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Oftice of the Star 6c. Banner
COUNTY BUILDINO, ABOVI. TUE OEFICE 01
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THE GARLAND.
With sweetest flowers enricb'd
From various gardens cull'd with care."
EARLY WOO'D AND WON.
Di MRS. ADDY.
"Early wad and early won,
Was never repented under tho sun "
(german Proverb
0! sigh not for the fair young bride,
Gone in her opening bloom
Tar from her kindred, loved and tried,
To glad another home;
Already are the gay brief days
Of girlish triumph done,
And tranquil happiness repays
The early wood and won.
Fear shall invade her peace no more,
Nor sorrow wound the breast;
Hor posing rivalries are o'er.
Her passing doubts at rest;
The glittering haunts of worldly state
Love whispers her to shun,
Since scenes of purer bliss await
The early woo'd and won.
llsra is a young and guileless heart,
Confiding, fond, and warm,
Unsullied by the world's vain tna't,
Unscathed by passions storm:
In °hope deferred" she bath not pined,
'Till Hope's sweet course was rue:
No chains of sad remembrance bind
The early wood and won.
Her smiles and songs have ceased to grace
The halls of festive mirth,
But woman's safest resting place
Is by a true one's.hearth;
Her hours of duty. joy and love
In brightness have begun;
Peace be her portion from above,—
Tux EARLY WOOD •AD WON.
MEMOE311&3130)00o
From tho Olivo Branch
THE :DIAIVIOND
"Wealth! wealth, brother, appears to me
to ho your idol: it seems to occupy your
mind and its efforts." Those words wore
uttered by Caroline Elsington, while tears
chased each other down her cheeks, show
ing but ton plainly, that bitterly she lamen
ted her brother's inordinate love of the gol
den bubble.
.Frederick Eleington stopped pacing the
apartment, and with a look somewhat ire
toned on observing the agony of his sister,
said, "Caroline, I have been as a father to
you,and you have bgan ae dear to my heart as
a child could be. Ilthough for a great
ptati.of my life I have struggled with pov
erty, yet you have never felt it. I have
denied myself of many of the necessaries
of life, in order that you might enjoy its
luxuries. I have given you the means of
cultivatit.g and refining your mind, and
have rejoiced in thiit ing how bountiful
Nature has been to you, both in mind and
person;and when I saw your talents bearing
you aloft, and giving you that standing in
society which even my warm imagination
never dreamed of; when I saw the wealthy
and the proud bow before the magic of your
beauty and talents, I was satisfied. 1 felt
that my fondest wishes were realized—that
every effort was repaid. But Caroline,
you have the means of more fully repaying
it. The dearest friend 1 ever knew, the
son of my benefactor, seeks your hand, and
you, proud, ungrateful girl, refuse it. Such
ingratitude is unparalleled. Show me a
ifase in any point equal to it. 'Tut 'avow
j aible."
i•But, brother," continued Caroline, al
most choked with emotion, "I do not love
Bernard Westerman, and if I marry him 1
feel I should sacrifice my happiness—not to
yours, but your own ambition. I feel that
no sacrifice on my part is too great to make
for you; but Bernard Westerman will never
marry a woman whose heart does dot sanc
tion her choice."
' , He need not know you ever struggle
with your huart; for I feel perfectly satis
fied that you need only know him as I do,
and von will love him."
1 .1 might nut bo tittle to offer to you any
excuse for not yielding ;iny heart to him.
I might find him just what any woman but
myselfwould idolize,but be inaured, Freder
ic,( know my own heart too well to thiA I
could ern'. give Bernard Westerman that
ardent affection which he would desire."
oratewireannes. We . 0 txtr.raenbax e rb&vatituarara se e roadie.
Frederic bit hip lip and hip eye flashed
fire as he said, "tell me, Caroline, did you
ever see a man whom who could lover
Caroline blushed deeply, and looking tim
idly in her brotherN face was almost fright
coned to see his angry look; ho who had
been all gentleness to her. "Ahl" he ex
claimed, while his lip was wreathed into a
smile in which there was no pleasure,"there's
the mystery solved! Why was 1 not infor•
mod of this before, why this clandestine in
tercourse? Is it because I have not deser
ved confidence!"
