetn doing so, are so incensed as to scold them, making themselves, in their fury, faces still more grotesque. Men to whom age brings wisdom, which it does not bring to every body, will, if their dispositions are kindly and genial, cheerfully acquiesce in that aj , . pointment of nature whereby the temporary absurdities of their external appearance en able them, like tops, or figures of fun, to if ford innocent bat short-lived amusement to simple minds. "You FIGHTS MIT SIGEL, TOE DRUMS. MT stn."—A soldier, with his arm in a sling, on Monday morning, went into . Bergner's beer saloon, under the Post office, to refresh himself with lager beer. The sight of hie wounded limb very naturally interested the crowd that was present. A conversation en sued, in which the wounded man, in response to inquiries, modestly stated that be had fought under Sigel in Missouri. At the name of Sigel, a little German in a corner of the room rose to his feet. Ile ran op to the wounded man just as be raised his lager to his lips. "You fights mit Sigle said be "you drinks mit me." The wounded soldier was slightly taken back at the abruptheitirof the remark, when the Teuton embraced actually kissing his cheek as a man would kiss the cheek of a girl. "Mein Cot, said he, "no man what lights mit Sigel pays for beer when I ish by—no, sir." The result farther was that, after th, soldier bad slaked bis thirst, the German went out with hits, proffering to him anything be might deike. The affection felt for Sigel by the Gasman population of this city, is very great. We see it illustrated nearly army day.—Pfiiia., VI S. Ga:afe. I=l ffil
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers