. . t ' f . • . ';., f, i , I.e ..,. 1 -•, • ! .- - . , . .. :• _ .. i : 7-V--7, : ...‘ . . ,..e..„ ..... . . . : "-..,;.,.._...,,,..._;:.,...„.„..,.....,. . :.,;:„ .. . _ 4 • . A' ~ f r - (j: t : ri 1 1 11 I. . . . . • . , .. ~ . ~_ ~ ATMUEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor. VOLUME XXXIV, NUMBER 5.3 ltgetrg. For the eolowthin Spy UNION BATTLE SONG. Air:—Annie Laurie iir TROP. T. R. VICEROY, A. n -Rouse Patriots! Rouse! To action! And by yonr colors stand; neither foe nor faction Destroy your native land. And let your an,hcrn be. ...Union and Liberty' , And stand by Ficedom's banner, And by it. t.ravety die. The bailie cry is sounding In Freedom's peaceful land, And thou-ands forth are bounding, To stay the traitor's hand. OW bear the patriot cry From glen and mountain high To save this glorious trutots We'll bravely fight and die. 'While the Stars and Stripes wave o'er us, (Our pride in every laud) Our foes must fall before of; And naught our might withstand. The Stars and Stripes Shull be , The emblem of the free; And to save them from di-honor Well gladly fight and die. While the Flag of Freedom flutters Above the true and brave. Though fierce the cannon mutters, The God of right will save. Tim Union still must be United, strong and free; And to save it from destruction We'll bravely fight and die. 'When host with host engages Upon the gory field, And wrathful carnage rages, Error to right must viehl. The rube! hots shah ' White subres ea.!, on high. And each dauntless attain, charges, To rout the foe or die Our comrades loud are calling: From many a hard fought field, Awl beg us, by their falling, “Nerer to treason yield." And :shall they full in vain, By traitor hands be slain, Or pine in felons' prisons, Consumed by hunger's flame'. Oh, no: Their fate rau.t be avenged, The cause they loved, sustained; And blood and newsure freely spent, Until this object'. gained. Pill110l•: :11011.e: awn kt: - Your all 1. now at stake; The torch nod sword are at your doors Aral chains which traiiot's make. Ar. d should we fall in victory Upon the Southern sod, Weld give each life to Liberty, Each spirit to its Uod, Our martyred live. shall cry To him solo rules no high, To save this glorious Union, For which we Cicely die. gfledixoto. A True Story Alone in the world l alone in the great city of Paris. a world in itself! alone, and with scarcely a livrc in my purse I Such were my reflections as I turned away from the now empty house, in which rfor two and-twenty years I had dwelt with my poor, wasteful uncalculating father. My father was a scholar of most stupen dous attainments, particularly in Oriental literature, but a perfect child in all that re lates to the ordinary affairs of life. Absor bed in his studies, he let his pecuniary mat ters take care of themselves. Consequently. when death suddenly laid him low, and de prived me of my only friend and protector, his affairs ware found to be in a state of inextricable confusion. His effects, includ ing the noble library of Eastern lore which it had been the labor of his life to collect, wore seized and sold to pay his debts, and were found insufficient. My mother had died when I was a child, and my father had •educated me himself, pouring into my young and eager mind the treasures of knowledge be possesed. I was —I say it without boasting—a prodigy of kerning; but in all that relates to domestic, economy, as well as to the ordinary attain ments of women, I was as ignorant as my father himself. I Ihe:ered in the house until the sale was over and the last load of goods had been re moved. Then I repaired to a wretched garret in the Rue de Temple, where I had found a refuge, and where I designed to re main until such time as I could, by the exercise of my talents, replenish my purse and procure a better lodging. Here I sat down, took a calm survey of my position, and questioned myself as to what employ ment I was fit for. Of the usual feminine accomplishments I poluiesed none. I could neither draw nor paint; I could not play a single note of music on any instrument; I could sing, it is true, but knew nothing of the science of vocal music; I did not know a word of Span ish, or Italian, or German, or English; even with the literature of France I was but little acquainted; but Icould read the cuneiform characters of Babylon and Persepolis as readily as you read this page, whileSauerit, IlebrewmArabic,- —Syriac —and—Chaldaic, flowed from my toungue as freely as a nur sery ulnae. As an ineiructress of young ladiea,tberefore, I %mid not hope to find a livelihood, but as an assistant to some learn ed