"But, Frederic," continued Carolineortill
deeply blushing, "there has been no inter
course nor is there anything to sommuni•
I elite. You asked me if 1 ever saw one
whom I could love. Ifover I did, that one
is Albert Wayland."
Frederic curled his lip into a very scorn
ful expression, and taking up his hat, he
cast one more look on hit. unhappy sister,
na he said, "Caroline you have blasted my
fondeat hopes."
Sho sat with her eyes fixed upon the
floor; her grief was too deep for tears, but
her countenance plainly told the agony of
her spirit.
Colonel Elsington, Caroline's father, had
married young, in opposition to the wishes
of his friends. and had been disinherited;
but a maiden aunt, with whom he was a
great favorite, bequeathed him, shortly af
ter, a large amount of property.
Frederic was his eldest son, and early
exhibited the same haughty bearing that
charactei ised his father. He was ten years
older than Caroline, who was only three
years old when their mother died. The
death of Col. Elsington's wife caused a
melancholy to fix him, and Caroline could
scarcely remember seeing her father smile.
When she was about seven years old, be
ing weighed down by pecuniary embarrass
ment h© went into a decline and died.—
Frederick at that time had almost complo•
ted his collegiate coarse, and was to be fit.
ted for the bar. On settling his father's
estate, he found that he had but little more
Ilan enough to complete hie education; and
tho care of maintaining and educating his
sister would devolve on him. He was left
an orphan in the wide world, and all his
affections were concentrated in her. To
render her happy, was apparently the high
est and only wish of his beast. Bernard
Westerman was a classmate of his, and be
fore his father's death often visited him, and
was the first to offer him assistance when
he heard of his misfortunes. His father
was a man of great wealth, and would will
ingly sacriffce all of it to enhance in any
way his son's happiness. He spent a col
lege vacation with Frederic, when Caroline
was very young. He was then delighted
with her playful humor, and laughingly
told Frederic, that if in ten years from then
she was what she then promised to be, he
should like to make her his wife. He did
not see her from that time till she was sev
enteen. ft was in a ball room. He was
leaning against a window in silence when
he raised his e) es and saw his friend Fred
eric Els►ngton approaching him. His atten
tion did not long rest on Frederic, but was
directed to a female who was leaning on
his arm. He looked at her as though ho
seemed to doubt her being of this earth.—
She was rather below a inediuill size, but
looked sweetly dependant on the manly
form which accompanied her. Her coup-
tenance was brilliant and intelligent, and
her deep blue eyes danced in their own
sunny ligl , t. A profusion of dark 'brown
curls fell on the neck of alabaster whiteness
of which a gold chain was the only cover•
ed. Frederic looked exultingly at Bernard
as he introduced her,with a look that seem
ed to say, "is she not all she promised?"
Bernard bowed, but permed fixed by the
power of her beauty, until the ease with
which she addressed him drew him into
conversation, and he was as much delight
ed with the beauty of her mind, as he had
been with her person. He led her off' the
next dance, but when he sought her hand
for the one after, he sighed when she told
him she was engaged. "Then 1 shall not
dance!" he exclaimed.
Caroline blushed and feared she had
made an impression, which was far from
tier object. He seated himself by her
side, and continued the conversation until a
tall gentleman claimed her as his partner.
Bernard fixed his eves upon them to detect
if possible, the appearance of passion exis
ting between them. He noticed that she
hung with a greater degree of earnestness
on the words that fell from his lips, than
from any other. He saw. her cheek suf
fuse with blushes when she saw his dark
eye rest upon her. He turned and saught
Frederic.
"Why have you not told me," he asked
"of the exceeding loveliness of your sister;
or did yolt wish me to enjoy it by supprise?
I tell you Fred, she is the very beau ideal
of my imagination. Her face is perfect,
and her form a Venus: but who is it that
robs me of her company?"
Bernard noticed the color mantle on
Frederic's brow; and his lip curl, ay he said
with an effort at carelessness, "some old
school day friend of horn."
• •
"Mother, do you say yes?" asked Em.
ma Westerman with earnestness, as she
pressed her ruby lips to the faded tint still
beautiful cheek of her mother.
Mrs. Westerman embraced her only
child with fervor, and heaved a deep sign
as he said, "Emma, my child, your mother
has, and,ever will study your highest happt•
nee', and especially would I avoid thwart
ing your affections. My own misery both
G. VTADEINGTOII BOWEN, EAITOR & PROPRIETOR.
g• The liberty to know, to otter, and to argue, freely, is above all other liberties.”—Milmon
in early and after life, should present me
sufficient warning."
Emma raised her head from her moth.
er's shoulder, where it had been reclining,
and as she fixed her eves upon her mother,
said, "Mother, your early history has to me
ever been overshadowed by mystery. W ill
you not make it clear to me?'
"Yes, my child," replied her mother,
"giving you some sketch of my early life,
is what I have long thought of, and if you
will come to me when the sun sets, on the
balcony at the west end of the house, you
may listen to a tale of mingled happinees
and misery of your mother's younger
days."
At the appointed hour, Emma, directed
her steps to the balcony. The sun was just
sinking behind the horizon, and the sky was ,
tinged vii.h the bright tints of an autumnal
evening. She was almost lost in thought ,
when the light footsteps of her mother arou- 1
sod her, and seating herself by her side,she
thus began:
"The erects of my childhood,and the un
wearied assiduity withe'which my brother
anticipated and gratified every wish, are,
not unknown to you, therefore I will say
nothing of them but pass on to my seven
teenth year. At this time I loved—yes,
deeply, madly loved; and the object was
every way worthy the affections of the best
of our sex. He was talented, and possessed
a noble mind, every chord of which beat in
unison with my own. And while I could
not help triumphing in the number of my
conquests, there was but one that ever
touched my heart. My brother was proud
of my accomplishments, and anticipated my
marrying fashionably, and being mistress
of a splendid establishment. Albert Way
land had not wealth, and I think the most
unhappy hour my brother ever know, w as
the one in which he discovered my passion
for him. He set himself to work to eradi
lents it; he knew at that time that your fa.
ther loved me, and the first time I saw him
angry, was when I expressed my inability
to reciprocate the afli.ction. 1 loved my
brother, and his anger so alarmed me that
I rashly promised him that I never would
marry without his consent. I thought
when he found it necessary to my happynets
to marry Wayland, I should obtain at; but
I was mistaken; his ambition and inordi
nate love of wealth supplanted every other
feeling. And I learnt--but too late—that
I hod sacrificed all my hopes of happiness
to it. For weeks and months I labored
with him but in vain. He sternly refused
to release me from my promise, and bade
me banish all thoughts of Wayland. I re
solved to see him—tell him all, and then
bury my love in oblivion, I sent him a note
requesting him to meet me in the arbor at
the foot of the garden. He came—but why
dwell upon that hour? Suffice it to say it
was one of anguish unutterable to me. I
have never seen him since. I heard the
next day that he had sailed for India. I
have never heard from him, and suppose if
ho is living he is there still.
In six months from that time I married
Bernard Westerman, your father. I re
spected and obeyed him as my husband.—
I admired his noble mind and generous dis
position, but 1 could not love him as I ought.
Ho married me because he loved inn,•--and
years elapsed before he found that I was
not equally disinterested. When you were
five years old, some circumstances revealed
to him my early and strong attachment to
Wayland,and the circumstances that forced
my marrigo with him; and from that time
there was a marked difference in his conduct
towards me. He treated me as the mistress
of his mansion, but not as the wife of his
bosom. When my brother died it almost
broke my heart, for I loved him, and his
affection for me supplied in some degree
the want of it in my husband. lie oflored
me no sympathy, but merely remarked that
if it had happened ten years earlier, I should
have been loft to act- my own will. I felt
the injustice that I had done him in giving
him my hand, when another possessed my
heart. I endeavered to compensate him
for my want of affection, by careful and assi
duous attention to all his wants; but he told
me in his last sickness that he thought he
should have lived much longer, could he
never have known that I did not love him.
Thus it seems that the happiness of both
were sacrificed; and far be it from me, my
child, to blast your early hopes as mine
were blasted. I shall willingly entrust your
happiness to Mervin.) Clinton, for I know of
no one better calculated to secure it."
Emma thanked her mother, while the
tears flowed down from her eyes at the reci
tal of her story. "And have you never
heard from Albert Wayland since?" she in
quired.
"No," replied her mother, "and should
have succeeded well in burying all thoughts
of him,had not Mervin() Clinton so forcibly
reminded mo of him. Did .he pobsess his
name, I should certainly think he was his
Every air and expression are so like
him."
"Ile does not hold his father's name,
continued Emma, "but was named for an
uncle of his who wished it, and promised to
bequeath to him his property. And per
haps huts his son. How strange that he
never should have told me his father's name.
"And mother," she added, her countenance
brightening, "he has no mother—and per
haps"—and then as suddenly recollecting
herself ehe paused.
A faint smile passed over Mrs. Wester
man's countenance as she replied, think
it would not affect my happiness to learn
that it was or was not him; for although I
have not ♦et attained the meridian of life,
yet the romance of my disposition is too
far gone to dream-of what I can readily
guess was in-yourrnind when you broko oft
your eop(ersation," es site spoke she un•
locked casket and took out a pair of die.
mond bracelets. "These," she continued,
"betrayed me to your father. They be
longed to the Wayland family; and a neck
lace was with them, and decended to Al
bert. At one time ho entrusted them all
to my keeping, though I never wore any of
them. The style of setting was not then
as fashionable as at the present day. I re
turned the casket containing the whole but
when I entered the arbor the morning after
our parting, I found it there. The first
thought that struck me was that they had
been left, but I saw that the key was in it
I opened it, and found the bracelets and a
note. In it he requested me to keep them,
ifl could consistently with my views of
right; and ifnot, told me to leave them. I
considered and reconsidered it, and finally
concluded that no evil could come of it, but
an unforeseen circumstnnee brought evil
about. I was alone in my room, and had
the casket open before me. A servant en
tered and told me you had fallen from this
balcony; and forgetful of all else, I hastened
tii you and left the box in the situation it was
When I Wa9 called. I feared you was seri
lusty Injured, and remained some time in
he nursery before I though; of the jewels
nd note—when I did I instantly repaired
omy room. But in the meanwhile your
ather had entered, and not knowing the tie.
cident he went into my rooni, nod when I
entered he steed with the note in his hand.
In a moment I felt the color approach and
leave my face,and I stood pale and trembling
before him. I never shell forget the look
ha bent on me as ho said, I was not aware
that I was poosessing myself of so important
asecret or I should not have presumed to
hive read it. From that time he wan an
altered man, nor was I surprised at it, for at
the bottom (limy note, I had expressed my
grief, and upbraided cruel fortune which
had separated us."
!pima had lis:ened in breathless silence,
an heaved a deep sigh as her mother con
chi ed. ed.
"The night dews are fast descending, and
1 fear it will be injurious to both of us to
remain longer exposed," continued her nin.
Cher.
She then took the bracelets end fastened
them on her daughter's arms, and bade her
keep them and wear them, but on no con.
aideration to lose or destroy them.
The next morning, Merville Clinton cal
-1 led, and received Mrs. Westerman's consent
to his union with Emma;—and also to his
presenting her to his father no his intended
bride. His list her's estate was some fifteen
or twenty miles distant. A particular friend
of his was to give a party that evening,
winch he was anxious Emma should attend;
for he wished her to become acquainted in
his circle. After some deliberation she
crerlisled to go, and about sundown arrived
at his father's. She (bend him absent, but
he was expected io return soon. But Mar.
clle was fearful he would not arrive until
alter the hour of the party. Hour after
hour elapsed and he did not come. Emma
was dressed and waiting. At length he
came, and Meivillo apparently with some
exultation presented Emma to him. Ho
took her hand and was giving her a cordial
welcome, when his eyes rested on the brace- '
let, and he suddenly turned pale and stag.
gered. Merville was alarmed, and stepping
forward supported him until assistance could
be procured. He could devise no possible
reason for his sudden sickness, which was
appnreetly violent. He was conveyed to a
couch Where he lay for some time insensi
ble. Emma (tong over him with affection,
bathing his temples and using every effort
to restore him. A servant was despatched
for medical aid. As he recovered he fixed
his eyes on Emma, and said in a lone tone,
"it must be so, the same affectionate way,
the same soft voice." He requested Mer
ville to leave Emma alone with him a few
moments. As Soon as his eon had compli
ed with his request, he took her hand in his
and asked if she knew the origin of her
bracelets. He said he had thought since
his return from India, he should endeavor
to ascertain where Mrs. Westerman resi•
ded, but as he had been here but a few
months, and had been engaged during that
time in procuring a situation, he had not
heard of her, though hardly an hour had
elapsed since ho parted with her, but she
had occupied some portion of his thoughts,
though he was not aware of her being a
widow.. He had married a lady of im
mense fortune who died on thelirth of her
first child. •
• • is
It was a delightful morning in Juncythat
a bridal party assembled in the church of
N—. The mother and the daughter
stood side by aide, each to plight their troth;
and it would have taken a connoisseur to
have detected which was the youngest.—
There was happiness visible in every coun
tenance, but a subdued expression in the
mother, betrayed that she was the eldest in
years and trouble.
CHILDREN IN MINES AND MANU
FACTORIES.
A PAINFUL Etc-runr.L--A resolution was
sometime since passed by the:British Par
liament, for an inquiry as to the condition
of children confined in the mines and man
ulactories. A Commission was according
ly appointed, and their report embodies
many distressing cases. One witness tes
tified that children labor very hard nine
hours it day regularly, sometimes twelve
and sometimos thirteen hours. They stop
two or three minutes to eat, some days they
eat nothing at all and sometimes they es ,
and work together. There are many chil
dren in the mines under 6 years of age.—
Sometimes they are unable to cat in conse
quence of the dust and damp, and badness
of the air. It is often as hot as an oven,
and will melt a candle. The girls go down
in the pits the same as the boys, by.ladders
or baskets, and are beaten the same as the
hove. A good deal of fighting takes place
among them, and much crookedness of
body is produced. They work, in very con
tracted spaces by candle-light, and are es
nosed to shocking accidenta. "I cannot
but think," says one witness, "that many
nights they do not sleep with a whsle skin,
for their backs get cut and bruised with
knocking against the mine, it is so low. It
is wet underfoot; the water oftentimes runs
down.from the root; many lives are lost in
various ways; and many severely injured
by burning; workers knocked up after 50."
'•I cannot much , err," says Mr. Tuffnell,
"in coming to the conclusion, both from
what I saw and the evidence of witnesses
given on oath above, that it must appear to
every impartial judge of the two occupations,
that the hardest labor in the worst room of
the worst conducted factory, is less cruel,
and less demoralising, than the labor of the
best of coal mines."
It is stated that in manufactories,in frame
work knitting, one half,probahly two thirds
of the employed nre young persons between
the ages of 6 and 16, who labour 16 hours
a day. Their health is greatly undermin•
ed, and speedily destroyed. In cotton MIII3,
there are children "from five years old, and
upwards, and their length of labour extends
from five or six o'clock in the morning en•
til eight at night. The observation as to
age and hour applies to the children em
ployed_in pin•malung, which is said to de
velops a most horrifying scene from the cru
el beating which the maters find necessary
to inflict in order to compel the infant to
continue at its labour. As to its effects on
Ithe health and morals of these unfortunates,
we are told that "the children are collected
in rooms varying in size, height, and ven
tilation; the filthy state mid loul,atninsphcre
`the
some of these places is very injurious to
the health of the children--they are filled
to a most unwholesome extent. No educa
tion during the week, and very few go to
Sunday school. I Can only tell you, they
from my own observation of the effect of
the trade as now carried on, I do not hesi
tate to say that it is the cause of utter rain,
temporal and spiritual, to eight out of every
ten children that are employed in it." These
children are incapacitated from working at
this trade at the ago of fourteen or fifteen.
