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BY JAS. CLARK.
Can the absent he Forgotten /
Mr. Henry C. Watson makes the following
graceful stanzas, (written for music,) the lead•
ing article of the last number of his interest
in: weekly, ,‘ The Ameriean Musical Times•"
They almost sing themselves.
Can the absent be forgotten 1
Can their memories ever die 7
Were they loved, to he remembered
As a shadow on the sky 1
Can the early ties that bound us,
Like to morning dreams depart?
Forbid it heav'n, for then will cease
All truthfulness of heart.
Can the a bstnt be forgotten,
Though their Pikuce we regret I
No Lethe springs from this fair earthy
By which we Carl forget.
There 1, something in the memory
Of those we've loved and lost,
Upholds love's bark, o'er Time's vast sea,
However Tempest tort.
Can the absent be forgotten?
Can the lips that we have kissed—
The hands that we have pressed in ours,
fle lost, and not be mised 1
Can the heart that throbb'd to our heart's
The check that sought our breast, [throb,
A, the swallow, wearied from afar,
Seeks its own chosen nest.
Can all those be forgotten—
As a foot-print on the sand,
The dew upon the hawthorn leaf,
We brush off with our hand
Oh! no, there is a faith in love,
Whose impulses are pure,
That like th' eternal mountains, Clod
Created to endure!
THE IDEAL OF A TRUE LIFE,
BY ITORACE GREELY.
There is even on this side of the grave,
a haven where the storms of life break
not, or are felt but in gentle undulations
of the unrippled end mirroring waters
—an oasis, not in the desert but beyond
it—a rest, profound and blissful as that
of a soldier returned forever from the
dangers, the hardships, the turmoil of
war, to the bosom of thut dear domes
tic circle, whose blessings he never pri
zed at half their worth till he lost them.
This haven, this oasis, this rest, is a
serene and hale old age. The tired trav
eller has abandoned the dusty, crowded
and jostling highwnys of life, for one of
its shadiest and noted by-lanes. The
din of traffic and worldly strife has no
longer magic for his ear—the myriad
footfall of the city's stony walks--is but
noise or nothing to him now. He has
run his race of toil and traffic, or nm
hition. His day's work is accomplish
ed, and he has come to enjoy tranquil
and unembarrassed, the splendor of the
sunset, the milder glories of late even
ing. Ask not whether he has or has
not been successful, according to the
vulgar standard of success. What mat
ters it now whether the multitude has
drugged his chariot, rending the air
with idolizing acclamation, or howled
like wolves on his track, as he fled by
night from the fury of those he has tvas
ted his vigor to serve. What avails it
that broad lands have rewarded his toil,
or that all has, at the last moment, been
stricken from his grasp 1 Ask not whe
ther he brings into retirement the wealth
of the Indies, or the poverty of a bank
rupt—whether his couch be of down or
rushcs—his dwelling a hut or a mansion.
He has lived to little purposes, indeed,
if he has not long since realized that
wealth and renown are not the true ends
of creation, nor their absence conclu
sive proofs of ill-fortune. Whoever
seeks to know if his career has been
prosperous and brightening from its out
set to its close— if the evening of his
days are genial and blissful—should
nut ask for broad sores or towering edi
fices, or laden coffers. Perverted old
age may grasp these with the unyield
ing clutch of insanity, they add to his
cares and anxieties, not to his enjoy
ment. Ask rather—has he mastered
and harmonized his erring passions ?
Has he lived a True Life.
A true life! of how many lives does
each hour knell the conclusion! The
poor child of shame and sln and crime,
who terminates her earthly being in the
clontled,morning of her scarce budded,
yet blighted existence—the desperate
felon whose blood was shed by the com
munity, as the dread penalty of its vio
lated law—the miserable debauchee,
who totters down to his loathsome grave
in his springtime of his years, hut in
the fulness of festering iniquities—
these, the world valiantly affirms, have
not lived true lives! Fearless and righ
teous world! how profound, how dis
criminating are thy judgments! But
the base idotator of self, who devotes
all his energies, his moments, and his
thoughts to schemes which begin and
end in personal advantage—the grasper
of gold and land and tenements--the
devotee of pleasure—the man of igno
ble and sinister ambition—the woman
of frivolity, extravagance and fashion—
the idler, the gambler, voluptuary—on
all these and their myriad compeers,
while born on the crest of the advancing
billow, how gentle is the reproof, how
,charitable the judgment of the world.