man, or body of Men, I knew that my attainments wnold,beinvalauble. Full of hope, therefore, and with a cheer fal*ait, I set about obtaining a, situation. Bearing that the Oriental ,department of tbeltibliothequedm Roi was about to under .,ge' itotni 'ala:rations, and. that:44i-assistant librarian was wanted to re-arrange and re catalouge the books. I applied at once for the situation. I was closely examined as to my qualifications, and much surprise mani fested at the proficiency I had attained in I these unwonted studies; but my application was refused, because—l was a woman'. I next answered by letter the advertise ment of a distinguished savant, who was a bout to undertake the translation of the Sacred Vedas, and was in the want of an amanuensis. To this I received the follow ing reply: "MADEMOISELLE:-if your attainments in in Sancrit are such as you represent them, I am convinced that you would exactly suit me, were you a young man. But lam a bachelor; there is not a single female in my establishment; your sex, therefore, renders it impossible for me to employ you as my amanuensis." illy sex again! Discouraged, but not daunted. I applied successivly to the Societe Asiatique, to the librarian of the Institute, and to three or four privet° individuals of more or less note. From all of thorn I receiv ed the same answer—the situation was not open for women. Meantime the few francs I had had at my father's death vanished, one by one. The woman from whom I hired my room became clamorous for the rent. I had a few superfluous articles of clothing. I dis posed of them at the Mont do Picte, and thus kept the wolf from the door a little longer. when they were all gone what should I do? I persevered in my quest for employment. It was all in vain. Many people added in sults to their harsh refusal uf my application, accusing me of being an impostor; for who ever heard, they said, of a young girl like me being acquainted with these abstruse studies! pay after day, week utter week, I plodded on through the 11. ire and dirt, fur it was winter, the weeping winter of Paris, and the obscure and narrow streets, (traver sed by a filthy kennel in the centre, aad destitute of sidewalks,) through which my researches led me, were in a dreadful condi tion. And evermore the question occured to me, What shall I do? As day after day passed, and still no open ing appeared, l thought of the river, roll ing darkly through the heart of the city, ' in whose silent tide su many a poor unfort% 'mate has sought a refuge front present mis ery. One day, as in the course of my per egrinations, I passed NM Morgue, I saw the dead body of a young woman which had been taken that morning from the river, and laid out for recognition by her friends.— As I looked on her livid, bloated face, her drenched and tattered garments, her long, dark hair hanging in dank matted masses and streaming over the edge. of the table on whiclishe lay, my heart was inured with pity. Yet I half envied her position, and might hare followed her esam: , :o, but for my belief in a future state. He: bJdy was free from every mot tal ill, but her poor soul, where wee it? But besides looking at it from a merely human point of I,iew, there' is in my nature a certain stern and rugged resolutions,a sort uf "never give up" fecling.! which induces me to hope and struggle on, and leads me to think, with the great Napo leon, that suicide is the act of a coward, l since it is an attempt to fly from those evils which God has laid upon us, rather than to bear them with a bravo, enduring trust in Providence. Still as 1 passed by tho river, spanned by its noble bridge., and covered with those innumerable Li rges in which the washer women of Paris ply their unceasing trade, eating, sleeping, and living constantly in their floating dwellings, I would think, with a shudder, that unless relief soon arrived, I must choose between its silent waters and a lingering death by starvation. True, there are in Paris many employments open to women, but what was that to me? Could I stand behind a counter and set forth with a glib tongue the merits of ribbons and laces, or bend over the rich embroidered robe of the fashionable lady, or even like those poor washerwomen, earn my scanty livelihood by arduous manual labor? I know nothing of buisness; I knew nothing of embroidery; and I had neither the strength nor the capital necessary to tot up the establishment of a blanchisseusc. I had retuned home, one evening, after another weary tramp. As I looked faom my lofty attic, and saw Paris glittering with her million lights, I said to myself: "Must I perish of