We learn further that the atmosphere
is so heated, that a burning thirst is occa
sioned, and a very distressing sensation pro
duced. On leaving their work-places,
chill is experienced, and a resort is had to
spirits, and thus, drunkeness is provoked.
In calico printing, "children of ages vary
ing from 6 to 9 years, aro employed in a
most deleterious atmosphere from twelve
at noon to twelve ut night. Frequently
these little creatures, when cleaning blocks
on the margin of the brook or reservoir of
water on which Om works are, may be seen
standing up to the calves of their legs in
the water, and this even in the severest
weather, after being kept all day in rooms
heated to a most oppressive degree. The
lace mills, ns appears from the evidence of
Mr. James Bury before the Committee of
the House of Commons, employ children
of both sexes from ei&it years of ago to
fourteen or liken, and that they are often
called to begin their work at twelve o'clock
at night. Subjecting children to obey this
unnatural requisition is attended with the
effects that might be expected. The decay
of their health from this cause is visible in
their countenance, and Mr. Bury, after per
sonal inspection, finds that night-work in
the lace mills is extremely prejudicial to
the morals and health of the popularion."
These are frightful details,and calculated
to arrest the attention and excite the ener
gies of philanthropy. A more degrading or
debasing system of slavery can scarcely
exist in any portion of the globe. However
anxious we may be to see monufnctures
flourish,rind human industry rendered avail.
able, no one, with the proper feeling
,of a
human being, can fail to deplore the exis
tence of such a terrible system, and with
so juvenile a portion of tho human family.
It amounts to little short of incipient murder;
but we nothing.doubt that this exposition
will lead to salutary measures of reform.
LAWNS—THINK OF vnis.—"Vile men
owe . much of their vileness to women of
character who hardly ever scruple to re
ceive them into their society, if the men
are rich, .talented and fashionable, even
though they have boen guilty of ever so
much baseness to other women."
Who said that? It is "true as a hook"—
and truer than a great many books which
are written in these days, and that do not
contain half so much value as is embraced
in the foregoing paragraph. It is astonish
ing to us that ladies, both married and un
married, who, appear to value their charac
teri'and who certainly move with much ton
in society, will receive into their parties and
caress—nay, will not,heaitate to be seen in
public places, arm in arm with men whose ,
characters aro pretty well . understood to be
bad in the worst sense that should be odious
and abominable to a pure female mind. We
have even seen the society of such people
honored and preferred over men of eaem•
plary characters, merely because the latter
could not be called rich or fashionable.—
Such an error as this in the female sex is a
positive ',jury to the cause of sound morolg.
1/POl(o2.ta' JP(i)o 8800.
T,adirit need not wonder at the iniquity
there 19 in the other of x, a long as they do
Rot maltr guilt a d.F.quaLf mg circumstance
agitiest tie•in- They piloted scorn even the
approach or such wick-hes—far wretches
they are, thatt,zh high in effice and as rich
as Cite-+•a--and mid-their presene.e as an
affront eted insult to their Nex. • Let them
do th's, and the guilty would soon fail to the
ignomini“tk; lev.-1 to which their infamous
conduct elooild reduce them. We would
not be trijmo in this matter, but really we
never can see ladies of quality allowing
themselves under any circumstances, in tho
corcpany of men whose chastity is suspect.
ed. without having our owu fears that all is
not iimocent on their own side. A woman,
as wail as a roan, should be known'by the
company she keep&
TYPE STICKERS.
casually mentioned, a day or two
ago, that the newly elected Mayor or-Balti
more was a short time since a journeyman
printer. The instances aro not rare in
which those bred to the profession of prin
ting havo become distinguished and honor
ed.