Nay, is not even our dread Christianity,
which picks its ways so daintily►, can-
tiously and inoffensively—which re
gards with gentle rebuke, and is regard
ed with amiable toleration, by some of
the foremost vices of the times ; is it
not too olten oblivious in its paramount
duty to teach men how• to live worthily
and nobly l Are there not thousands
to whom its inculcations, so far as du
ties to man are concerned, are substan
tially negative in their character 1 who
are fortified by its teachings in the be
lief that to do good is n casualty, and
frame of being who are taught by it to
feed the hungry, clothe the naked, when
they force themselves upon the charity
of portly affluence, but as an irksome
duty for which they should be reward
ed, rather than a blessed privilege, for
which they should be profoundly grate
ful l Of the millions now weekly lis
tening to the ministration of the Chris
tian pulpit, how many are clearly and
vividly impressed with the great truth,
that each in his own sphere should live
for mankind, as Christ died for the re
demption, instruction, exaltation of the
race—and, that the power to do this in
hia proper sphere abides equally with
the humblest as the highest 1 How
many centuries more will be required
to teach, even the religious world, so
called, the full meaning of the term
I Christian 1
A true life must be simple in all its
elements. Animated by one grand and
enobling impulse, all lesser aspirations
find their proper places in harmonious
subservience. Simplicity in taste, in
appetite, in habits of life, with a corres
ponding indifference to worldly honors
and aggrandizements, is the natural re
sult of a predominance of a divine and
unselfish idea. Under the guidance of
such a sentiment, Virtue is not an effort,
but a law of nature, like gravitation.—
It is Vice alone that seems unaccount
able, monstrous, well nigh miraculous.
Purity is felt to be ns necessary to the
mind, as health to the body, and its ab
sence alike the inevitable source of pain.
A true life must be calm. A life im
perfectly directed, is made wretched
through distraction. We give up our
youth to excitement, and wonder that
decrept old age steals on us so soon.—
We wear out our energies for gold or
fame, and then wonder alike at the cost
and worthlessness of the meed. "Is
not the life more than meat I"—Aye,
truly ! but how few practically, consis
tently, so regard it! And little as it is
regarded by the imperfectly virtuous,
bow much less by the vicious and the
worldling I What a chaos of struggling
emotions is exhibited by the lives of
the multitude"! How like to the wars of
the infuriated nnimalcula in a magnifi
cent drop of water,
is the strife con
stantly waged in each little mind! How
sloth is jostled by gluttony, and pride
wrestled by avarice, and ostentation
bearded by meanness ! The soul that
is not large enough for the indwelling
of virtue, affords lodgement and scope.
for a hundred vices. But their wnrfare
cannot be indulged in with impunity.--
Agitation and wretchedness are the
inevitable consequences, in the midst of
which the flame of life burns flaringly,
and swiftly to its close.
A true life must be genial and joyous.
Tell me not, pale anchorite, of your
ceaseless vigils, your fastings, your
seourgings. These are fit offerings to
Moloch, not to our Father. The man
who is not happy in the path he has cho
sen may be very sure lie has chosen
amiss, or he is self-deceived. " I love
God and little children," says a German
poet. The good are ever attracted and
mode happier by the presence of the
' innocent and lovely. And he who finds
his religion adverse to, or a restraint
upon, the truly innocent pleasures and
gayities of life an that the latter do not
interfere with and jar upon its more
sublime objects, may well doubt whe
ther lie has indeed " learned Jesus."
The Preacher and Gambler,
A SCENE ON BOARD A SOUTH-WEST.
ERN STEAMER.
BY J. H. GREEN, R. G.
Persons of those two antagonistic
portions of society are frequently thrown
into intimate fellowship and association
with each other, especially while trav
elling on the steamers of the Southern
and Western waters;
Some years since, a number of gam
blers, with two or three clergymen, hap
pened to be among the passengers on
board of a steamboat bound from Cin
cinnati to New Orleans. The company
on board was numerous; but at some
thing uncoMmon and extraordinary,
there was little or no gambling practi
ced by the passengers on the trip dawn
ward.