hunger in these streets? Must I starve in the midst of that abun dance which might be mine but fur the fact that lam a woman?? No, I shall abjure my sex, and in the semblance of themselves, win from men that subsistence which they deny to a woman." The thought was no sooner conceived than executed. Tearing off part of my woman's attire, I threw around me an old cloak of my father's which now served as a coverlet to my lowly bed, and descended the long flirt of stairs to thel street. Detirmend to have legal sanc tion • fur what I was about to do, I went straight to the Prefecture of Police. It was not yet very late, and the Perfect was still in his bureau. I entered his presence, told him my story, and demanded Dermission to pqt qu Male attire and assume a masculine name, in order to obtain - the means of sub sistence. Tie beard she respeOfully, treated me kindly, and advised sue to ponder well before I tools "top 4 1 0-tpriusual and unseem ly. But T was flag.' Seeing my determi fricii Jr, gennted ftlesrAirifien permission. . .„ "NO ENTERTAINMENT SO CLLEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING." COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, AUGUST 30, 1860 Early next morning I took what remain ed of soy feminine wardrobe and hastened to the Marche de Vieux Binge, (old clothes market,) which was not far distant from my place of abode. Built on the site of the an cient Temple, the princely residence of the Knights Templar of old, and in later times the prison of Louis XVI, previous to his execution—this vast market, with its eigh teen hundred and eighty-eight stalls, hung with the cast-off garments of both sexes and of every age, condition, and clime, presents the appearance of a miniature city. Men's apparel, women's apparel, garments for children of all sizes, boots and shoes, hats and bonnets, tawdry carpets, tattered and stained, military accoutrements, swords and belts, harness, old pots and kettles, and in numerable other articles, attract attention in the different stalls. There, on every side, sharp-faced and shrill voiced dealers haggle with timid customers over garments more or less decayed. There the adroit thief finds a ready market fur the vas ions articl cs he has procured from chamber and entry. There the petted lady's maid disposes of the rich robe which her careless mistress has given her, and the Parisian grisetto, with the money her nimble fingers have earned, pur chases it to adorn her neat and pretty form for the ail pare et masque, to which her lover takes her, at Belleville or Montmar tre. In 3onder stall hangs a tattered. coat which once belonged to a marquis, but has gone through so many bands since then, and accumulated so much dirt and grease in the process, that one wonders bow the dealer would venture to advance the few sous which its lust wretched owner had raised upon it. Iu this place I exchanged, without much difficulty, uty temale habiliments fur a stilt of respectable male attire. 1 took it home, and with a feeling of shame of which I could not get lid, but yet with unflinching resolution, arrayed myself in it, As a wo man I knew I am not handsome; my mouth is large and my skin dark; but this rather favored my disguise; for had I been very pretty, my beardless face and weak voice might have awakened more suspicion. I cut my hair MT short, parted it at one side, brushed it with great care, and crowned it with a jaunty cap, which, I must, say, was very becoming to me. In this dress I ap peared a tolerably well-looking youth of nineteen or thereabouts. fur the change of garments made me look younger than I II!I As I surveyed laybelf in the little cracked looking,-glass whieit served we as a mirror, I could not forboar laughing, at the trans formation. Certainly no one would hare recognized rue, for I could scarcely recog nize myself. Folding the old cloak around me, I sallied forth. With the long, tide:: braid of hair I had cut from toy o. punch ,-c1 abt fait, the host I L..: eit .t in a log time. Teen I wca: to the I,lleo of the gentleman who sal 1 I v ..11.1 suit him al actiy if I were a youog 'There had b , -12.11 eJ1112t:Y . 