To say nothing of Franklin, the beacon
light of the craft, we have in our day more
than one instance of :hos honorable distinc
tion. Ismc Hill, the Governor of New
Ila:rrhiro,• was a journeyman printer;
Samuel T. Armstrong, late:Mayor of . this
city, was once - a journeyman printer; Mr.
Ku .pp, the Seiretary cqtate, of Vermont
was a printer. And whet is of more con
sequonce, in the editorial professions, seine
of tit's meat distinguished were regularly
bred in the craft. Our neighbor -Green,
the popular editor of the Morning Post, was
once a ragged little rolh.:r boy. Mr. Hom
er, of the Gazette, was brought up on PICA
and BREWER. We recollect, many years
since ofseeing a tow-headed overgrown boy
in an obscure printing office in Vermont.
That boy is now Mr. Greely, the talented
editor of the New Yorker. „Of equally
obscure origin was the editor of the N. Y.
Spirit of the Times. Mr. Wm. T. Porter.
The first we ever saw of Deacon Weld.
the editor of the New Yea' Sun,and n clev
er writer for various magazines, &c , was
in a printing office at Lowell, when lie was
no higher in grade than a"printer's devil."
The truth is, if a man has genius, the art of
printing will draw it out and set it to work.
Printers, with the same amount of natural
talent, always make the most popular edi
tors, because they imbibe the tact of the
profession. Schooled among "types and
shadows," they have every opportunity of
studying public taste, and of diverting their
minds so as to meet the various readers.—
The discipline of their minds may not be
so severe and rigid as that required for ism
inence in the legal profession; but this is a
peculiarity which the great mass of readers
care nothing about, and it is unfavorable to
the free interchange of mind with mind.
'['net, give us ediLrial tact. In our pro- .
fession it is every thing.—Boston Times.
Cops-cm—We !earn that an application
of machinery, entirely new, is now in pro
gress 01 hemp; established, which will be of
great importance to the %Vest Indies. We
refer to the cleaning of coffee imported in
the husk. It may not be generally known
that the coffee of commerce is the seed of a
pulpy berry, not unlike the cherry. The
process to which it is subjected, before be
ing exparted from the countries in which it
is grown, is simple, but somewhat tedious,
consisting of pulping, washing, and drying
in the sun. It is also capable of being dri
ed in the berry, in which state not only is
the quality- of the seed superior, from the
aroma being better preserved, but it is lees
liable to sour, which is sometimes caused by
the fermenting wash, and it is not subject to
be broken into what the trade call triage,
and otherwise becomes less valuable. From
not having tie means of removing the husk,
however, it has nut been imported in this
state except in small quantities, for those
who know its superior quality. But we are
glad to learn that machinery has been pre
pared fur carrying on this branch of trade
in Greenbank Mills, in addition to the clean
ing of rice. The produce of the first expe
riment in cleaning coffee has been shown us
by Mr- Macfie, from the superior appear
ance of which we are confident that every
West Indian proprietoi will soon be indu
ced to prefer having his coffee cleaned in
this country, and so far ralieve himself of
the often troublesome negligence of the ne
gro population.—Greenock Ado.
SPRCCE y ikEit —The proportion are ton
gallons of water three quarts of molasses,
a teacupful of ginger, the same of allspice,
three ounces and a half of the essence or
spruce, and half a pint of good yeast.' The
hops, ginger, and allspice must be boiled
together till the hops fall to the bottom; the
mo!a-.ses and spruce are disolved in a buck
et full of the liquor, the whole strained into
a cask, and the yeast well stirred in; when
the fermentation cenzes she cask is to be
bunged up.
CENstrs or \lmmo...N.—Returns of the
census from every county iu this State,with
the exception of Saginaw, a very small one,
have been received by, the Marshal. The
entire population of the State is not far from
212,000 inhabitants. !film nuniber nve4 4 ,
nary fur a member of Congress is tot fixed
at a higher number than 60,000, Miclugaa
will consiqp.einly have three ltepre4esita
lives. According to the present nviletmo
she would be entittpd to tour, ati to six
Electoral votes, so great has be .n her in
crease since her adm,sston into the Union.