Several days had passed in this way,
when a gambler, a wild, reckless, dare
devil sort of a character, began to grow
impatient of the tedium of the voyage,
and anxious for a chance of making his
passage money by victimizing some of
HUNTINGDON, PA., TUESDAY, APRIL 10, 1849.
the "green ones" in the crowd. Going
tip to one of the clergymen alluded to,
(whom he was not aware was of that
profession,) a smooth faced, good look
ing, affable, youngish man ; he slapped
him on the back, and somewhat famil
iarly accosted him:
"Say, stranger! dull music 'board, I
reckon ! Come, take a drink, and let's
have a little life 'anongst us!"
" Thank you my friend, I'm a teeto
taller, and never drink."
o-h !—you are, eh! Let's have a
hand at cards then."
" There I'm at fault again. Ido not
know one card from another, and can't
play." . . ... .
. .
. 1 Scissors !—I never see the like !
Here, young man, let me show you how."
" I'd rather not, sir, if you please !"
" Brimstone blazes !—can't we get up
some little bit of deviltry or 'nother ?
I'm sick on't pokin"round in this 'ere
way. Wonder if we can't get some
"old boss" to give us a preach That
coon over there, with a white necker•
chief, looks like one o' them gospel shop
men. 'Spose we ax him to give us a
sarmon I'd like to hear one, by jingo !"
" That gentleman, sir, I presume to
be a preacher, and it's quite likely he'll
accommodate you."
" You knows him don't you I Just
git him to give us a snorting sarnunt !
I'll hold his hat !"
"1 will ask him," replied the clergy
man. He crossed over to his friend of
the white cravat, and stated the wish of
the gambler. Returning, however, he
remarked that the preacher declined
lecturing till a more convenient season.
" The devil he does ! Well, I'm bound
to have fun somehow or 'nether. Can't
you spout a bit, my young sapling 1—
Spose' you try it on, any how."
"My friend, if I should preach, I
should try to give you some uneasiness."
"Then you are just the man for me.
Git up here and gin us a sprinkle of
brimstone; stir up these old ironsides
on board, give 'em an extra lick, and
come the camp meeting touch ; will ye 1
Here's nn old chap here, who's got a
hymn book, and I can sing first rate
when I get a going, if the lines are giv
en out ; and mind ye, neighbor, give us
a jam-up prayer; blow and strike out
as loud as ye can, and make 'em
that a pack of well grown prairie wolves
are coming, with a smart handful of
thunder and lightnin', and a few shovels
full of young airthquake. We'll have
a trifle of sport then, won't we 1 2 '
The gambler then helped the preach
er to arrange for the sermon ; borrowed
the hymn book, and sat down with an
expression of mock seriousness in his
countenance.
By this time a crowd had gathered
round to witness the proceedings, won
dering what would be the upshot of the
business. The preacher smoothed his
face, selected a hymn, and then lifted
up his hands and eyes in the attitude of
prayer. Waxing warmer and warmer
as he proceeded. he appealed to God, in
the most spirit stirring and solemn man
ner ; he alluded to the gambler in a very
pointed manner, and prayed for his sal
vation from the ruin to which he was so
recklessly tending. Such was the
force of his appeal, that a burning ar
row seemed speedily sent to the gam
bler's soul. The prayer was followed
by nn excellent sermon by the young
clergyman, who afterwards said that he
never felt more impressed in his life
with the awful responsibility of his mis
sion, or felt a fuller inspiration from on
High to proclaim the wrath to come to
dying sinners.
The gambler .‘ squirmed" under the
gospel truth ; yet uneasy as he was, he
contrived to sit the sermon out ; but he
couldn't wait to participate in singing
the closing hymn.
Shortly after all was over, and going
up to the clergyman, he said—
•
•" I say, friend, you are a preacher,
aint you 1"
" Yes my friend, I have the honor to
be en unworthy ambassador of Christ,
and hope to be made the means of con
verting many souls to God."
" Well, I thought as much ! I tell
you, I never had the sand so knocked
from under me before in my life! If you
preaelvin that way, there won't be any
of us gamblers left, I tell you. But I
suppose it's all right; my good mother
used to pray, and I couldn't help think
ing of her when you cut me all up in
little pieces, and put my singing pipes
out of tune. I'd ha' giv fifty dollars to
have that ero saddle put on another
horse."