11.4 hi the tote of this gentle man's letter that attracted me, I could nut tell why. To my great joy, he had rot yet found the per,F.;:t he wanted; awl after a short conversation Ice engaged we, at what scented to be a princely salsa y. He told me lang'iingly that a young wo man had applied for asittlati./a shut time previous; and seemed very much amused nt the circumstance. My employer wrt ,, a man alreidy past his prim?, His hair was Jpr:nkicd with gray, and his form showed teat tendency to fullness 54 frequently found in persons of sedentary habits. But in his fine, thought ful eyes, and espan•ive brow, one saw evi dence of that noble intellect for which he was distinguished, while his beaming smile and pleasant voice showed a genial and be nevolent heart. The kindness of his voice and manner went straight to my lonely and desolate heart, and affected me so much that I almost disgrace I my manhood by burst ing into tears. Ile occupied a modest but commodious house in the Quartier Latin. His domestic affairs were ad m n istcred by a re4pectable looking elderly neon, who performed the part of cook, to his own honor and the en tire satisfaction of his master; while a smart but mischievous imp of a boy ran of errands, tended the fires, swept the rooms, and kept old Dominique in a continual fret by his tricks and shortcomings. Here, in the well-furnished library of my new master, with every convenience for an notation and elucidation, tho translation of the Vedas was commenced. Like my fath er, my employer was possessed of vast eru dition; but, unlike him, he was also a man of the world, high in favor at court; wealthy, honored, and enjoying the friendship of all the most noted sevens and other celebrities of the metropolis. During the progress of the work some of these would occasionally enter thestudy where I eat writing almost incessantly, and I saw more than one to whom I had applied in the days of my mis ery, and been rejected. But happily no one recognized me. My kind master espressed great astonish ment at my proficiency in Sancrit, and fre quently declared my service to be invalu able to him. I was sometimes able to ren der a passage which he bad given up as in tractable; and he more than once asserted that my name should appear on the title• page as well as his own:. My name! Alas! had no name. , 2ly in,stet fiequiody chicliFe for my an- ceasing devotion to my work, and would sometimes playfully come behind. as I sat writing, snatch the manuscript from my desk, and substitute in its place some new and popular book, or some time-honored French classic, to which he would commend me to give my whole attention for the next two hours, on pain of his displeasure. His kindness to me knew no bounds. He ordered Dominique and the boy Jean to treat me with as much resrect as himself. lle took me with him to the Oriental lec tures of the Dihilotheque de Roi. He pro cured fur me the entree to the discussions of several literary and scientific bodies, and afforded me every facility for the improve ment of my mind and the development of my powers. He introduced me to all that was noblest and best in the great aristocracy of intellect, and constantly spoke of me as a young man of great promise, who would one day be heard of io the world. He used to rally me on my studious hab its, and often expressed surprise that a young man of my years should not seek the society of his compeers, and especially of that other sex, to which the heart of youth usually turns with an irresistable, magnet like attraction. Little did he dream that the person he addressed belonged to that very sex of which he spoke. One day he startled me by saying: "What pretty hair you have, Eugene; it is as soft ' and fine as that of a young girl." The conscious blush rushed to my face, for I thought he had surely discovered my secret; but one glance at his calm counte nance reassured me. In his large, open, honest heart there never entered a suspicion of the "base deception" that had been prac ticed upon him. He did not notice my emotion, and I an swered in as calm a voice as I could com mand: "My mother bad fine, soft hair; I have inherited it from her," Thus passed a year, the happiest I had ever known. My master became kinder and more affectionate every day. lie would often address me as "men fits," and seemed indeed to regard me with feelings as warm as tho , e of a father to a son. And I—what were my sentiments toward this goal and noble man who was so kind to me? I worshipped lihn: lie was every thing, to me. Pother and mother were gone, sisters mid brothers I had none, other ti hold.= I lout never known. My master woQ oh the world to no. TO serve him was oh I lived for. T love him, though with a love that never Could be known, never be returned, ‘vm enough for me. I Lice st.id that I was happy; but there was one drawback to my happiness. It lay in the sell-reproach I felt for the deception practiced on my benefactor. Many times I resolved to resume my woman's gar ments, (a suit of which I always kept by me, safe under lock and key,) fall at his feet and confess all. But the fear that he would spurn mc, the certainty that he would deice me front his presence, restrained me. I could not exist tinder his - displeasure; could not endure life away from hint. Although he wag, of course, unconscious of the intensity of the feeling with which I regarded him, he knew—fur I did not con ceal it—that I was much attached to him; and I was aware that I, or rather Eugene, was very dear to him. Oa ono occasion, as we sat together in the study, he said to me, abruptly: "How old are you, Eugene?" "Twenty-two," I answered. Ile cat silent for some moments; then he sad: "If I had married in my early years I might have had a eon as old as you. Take my advice, Eugene: marry early; form fam ily ties; then your old age will not be as lonely as mine is." "011, my dear master!" cried I, safe under my disguise, "no son could love you us dear ly as I do. A 9017 would leave you to win a place for himself in the world; but your faithful Eugene will cling to you through life; ho only asks to iemain with you al ways—always." "111 y good Eugene!" said my master, grasping my hand warmly, "your words make me happy. lam a lonely man, and the affection which you, a stranger youth, entertain for me, fills me with profound and heartfelt joy!" Ab! my trembling heart asked itself the question: "What would he think if he knew that it was a young girl who felt fur him this pure and tender affection?" Something whispered me that be would bo rather pleased than otherwise, and a wild temptation seized me to tell him all—but I could not—l could not. As my labors approached their comple tion a gloomy feeling of dread oppressed me. I feared that when the Vedas were finished my master would no longer require my services. But he relieved my fears by re-engaging me, and expressing a desire to retain me as his secretary until I became too famous and too proud to fill the office contentedly. Scarcely was this cause of dread removed when another, more terrible still, overtook me. One evening be took me with him to a literary re-anion, at which every 1)d-esprit of Occipital was to be present. As first I refused to go, for I feared that the eyes of WHIM of my own sex might penetrate -my disguise; but he seemed so much hurt at my refusal that I w forced to withdraw it. The soiree was a very brilliant one. But little notice r wee fakes ,of th e b 'twit - • - • •st ..,!•a--,cl ward, silent youth, who glided from room to room, hovering ever near where his be loved master stood or sat, in conversation with the gifted of both sexes. how I en vied the ladies whose hands he touched and to whom his polite attentions were address ed; for, as I have said, my master was a man of the world, wealthy and distinguish ed, and, notwithstanding his advanced years, ladies still courted his attention. There was one lady in particular who spared no pains to attract him to herself. She was the widow of a celebrated littera tcur, and was herself well known as a bril liant but shallow writer. She was not young, but she was well-preserved, and owed much to the arts of the toilet. I saw her lavishing her smiles and blandishments on my dear master; I saw that he was not insensible to the power of her charms, arti ficial as they wore, and a cruel jealousy fastened, like the vulture of Prometheus, on my vitals. Could I but have entered the lists with her on equal ground; could I but have ap peared before him in my own proper per son, arrayed in appropriate and maidenly costume, I felt sure of gaining the victory, for I bad youth on my side; I had already an interest in his heart; but, alas! I could not do this without first announcing myself as an impostor, as a linr and deceiver, to the man whose good opinion I prized above all earthly things. A dreadful thought now rested on my mind day and night: What if this woman should accomplish he designs? What if my master should marry her? What would then become of me? But I was spared this trial. The translation was finished; it was in the hands of the publisher, and the proof sheets had carefully been revised, partly by my master, partly by myself. Be had in sisted on putting my name with his own on the title page; but I refused my consent with n pertinacity which ho could not com prehend, and which came nearer making him angry than anything that had ever transpired between us. One day, as I sat in the library, I saw my master come home, accompanied by two gentlemen. He did not, as was his custom with his intimates, bring them into the library, but received them in the little used reception room. The remained some time. When they left my master came