I suppose it is needless to say that the
gambler required no further preaching
on that passage ; his own conduct, and
that of his confederates, was such es to
be a matter of no animadversion on the
part of the clergymen and passengers,
while they pursued their Voyage.—
Knickerbbektr.
DEATH OF HENRY CLAY.
A LEGEND OF BUENA VISTA
BY GEORGE LIPPARD
It was near the setting of the sun,
when the man of Palo Alto, Resaca de
la Palma, and Monterey, saw the clouds
come down on the last charge of Buena
Vista, that a scence, worthy of the days
of Washington, closed the day in glo
ry.
Do you behold that dark ravine, deep
sunken between these precipitous bankc
Here no sunlight comes, for these walls
of rock wrap the pass in eternal twi
light.— Withered trees grow between
the masses of granite, and scattered
stones make the bed of the ravine un
certain and difficult for the tread.
Hark ! That cry, that rush like a
mountain torrent ; bursting its barriers,
and quick as the lightning flashes from
darkness, the dismal ravine is bathed in
red battle light. Front its northern ex
tremity, a confused band of Mexicans,
an army in itself come yelling along the
pass, treading one another down as they
fly, their banners, spears, horses and
men, tossed together in inextricable con
fusion.
By thousands they rush into the
shadows of the pass, their dark faces
redened by the sheeted blaze of ITIUS•
quetry. The caverns of the ravine
send back the roar of the panic, and
the grey rocks are washed by their blood.
ifUt the little band who pursues this
army ! Who are they 1 You m y see in
their firm heroic ranks, the volunteer
costume of Illinois and Kentucky. At
their head, urging his men with shouts,
rides the gallant M'Kee, by his side
young Henry Clay, that broad forehead,
which reminds you of his father, bath
ed in the glare as his sword quivers on
high ere it falls to kill.—There too, a
wild figure, red with his own blond and
the blood of Mexican foes, his uniform
rent in tatters, his arm bared to the
shoulder, striking terrible blows with
his good sword—Hnrdin of Illinois,
come gallantly forward.
This small, but iron band, hurls the
Mexicans from the heights into the ra
vine, and follow up the chase, far down
into the eternal twilight of that moun
tain pass.
Look! As their musquetry streams
its steady blaze, you would think that
one ceaseless sheet of lightning bathed
these rocks in flame!
Over the Mexicans, man and horse,
hurled back in mad disorder, the Amer
icans dash on their way, never heeding
the overwhelming number of their foes
never heeding the palpitating forms be
neath their feet, with bayonet and rifle,
and sword, they press steadily on, their
well known banner streaming evermore
overhead.
The howl of the dying war-horse—
hark ! Does it not chill your blood to
hear itl The bubbling cry of the
wounded man, with his horse's hoof
upon his mouth, trampling his face into
a hideous wreck—does it not sicken your
soul to hear it 1
A hundred yards or more, into the
pass the Americans have penetrated,
when suddenly a young Mexican, rush
ing back upon their ranks, seizes the
fallen Hag of Anahuac, and dashes to
his death!
To see him, young and beardless, a
very boy, rush with his country's flag,
with his bared breast, upon that line of
sharp steel—it was a sight to stir cow•
ards into manhood, and it shot into the
Mexican hearts like an electric flame.
Even in their panic stricken disorder,
they turned ; by hundreds they gras
ped their arms, and rolled in one long
wave of lance and bayonet, upon the toe.
Woe to the brave men of Illinois and
Kentucky now ! Locked in that deadly
pass, a wall of infuriated Mexicans be
tween them and that wall of rocks—
above their heads, through every aper
ature among the cliffs, the blaze of mus
quets pouring a shower of bullets in
their faces—wherever they turned, the
long and deadly lance poised at their
throats—it was a moment to think once
of home and die!
Those who survived that fearful mo
ment, tell with shuddering triumph of
the deeds of the three heroes—Mliee,
Hardin and Clay.
Mice, you see him yonder, with his
shattered sword dripping blood, he en
deavors to ward off the aim of those
deadly lances, and fights on his knees
when he can stand no longer, and the
combatants close over him and you see
him no more.
Hardin, rose from a heap of slaught
ered foes, his face streaming from its
hideous lance wounds, and waved a Mex
ican flag, in triumph, as his life blood
gushed in a torrent over his muscular
form. That instant, the full light of
battle was upon his mangled face. Then
flinging the captured flag to a brother
(..
iio4o),TvtrttJA:'.
soldier, he shouted—" Give it to her as
a memorial of Buena Vista ! My wife!"
It was his last word. Upon his hewed
breast, the fury of ten lances rushed,
and the horses' hoofs trampled him into
the heap of dead.
But most sad and yet glorious of all
was, to see the death of the second Hen-
CLAY ! YOU should have seen him
with his back against yonder •oek, hie
sword grasped firmly. as the conscious
ness that he bore a name that must not
die ingloriously, seemed to fill his every
vein, and dart a deadly fire from his
eyes ! . . .
At that moment he looked like the old
man.
For his brow, high and retreating,
with the blood clotted hair waving back
from its out lire, *as swollen in every
vein, as though his soul shone frets it,
ere she fled for ever. Lips set, brows
knit, hand firm—a circle of hie men
fighting round him—be dashed into the
Mexicans until his sword was wet, his
arm weary with blood.
At last, with his thigh splintered by
a ball, he gathered his broad form to its
full height, and fell. His face ashy with
intense agony, he bade his comrades to
leave him there to die. That rayless
should be the bed of his glory.
But gathering round him, a guard of
breasts and steel—while two of their
number bore him tenderly along—these
men of Kentucky fought round their
fallen hero, and as retreating step by
step, they launched their swords and
bayonets into the faces of the foe, they
said with every blow—" Her aT CLAY I"
It was wonderful to see how that name
nerved their arms, and called a smile to
the face of the dying hero. How it
would have made the heart of the old
man of Ashland throb, to have heard
his name, yelling as a battle cry, down
the shadows of that lonely pass!
Along the ravine, and up this narrow
path ! The Hero bleeds as they bear
him on, and tracks the way with his
blood. Faster and thicker the Maxi
cans swarm—they see the circle around
the fallen man, even see his pale fare,
uplifted as a smile crosses its fading
lineaments, and like a pack of wolves
scenting the frozen traveller at the dead
of night, they come howling up the
rocks, and charge the devoted band with
one dense mess of bayonets.
.•
Up and on ! The light shines youder,
on the topmost rocks of the ravine. It
is the light of the setting sun. Old
Taylor's eye is upon that rock, and
there we will fight our way, end die in
the old man's sight
It was a murderous way, that path up
the steep bank of the ravine ! Littered
a ith dead, slippery with blood, it grew
blacker every moment with swarming
Aleticamt, and the defenders of the
wounded hero fell one by one, into the
chasm yawning all around.
At last they reach the light, the
swords and bayonets glitter in sight of
the contending armies, and the bloody
contest roars towards the topmost rock.
Then it was, that gathering up his
dying frame—armed with supernatu
ral vigor—young Clay started from the
arms of his supporters, and stood with
out stretched hands, in the light of the
setting sun. It was a glorious eight
which he saw there, amid the rolling
battle clouds g Santa Anna's formidable
array hurled back into ravine and gorge
by Taylor's little band. But a more
alorions thing it was to see that dying
man, standing for the last time, in the
light of that sun, which never shall
rise for him again !
" Leave me'!" he shrieked as he fell
back on the sod—"l must die and 1 will
die here! Peril your livus no longer
for me! ... tio! There is work for you
yonder!"
The Mexicans crowding on hungry
for slaughter. Even as he spoke, their
bayonets, glistened by hundreds, were
levelled at the throats of the devoted
band. By .he mere force of their over
whelming numbers, they crushed them
back from the side of the dying Clay.
One only lingered ; a brave man, who
had known the chivalric Soldier, and
loved him long; he stood there, and
covered atilt, was with blood, heard
these last words :
"Tell my father how I died, and give
him these pistols !"
Lifting his ashy face into light, he
turned his eyes, upon his comrades
fnce—placed the pistols in his hand—
and fell bock to his death.
That comrade, with the pistols in his
grasp; fought his way to the topmost
rock of the path, and only once looked
back. He sawn quivering form, cano-
pied by ba)otiets—he saw those out
stretched hands grappeling with points
of stell—he saw a pale face lifted once
in the light, and then darkness rushed
upon the life of the 3 , 4ating HENRY CLAY.
Coirrs•rston.;—Tise.tear of repentance
brings its ow•n relief.: .•
VOL, XIV, NO, 18
Untioi.
SUGAR CURIN• Os BUTTIIIR.—Pormens
who put up keg butter for their own use
or for a distant market, usually salt
their butter very high.—This . high salt
ing necessarily detracts from its quali
ty, injures its ready sale, and reduce■
its pries. If we sac modify thie excess
of salt by using more palateable sub
stances, of equal efficacy, as pressria
tives, it will be an irnprevernent. Chem
ists tell us that sugar is one of these
substances; and experience gives us
the same information. Who is not fa
miliar with sugar cured hams I If pork
can be cured with sugar, why may not
butter be so preserved also 1 is a *sin
:non-sense inquiry. Experience has
shown that it may. Dr. James Ander
son, the celebrated agriculturist, (whose
treaties en the management of the dai
ry, particularly with reepeet to the ma
king and curing of butter, is still the
highest and best authority on the sub•
ject,) found, for some years trial of it,
that the follewiag named oorepositien—
the properties of whioh we believe were
diseovered by his amiable lady—were
far preferable to gall alone, as it not on
ly preserves the butter more effisotually
from all tatat and rancidity, but makes
it lock better and sweeter, richer, and
more marrowy, thin portions of the
same butter cured with 'mason salt.
Costposiriont—T.oko of sugar ono
part, of nitre one part, tad of the lest
Spanish great salt (or rock salt) two
parts. Beat the whole iato a !a• pow
d•r, mix thew well together, aid put
them up for use.
The Doctor sorstinues :—" Of this
composition one ounce should be put to
every sixteen ounces of butter ; mix.
this salt thoroughly with the bi.tter as
soon as it has been freed from the milk,
and pat it without lolls of time, down
into the vessel prepared to receive it,
pressing it so close as te leave no air
holes or any kind of egvities within it.
Smooth the surface, sad if you expect
it will be a day or two before you can
add more, cover it up close with a piece
of clean linen, ■nd above that a piece of
Netted parchment, or for want of that,
five linen that has been dipped in melt.
ed butter, exactly fitted to the edge of
the vessel ell ground, so as te exclude
the air as much as possible, without the
assistance of any watery brief ; when
more butter is to be added, thee* cover
ings are to be taken off, and the butter
applied &roe above the forager, pressing
it down awl smooth:mg it ais before, and
so on till the, vessel be full. When it
is quite full let the two covers be spread
over it with the greatest care, and let a
little melted butter be poured ill around
the edges, so as to fill every cavity, end
effectually exclude the sir. A little
salt may then be strewn over the whole,
and the cover be fixed down t• remain
elo'e shut till it is opened for use. If
a•l this be earefelly done, the butter
may be kept perfectly sound in this
climate lee many years. How many
years I cannot tell; but I have seen it.
two yea! • old sad i■ every respect am
sweet and es sound as it wee when only
a month old.
It de eeeee s to be remarked ; that but
ter cured in this manner does not taste
well till it has stead at least a fortnight
after being salted; but after that period
has elapsed, it eats with a rich marrowy
taste that no ether butter ever acquires.
and it tastes so little •f @et, that a per
son who has bees accustomed to eat
butter cured with common salt only,
would net imagine it had got one-fourth
pnrt of the salt necessary to preserve it."
It is to be hoped that some of our
farmers, on reading the above will fol
low his directions.—Tl • contpositicn
mentioned is, we have understood, much
used in Goshen, Orange county New
York, a pace (moue for its good but
ter. Great care should be taken to get
the purest salt and sugar. That known
through the country es the "ground
alum" is the beat salt. The sugar
ehmil ' be of the purest white—either
th e loaf or the " fallen loaf."—Farmer
and Mechanic.
Q :7- It is stated that if a horse be shut
up in a pasture whore there is no water
he will at certain times of the day,
Make it a practice to stand in those sit•
tuitions where water is nearest the cur•
face, and thus indicate the best placos
for digging for it.—Those who allege
this to be the fact, say that horses have
the faculty of smelling the water, like
the camel of the African desert, or the
camel of the South American "pars.
pee."
A DELICATE COMPLIMENT.—Washing
ton was sometimes given to pleasantry.
—Journeying east on ens occasion,
attended by two of his aids, he asked
some young ladies, at a hotel where he
breakfasted, how they liked the appear.
ante of his young men. Oao of them
promptly replied, we cannot judge of
the NTAIC is the pre,•ettee of the IrV.