into the the library, rubbing his hands and looking exceedingly well pleased. But at sight of me his countenance fell. Ile approached me, and in a tone of regret said: "My pour Eugene! we must part!" Pert! It seemed us if the sun was and decd.), blotted from the heavens. I started up and looked at hint with a face so white and terror-stricken that ho came up to me and laid his hand kindly on toy shoulder. "My poor Eugene!" he repeated, "it is too true—we must part." I tried to speak. "Part!" I cried. "Oh! my master— Tears and sobs choked my utterance, in spite of all my efforts to restrain them. I sat down again, and gave free vent to my irrepressible grief. My master was much affected by the sight of my emotion, and for some minutes the silence was unbroken save by my heart- wrung sobs. "Nay, Eugene, this is womanish; bear it like a man," said he, wiping the tears from his own oyes. "Most gladly would I spare you this sorrow; most gladly would I retain you near me; but in this matter I am pow erless. I have received an appointment from Government to travel in Northern Asia in order to study the dialects of that vast region. Every individual who is to accompany me has been officially specified, and there is no place left for my poor Eu- germ." "Oh! my dear, dear master!" cried I, with clasped hands and streaming eyes, •'take me with you—l shall die if you leave me—put me in the place of some one else!" "Impossible," said he. •'The Govern- ment has filled up every place with its own creatures, except,". he added, with a faint smile, "that they have left provision for my wife—if married. I would I had the wand of an enchanter, Eugene, that I might transform you to a woman and make you my wife." His wife! his wife! End I heard the words aright? I sprang to my feet. I tried to say, "I am a woman—l will be your wife!" but my tongue refused its utterance —there was a rushing sound in my ears— I grasped the air wildly—l heard my mas ter cry, "Eugene! Eugene!" as he rushed forward to support me, and the next mo ment I lost consciousness. When I recovered my senses I was still in the arms of my master. lie bad borne me to the window and torn open my vest and abirt•colar. I looked op in his face. One glance revealed to me that my secret was discovered. Blushing and trembling, I tried to raise myself from his arms; but he held me fast. "Eugene." said he, in earnest tones, "toll me the truth. Aresou indeed a Woman?" "I am. My name is Eugene D—. 0, my dear master! forgive the deception have practiced. Do not despise me." "Eugene," cried he, in joyful negents, "son shall ke with me to the East? You shall go as my wife! Trim 1' #arpereurf -21 9 t wherefore an{ disgaieer he added, ME $1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IF EVIAN AD r• I told him my story in few words; and informed him that r was that very young woman who had applied to him for the office I now held. "Is it possible?" exclaimed he. 'But Eugenie, tell me—do you really love me as you have so often protested you did?" "Yes, my dear master," I whispered. Vice Empercur!" cried he again; "but for his strictness I should Lever have found it out. Now go; array yourself in your woman's gear, and let me see you as you really are." I went; and resumed, with a pleasure 1 cannot describe, the garments I had for a whole year forsworn. When I returned, my master caught me to his heart, and thanked Heaven for the "charming wife" so unexpectedly sent him. A Singular Defense The following remarkable defense of a prisoner tried for a highway robbery will, we doubt not, interest our readers; but we have no mode of ascertaining when it oc curred. That it is not of recent date is cer tnin, because it appeared in a work that was presented to the late Sir John Conroy when officially connected with his majesty; the King of the Belgians, in ISM A gentleman, fullowed by a servant in livery, rode into an inn in the west of Eng land one evening, a little before dark. Ile told the landlord that he should be detained by business in that part of the country for a few days, and wished to know if there were any amusements going ou in the town to fill up the intervals of time. The land lord replied that it was their race and as size week, and that he would, therefore, be at no loss to pass away his leisure hours. On the gentleman's remarking that this was fortunate, fur that he was fond of hearing trials, the other said that a very interesting trial for robbery would canto on the next day, on ;Thiel' people's opinion were much divided, the evidence being very strong against the prisoner; but the man hiniself persisted resolutely in declaring that be was in a distant part of the kingdom at the time the robbery was committed. The guest manifested considerable anx iety to hear the trial, but as the court would probably be crowded, expressed some doubt of getting a place. The landlord told him that there should be no difficulty in a gen tleman of his appearance getting a seat; but that, to prevent any accident, lie would himself go with him, and speak to one of the beadles. Accordingly, they went into court next morning, and, through the land lord's interest with the officers of the court, , the gentleman was shown to a seat on the bench. Presently after, the trial began. IWhile the evidence was proceeding against him, the prisoner had remained with his eyes fixed on the ground, seemingly very much depressed; till on being' called on fur his defense, he looked up, and seeing the stranger, he suddenly fainted. This excited some surprise, and it seemed, at first, like a trick to gain time. As soon as he came to himself, being asked by the judge the cause of his behavior, ho said: "Oh, my lord, I see a person who can save my life; that gentleman," pointing to the stranger, "can prove I am innocent, might I only have leave to put a few questions to him." The eyes of the whole court were now turned upon the gentleman, who said he felt in a very awkward siteation to be called up on, as ho did not remember ever to have seen the man before, but that he would an swer any question that was asked him. "Well, then," said the man, "don't you remember landing at Rtver at such a time?" To this the gentleman answered that hn had landed at Dover not long before, but that he could not tell whether it was on the day ho mentioned or not. "Well," said he, "but don't you recollect that a person in a blue jacket and trousers carried your trunk to the inn?" To this he answered that of course some person had carried his trunk for him; but that he did not know what dre-s he wore. "But," said the prisoner, "don't you re member that the person who went with you from the boat told you a story of his being in the service, that he thought himself an ill-used man, and that be showed you a scar he bad on one side of the forehead?" During this last question the countenance of the stranger underwent a considerable change. He said he did recollect such a. circumstance, and on the man's putting his hair aside and showing the scar, be became quite sure that be saw the same person. • A buzz of satisfaction now ran through the court; fur the day on which, according to the prisoner's account, the gentleman had met with him at Dover, was thesameon which 5e was charged with the robbery in a dis tant part of. the country. The stranger, however, could not be certain of the time, but said that be sometimes made a memo randum of dates in his pocket-book, and might possibly have done so on this occa sion. On ,turning, to his pocket-book he found a memorandum of the time he landed, which corresponded with the prisoner's as sert io n. This being the only circumstance necessary to prove the alibi, the prisoner was immediately acquitted, amidst the ap 7 plause and congratulations of the whole court. Within less than a month after this, the g'entleman whc; came to the inn atttend ed by a servant in livery, be servant who followed hiin, and "the Aris,One . r who bad bee& lieciiiiiteOr'erWalrthree lit-Ougbthick [WHOLE NUMBER.I.,RI..- together to the same jail for itibblifg the alai!! It turned out that this clever defease at the trial was a scheme skilfully arranged. by the thief's confederates to obtain the re lease of their accomplice: • A Moxrcr's WARN( BAWL—Buckland, in his "Curiosities of Natural History," relites the following story of a pet monkey: "A great treat to this would-be kitaben maid was to have a large bowl of warm water given him. Ile would first• of all cunningly test the temperature 'with his hand, and then gradually step into the bath, first one foot and then the other, fir!ally,com pletely sitting down in it. Comfortably placed, he would then take the sOzip, in , his bands or feet, as the case might be, Wad rub himself all over. having made,a'diendful mess on the table, and finding the Water lie coming cold, the next part of the play Wits to get out and run quickly to the fire, where his coat soon became dry. If , anybody laughed at him during this performanceile would chatter and grin at them,- an& fre quently even splash water out of 'the bath towards and sometiales over them. There was a story told of this pattern of cleanli ness is animals, fur the truth of which,' cannot vouch, but it is, that Jacko one.'dey nearly committed suicide in a most extraor dinary way, namely, by boiling „ hirrisilf to death. The large kitchen kettle witii left on the fire to boil for ten; after a Vale' Jgeto jumped up and took the lid •off,' - furidigg'it becoming warm, he got •in and 'eafitovin with his head only appearing abWe'llie water. This was all very mitafortible some time, but the water heated. 'by flames beneath, began to' get .potoiiito raised his body a little, but 'fitling l it cold immediately sat down lblehe continued for some - time; ' never ; , hayjag, or rather being able to sum np,thetnnlanglltvin face the cold air. The consequence..was that the poor little wretch was nearly boiled to death, and if it had not been, for the timely Interferencp,:of by-stander. who took his parboiled carcass out by main force —fur ho never would have got out of• his own accord—he would have become a mar tyr to his own want of pluck and firmness of action." /311IORTALS as Acc tnssr .— Heroes, 're marks a writer in the Dublin University Magazine, have lived since Agdnrmnon, and been known, too, even in modern dare, who have gained little. by their heroisdi. The reason is obvious; they' have ',anted it divine poet—they had nob Ody to make thins immortal. Europe hass - beim crannied With them for the last hundred yours. - Our . awn armies and navies could reckon them by the score. They were named in' •a dispitch, and died. Ono or two of them fixtoda.-I.)ard. There was amber for Kemperfeldt,,forlslei , son, for Sir John Moore, for the Six Hunt). red, for, some few beside. Where will Liao rest be when the present beconies.the A past, when news becomes renown, when the talc grains become history? So far att,mtudgitag, they will sink into the strata mitlthich futu rity will be raised, affording stabllityiand permanence to the foundations of aovjetz, which will but rest upon: them, f dd crush them down. We have dardatkar John Moore. Look at his case—nevertmo anything less probable than that his ill luck should have been his passpoqtolame t i had fought as other generals had—,ho had had his success as well as his reversm,. t attd had just kept his head above water before the advancing forces of &mit. On the Walls of Coronae he met hie fate; and might-haw? lain there, as hundreds of others did, in an unrecorded grave, to this boor and to future ages, had not an ordinary, unnoticed Irish parson, from a remote' county purist), and from amid common prosaic pursuits, caught a glance in Lie imagination of lifeless warrior, as he was hurried to a Liastx grave in the silence of the night' iiithiti'lhe sound of the advancing enemy's guns.— That look was enough—the picturei was taken, with its full significance of into the heart of the poet; and when it re appeared, it was found to have beinencrst ed with amber, thereafter' never anorerm pass away. It is true, little .cetemottymns observed at that burial— . „ nNot a drum was heard, nor a funeral nopr.7., Brit the lyre was struct; and the echoes went forth to the ends of the . earth;' and so Sir John Moire passed by the Isliirow ohannel of those few hasty and careless stanzas, from the shores of oblivion—where he would have wandered till dootatidajyytth thousands of brave but unricord6dipmradet, to those Isles of the Blest, wherein - the fa vorite heroes of all ages have-pitehedAtielr tents and exalted their standard. . lia:s.pd A GOOD WORD POP.• TRIO -131tatitt—trIllb American Agriculturist takes-up thesustitil in defence of the despised skunk, and gives him - s ioairiatice." Our totemporary • says: Ail '•scithmer long' Nb roams pitu---pastures at :iiight;ipieking beetles and grubs, .poking wit/lA:Romans, potato hills wbere-reear worms are at irerk• He is after the grubs, not the tubers., takespossesion of the apartinents of,lBll woodchuck, who has quartered hiinserfealid family upon your clover Sehlor gardest.taidd makes short work with all the diatusatt rangements of that unmitigated nussantils.— With this white-backed sentinel arountrY, can raise clover in peace, and 'the ybbng turnips will flourish. Your -beanscwill,ziot be prematurely snapped, and your garden, sauce will be free from other vermin. The most careless observatiob'of his its ebows that he lives almoseetelnliividi upon insects. While you sleep -be la:bully doing your work, helping, to destrayowar enemies. In any fair acne* k4nt,wit4 him Ale balance must be stractlebis Tater. The. 1 / 4 1. often find friends inidetotterletiost wirromising aPPearateelOitidladil abused wee •are Due usfrequeatlyoktetbNiefacion" of society. r. CM
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers