Cilrallt 'N IBIWPII /IVAN . - i alffla.::._.-... 17 ) 1Y2,0 X3O--.) - Pbo 410 Office of the Star & Banner _ausTv nuicouva, ABOVE THE °mei: OF TalE REGITTER AND RECORDER. I. Th. grin & ItsruntlCAN BAXNEII in pub lished at r ‘vo voLLARB per annum (or Vol urn! of 52 nu nhers.) pa . pthle half -yearly in ad vance: or T‘vo DOLLARS & FIFTY CENTS, if nit paid anti! after the expiration of the . year. N i 3abicription will be received I.r a shorter period than sit months; nor will the paper be dis continued until all arrearages are paid, unless at the option of the Editor. A failure to notify a dia continuanca will be cons;dered a new engagement and the paper forwarded accordingly. 111. An v ItT I cx-rs not exceeding n square will be inserted react; times for $l, and 25 cents for each subs.tquent insertion—the number of in sertion to be 'nuked, or they will be published till forbid and charged accordingly ; longer ones in the same proportion. A reasonable deduction will be made to those who advertise by the year. IV. MI Letters and Communications addressed to the Editor by mail must be post-paid, or they will not be attended to. TDB GARLAND. 7 ..„...A.4- :......,..„.,:......- a ,....,,..., <- I '4 - .- fYr'''' .7 - " ,- ' , ." .- -.. .T,,A!:--, - -_,=7--... -- ' --7 —"With sweetest flowers enrich'd From various gardens cull'd with care." THE BRIDE. II 1r CHARLES Jrrrnarrl Oh, tnke her, but be faithful still, And may the bridal vow Be sacred hold in after years, And warmly breathed as now. Remember, 'tie no common tie, That binds your youthful hearts, 'Tie one that only truth should weave, And only death can part. rho joy of childhood's happy hours, Tho !ionic of riper years, Tho treasured scones of early youth, In sunshine and in tears; The purest hopes her bosom knew, When her young heart was free, All these and more she now resigns, To bravo the world with thee. Her lot in life is fixed with thine, Ita good and ill to share, And well I know 'twill be her pride To sooth each sorrow there: Then take her, and mny fleeting time Make all thy joys increase, And may your days glide swiftly on In happiness and peace. rEAUTIr• AND W. .VT. Ijr MRS. CORNWALL H. WILSON. Beauty eat tracing, with sportive finger, Names on the ocean sand ono day; Watching how long each wave would linger, Ere it has wasted the print away. First hope she sketch'il—the wave just kiss'd it, Then sank to ocean's breast again, As half regretful to have miss'd it, And with the maid let hope remain, Next friendship's name, ho fond yet fleeting, The Indian on the sand enshrined; The wave flowed on—hut soon retreating, No trace of friendship left behind ! Love's then uppeared—`twas deeply graven On that frail page, by Ileabty's hand; The wave returned-3h ! silly maiden, Love's vows are ever writ on sand. IVlren ono 11 ono, each name had perished, Beauty grew wearied of her play; Finding that all most prized and cherished, Some passing wave will sweep away ! raiaa.lll,arsial , wcg. From the Saturday- Evening Post HENRY MILIVIAN. UY ALVILEII lIAS\VILL "The rose is fairest when 'tic building new, And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears; The rose is sweetest wash'd by morning dew, And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears." SCOTT. On the banks of the Delaware, some ten or twenty miles from Philadelphia on the Pennsylvania pile, stands n large white mansion surrounded by extensive and taste ful grounds. To the right of it stands a large cluster of American forest trees, and to the left a fine peach orchard. In front,a beautiful lawn slopes gradually to the river's edge, where it terminates in a terrace, with a Chinese pavilion in the centre, producing a handsome and picturesque effect, as seen by travellers on the river. The occupants of this mansion, at the time our tale commences, consisted of Mr. Drummond, his wife and daughter Emily, and Mr. f'*ix Drummond, a very eccentric gentleman, in his tittv-sixth year, and with al an old bachelor. Beside• these individ uals, there resided, occasionally, a young person, Delay Milman, an orphan, with whose future history,nnd that of Miss Emily we have principally to do. Mr. Drummond was several years the junior of his brother Felix, and had mar ried at an early age. By some fortunate speculations, he cleared a sufficient sum, .in the commencement of his life. to render him, with a moderate jointure of his wife,in dependently rich. Of a suspicious and cau tious habit,lie had accumulated and increas ed that wealth to a great extent: and, at the time our narrative oomniencea, was consid ered by all who knew him, to he a very wealthy man, and received, of course, his full meed of tho world's praise, and admir. alien therefor. Mrs. Drummond,a woman au naturally generous and amiable dispo. mitten, prized less the world, and the world's opinions than did her husband. She thought more of the happiness of the immediate cir cle 'comprising her household than of the empty worldly show which influenced him in all his actions, —conscrrently all who knee' her, admired and esteemed. Mr. Felix (or as he was usually known in the ' Uncle Felix,") had likewise ac quired a moderate fortune by his industry in his yout h;and though it was neither so large, nor so highly valued by him as his brother's wns, yet was he more happy and contented in the enjoyment of it. From a disappoint. ment in his mntrimnninl plans in }out!), he had lived a single life; and on the demise of their parents, with whom he had before re. sided in the city, had accepted the invita tion of his brother to make his home with him and his family. His occupations consisted principally of rending, walking with his niece and taking snuff; and ns his clothes had been cut 20 years before so were they now. An anecdote wns told by the individual who had served him in the capa city of tailor, that because he had ventured to curtail the flowing skirt of his coat, he had been threatened with a dismissal,should the like again occur. Of tho characters and dispositions of the other twopersonnges prom tale, the render w;11 know more anon, and let this slight ' sketch of the past history of Henry Milman - suffice for the present. At the age of fourteen he had been left an orphan, his parents dying within a few weeks of each other, and it was owing to the kindness and protection of Uncle Felix, who loud him educated and placed Oa re spectable profession,that Ile became acquain ted with the other portion of the Drummond family; and such a general favorite was he, and particularly with Mrs. Drummond, that he was considered as almost belonging to the fitmily, and scarcely a Sunday passed without seeing him at their house. The excellent education he had received, and his gentlemanly, unassuming deportment, fitted him as an associate for any society which he chanced to meet there. And Ins handsome and ingenious countenance made him a general object of favor with those who knew him, especially the young ladies. I Affairs continued on in this manner for several years. From a pretty, interesting child, Emily grew up a beautiful girl, ac• comphahed and artless, and, like her moth er, possessed of qualities that endeared her to every heart. Of a middling stature and full form, with light golden hair, and eyes of deepest blue, with a complexion purely white and red, she was indeed beautiful. Her high arched brow, and exquisitely moulded features, bore the stamp or Intel. lect; and the gentle lingering. glance spoke a soul of feeling. .Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye n every gesture dignity and lova. and to consumste all, Greatest of mind. Such 5 -being was Eniily,in her seventeenth spring. It is most likely, that the opinions and re !miens of the family would not have been disturbed, or their general harmony and peace broken up, and rendered discordant, for a time,had it not been for a circumstance which took place, and which rendered the feelings of the young people more suscepti ble of the machinations of the insinuating and insiduous God—Cupid. A pic-nic par ty wet to be held at the mansion, to be fol. lowed by a ball in the evening in honor of Emily's birthday. The day came, and the party were assembled on the lawn, en joying themselves with the eagerness of youth in pursuit of hominess. 'Even Uncle Felix deserted the study, or, rather curiosity shop, and drew forth his best snuff box, walking about cracking his old-fiishioned jokes; calling forth many a hear ty laugh by their ori g inality and wit. Mr. Drummond, too, had fell opportunity of showing his pompous love of self, and gratifying his passions for display. And his wile, ever busy in making all happy and attending to her guests, found herself pleased and de lighted with all around. The night closed in, and the consonance ' of the party was undisturbed. The ball room was lighted up and the music arrived. Henry claimed Emily's hand for the lead, and the first quadrilles was danced. After it was over, the party strolled about the grounds enjoying the balmly softness and sweet fragrance of one of the last eveninos ofspring. Several of the company, inclu ding Henry and Emily, sauntered to the pavilion. The full moon was just rising over the pines of New Jersey, and as it rose above their level, it shed a stream of light like molten silver on the ebbing tide. Emily rose from her seat, and advancing to the front of the pavilion, gazed on the tranquil and beautiful scene before her. A number of small sail-boats were gliding listlessly along with the tide—their white sails scarcely fluttering in the occasional night-breeze. appearing in strong contest with the dark line of trees on the opposite shore.. Emily intimated a wish for a glass of water, and Henry hastened to procure it from a small fountain, which threw its sparkling jet over a marble basin a short distance from the pavilion. While stoo ping, a shriek from the party whom he had left, and a heavy plunge in the water, called him hastily back to lies spot. The railing against which Emily had been leaning was gone. The truth flashed upon his mind, and throwing off his coat ho sprang into the river. A few yards below him, still bat mg on the water, lay the form of Emily— her light dress supporting her on the water. A few vigorous strokes brought him to her side, end grasping her round the waist.. he G. '77.6.13Z1NGT011 BOWEN, EnITOR & PP.OPPZETO.S. ~ The liberty to know, to utter, and to argue, freely, is above all other fiberties."—MELros. Tiouiwzraalwamee IPcao o wwaziodazro aztagPtrazia . se nacho !swam toward the shore. The tide had hurried them out some distance, and ere he reached the shore, he was cx• lhatisted; but collecting his strength,lie made a powerful exertion, and succeeded in gain ing the bank. Meanwhile the party in the paviilion had alarmed the company, and the father,rush ing to the water's edge, franticly. implored those around him to save his daughter,— while the agonized and affrighted mother and guests stood paralysed with fear and horror at the catastrophe. Henry gained the hank, and straggering, yielded his bur den to her friends, and fell to the ground from exhaustion. The accident broke up the party. Un cle Felix ordered Henry to be carried to his own chamber, and put to bed, when he insisted upon sitting up all night with him, and making him drink a large glass of his favorite beverage, gin and water. Emily soon recovered, under judicious treatment, and was carefully attended to. And in the morning they both were sufficiently recov ered to be able to see each other. Mrs. Drummond caught Henry in her arms as ho entered the room, and embracing him with a mother's affection, led him to her (laughter, who, seated in a cushioned chair, sweetly smiled on him as ho took and pres sed her extended hand. As he gazed on her pale, beautiful face, a new emotion fil led his bosom.—lio had never thought of Emily, other than the child of his protector and benefactor; but the accident of the pre vious evening, had opened his eyes as to the true stnte of his feeling toward her.-- lie thought her beautiful before, but now she seemed to out rival her former self in loveliness• lie loved! Mrs. Drummond, perceiving, we suppose, the truth of the old adage, "two is company, three is none," pleaded sonic excuse, and left them to ex press their heart-felt congratulations to each other. . 'Henry,' said Emily, as the door closed on her mother, 'how shall I express the gratitude I owe you. flow shall I repay the kindness of lnst evening?' as she uttered this laet sentence, the tears suffused her eyes, and after a momentary struggle, tad, gently down her cheeks. 'lndeed, Miss Emily, I am more than repaid,' he answered, drawing his chair to her side. 'Each ono of those tears cancels forever the trifling serviee . l have rendered. I am, indeed, too happy in having been the humble instrument." 'You are too generous, Harry!' eh© said, n a low musical tone. 'Nay, how else can I pay all the kind. news your family have shown me. Your approbation of my action is the best, the greatest reward I can claim.' As ha said this, her 'kerchief dropped from her hand to the footstool, on which her small and delicately shaped foot rested. They both inclined to reach it, and as they did so, Henry's lips slightly pressed her classic-brow. Both relinquished their pur• pose; and Emily, recovering herself, cast a timid, but not offended look at him. We know not what expression beamed forth from that eye, bet • the cheek and counte• nonce of Emily instantly colored with its deepest dye. 'Forgive me!' exclaimed he. 'I love you, Emily—dearest Emily. I love you!' 'Henry!' was all that the agitated maiden could reply. Her bead dropped on his Shoulder, and the happy youth stealing his arm round her wrist, pressed her to his ex ulting heart. At this very critical moment the door open• d, and Mr. Drummond entered. A look of mingled surprise and astonishment at the scene before hirn, was depicted in his features. The lovers, however, were so wrapt in their emotions, that they saw him not. Perceiving that he was unnoticed, he secretly withdrew from the room, and left them undisturbed in their happiness. There is something connected with the associations of arm-chairs and lovers' dec larations, that few think of them jointly, without a smile and a sigh for by-gone brurs. An old arm-chair is mostly a family heir loom, and though in their days, it is more generally consigned to the care of the nurse, than to be comfort of the boudoir, yet to me it always presents an object of curiosity and wonderment. How many a tale of love has been whispered by our antiquated forefa thers of the lnstfcentury, in their youth.— And in their old age, how often has the sharp shooting pains oft he gout, made them reflect on what they had been thirty or for ty years before! The agonizing doubts, the half-realized suspicions, and the waver ing confidence in the faith ofothets. Alas! how often—how harshly have they grated on the better and kinder feelings of our na ture, and how often have we buried our selves in its unchanging embraces,to forget, if but for n moment, the sad realities of the present, when compared ,with what had been our expectations of it in pnst hours! But a few minutes elapsed, after the un seen departure of Mr. Drummond, before a servant entered with a message to 'Mr. Milman, requesting his presence in the brary, as soon as he was disengaged.' Hen ry immediately signified his intention of waiting on him, and imprinting a kiss on her rosy lip, left the room. On entering the library, he found Mr. Drummond seated at a stroll table, with a package of papers, and an esctitoir open before him. • He looked up to Henry, as he advanced toward where he was seated, and coldly asked him to 'be seated.' 'Mr. 141ilinen,' ho commenced, (he had always called him Henry previously,) '1 have sent for you, to discharge the debt I conscientiously owo you, for your attentions lo my daughter last evening. And let me say sir, that the action reflects much credi: on y our character. Accept this : then, as a trifling remuneration for the danger you un derwent.' As ho finished, ho extended a note of $5OO to him. 'Sir,' replied Henry, 'there are some ac tions that money will not recompense. This slight service of mine, is such an one.' 'You are a young man, I hero donbt who wishes to enter into business for him self,' continued Mr. Drummond, without heeding his obsei vutions. shall be pleas ed to hear from you whenever an opportu nity oilers; and shall always seo yca with plensui e.' thank you for your kindness, sir; I am poor, but all the wealth you possess, mild not buy the feelings which actuated me last evening.' 'Let me understand you, sir!' said Mr. Drummond, raising his eyes, without mov ing his head, to Henry's. 'Mr. Drummond, I have had the honor of knowing your family since a boy of four teen; nor am I insensible to the kindness I have ever experienced from them. I am now a man; capable of acting and providing for myself. I have grownup from a child, with Bliss Drummond—but until this morn ing. I did not think I entertained a 5-cling higher than friendship for her. I was airs taken.' 'Well, sir,' interrupted his listener; •go ou!' • 'This morning I presumed eo much as to acknowledge my love for herr 'You did, eh? And what have you to support your pretension to my daughter's hand and fortune.' 'An honest name, and a strong, undying love!' 'Very good qualities, for the hero of a novel, 1 must confess;' answered sir. Drum mond, with a slight sneer. 'But the inten ded husband of my daughter, must have more and greater influence in society than these.' 'When you were of my age, err—what had you, but that which you esteem in me., so lightly?' 'Here, Mr. %Imam is your note. But you must think of my daughter as of s heinz far above your rank in society.' And ta king his hat up, and placing the papers in the escricoir, he added. ‘Ferhaps it would be better if you called not to see us again, for the present, at any rate,' and bowing be left the room Henry was left in a state of mind not eas ily to be described. A feeling of contempt for his sordid and avaricious passions, was perhaps partly allayed by the reflection, that he was also Emily's father; and this too, aided him in soothing his own irritated and exc;ted mind. To accept the money he had in ()tiered to him, he was not to do. He resolved to seek Uncle Felix, and state to him what had passed; he rose for that purpose and proceeded to his study. 'Why, how now Henry! What has hap pened with you my boy?' said be, as he en tered hie room—lone would think you had been signing yolir own death warrant.' fear I have sir, in one respect, button certainly,' he answered. He then related the incidents of the morning to him, and hi= interview with Mr. Drummond. During the narration, the snuff box came several times into use. and the large pinches of .black-rappe,' evinced the strong interes2 he took in its details; and once o••twice he had recourse to his 'kerchief. When Henry had concluded, he took off his 0:d-fashioned spectacles, and wiping, re-placed them awl said, 'Henry, I have been thinking myself, this morning on the probabilities of your fallinff in love with the girl, and if she was likely to fall in love with you, I don't see why money should be a hindrance to you.— There is nothing like getting married at once. I will speak to brother about it.— Are you sure she loves you boy?. But she must wait till my return—but don't touch that fowling piece,' and with two or three more injunctions to the like effect, he left the room. Henry had full time for thought,—and taking up a large quarto, he listlessly turn ed over the leaves in deep abstraction. He began to hope, that the reasonings, or rath er the wealth of Uncle Felix, would base its due effect on the mind of his brother.— hi le he was thus arguing with his convic tions and conjectures what would be the pro'iable result of the interview of tbe broth ers, Mrs. Drummond sought her daughter. She was looking anxiously for the return cf Henry, —for she instinctively feared her father would object to a marriage with Hen ry. As her mother entered, she discovered the traces of emotion and anxiety on her countenance. 'Mother!' was all aho could say, as she threw herself,weeping, in her mother's arm. 'My child!' said Mrs. Drummond, tend. erly kissing her. 'What has disturbed you so?' 'He, oves me, mother!' and she told all that had passed between Henry and hermit. 'And do you love him, my dear child!' in quired her mother, in an effectior.ate tone. Emily threw her arm annosd her moth er's neck, and hiding her blushing face in her bosom, scarcely whispering, •I do, in deed dear mother.' 'You have done well, my dear. daughter in telling me; for I fear your father will be angry. But you have my consent and Ides 'Thank you, thlnk you! mother,' and she eagerly kissed ha mother's cheeks. 'And do you think father will he angryr she tim idly asked. fear he will; but hero is Uncle Felix.' And as she spok., he enter ed. 'Listen' he said, 'brother is getting fool ish, go talk to him. The young folks must have their own way in this matter.' And pulling the hell he told the servant to ask Mr. Henry down to the drawing-room. After a few momenta conversation with his niece, and affectionately bidding them to keep their spirits up, he left them with an injunction on Henry not to steal any more For two hours they were left to the un disturbed interchange of feeling and love. It is a singular trait in tho character of lay , ens, that they can talk n whole day without intermission on their future prospects, and present transitory happiness, without their minds being sated, or their imaginations cloyed. Poor frail human "nature! That which is entirely uninteresting to others, is of more import to them than the rise and fall of nations to the world. In those two hours the first affections of the 'happy two' were plighted to each other. The first con fessions of a woman's love is like the first bouquet of spring, a rich and rare present. Happy is he who gains them, and thrice hap py is he who 'wins and wears them.' Uncle Felix on leaving the young people, hastened to join Mr. and Mrs. Drummond in the library, and to 'settle the matter in hand' as he quaintly expressed himself. 'Madam,' said Mr. Drummond, as Unitle Felix 'entered, have made up my mind that the young man must henceforth be a stranger to my house and family.' 'Nay, my dear husband, consider that they are both attached to each other, and'— 'And,' interrupted Uncle Felix, 'they must be married. Come brother,' said he, turning to Mr. Drummond, 'it is no use to talk after that fashion. i shall settle the whole of my property on my adopted eon, and that I trust will remove all scruples on that score, and if not, all interference on our part will be useless for I left them to. gether talking over their future prospects at a rate that will prevent any thing but a taco horse overtaking them.' 'Well, Felix, you have out-genera-IPd me, and as Henry is a worthy young mail I can not now object to it.' 'l'm glad that you have changed your mind, brother,' said Uncle Felix, 'for I wait going to propose to them to run off! But tat us go and see them!' and ho led the way to the setting room. Three months after, a bridal party was collected at the mansion; never was a hap pier one assembled under the face of day, or with brighter auspices. Uncle Felix actu ally danced at the wedding, and cracked more jokes than he had over been known to do before. And it is said that the deacon clams of that happy pair still reside in the 'white house with the Chinese pavilion.' MEDICAL PRECEPTS Health may be as much injured by inter rupted and insufficient sleep, as by luxuri ous indulgence. The debilitated require much more rest than the robust; nothing is so restorative to the nerves as sound and uninterrupted sleep. The studious need a full portion of sleep; which seems to be as necessary a nutriment to the brain, as food is to, the stomach. Our strength and spirits are infinitely more exhausted by the exercise of our men. tat, than by the labour of our corporeal lac. 4 allies; let any person try the effects of ire=' tense application for a few hours, he will soon find how much his body Is fatigued thereby. although ho has not stirred from the chair eat upon. . Those who are candidates for health, must be as circumspect in the tusk they set their mind, as in the exercise they give their bodies. The grand secret seems to be to contrive that the exercise of the mind and that of the body may serve as relaxation to each other. Over exertion and anxiety of mind disturbs digestion infinitely more than any fatigue of the body. The brain demands a much more abundant supply of the ani mal spirits than is required for the excite. meat of mere legs and arms. Those who possess and employ the pow ers of the mind most seldom attain to a great age; see "Brunoud do !'Hygiene des Gens de Lettresa, Paris," Bvo. 181 P; the envy their talents excite, the disappointment they often meet in their expectations of receiving the utmost attentions and respect, which the world has seldom the gratitude to pay them while they live, keep them in a perpetual state of irritation and disquiet, which frets them prematurely to their graves. To rest alivhole day after fatigue of either body or mind, is occasionally extremely beneficial. All-healing sleep soon neutralizes the corroding weight of care, and blunts even the barbed arrow of the marble•hearted fiend, ingratitude. Child of woe, lay thy head on the pillow, instead of thy mouth to the bottle. The loss of our first and best friends, our parents; regret for the past, and anxiety about the future, prevent the enjoyment of the present; and are the cause of those ner vous and bilious disorders which attack most of ns at the commencement of the third pe. nod of life; these precursors of palsy and gout, may generally be traced to disappoint. meats and anxiety of mind. Some cannot sleep if they eat any supper; and certainly, the lighter the meal is the better. Others need not put on their night cap, if they do not first bribe their stomachs to good behaviour, by a certain quantity of bread, and cheese, dm., and go to bed its• mediately after. The best bed is a well stuffed and well ended horse hair mattress, end six inches tcz thick at the head, gradually ditnioiAtaz,s; three; on thi m noollo.r tri I live or six inchem in thichnetet; these thould be tin picked and exposed to the nir once n %ear. An elastic borne hair muttras4 in incnm• parably the most plt.atialit, as well as the most wholesome bc(l. Bed Tunics slu•ald lie thoroughly ventila ted, by leaving both the eindow end the door open every day when the weather is et cold or dump, during which the !Ad • could remit) unmade, cud the dollies ho token nil and spread out for an hour ut least before the bed is made. A fire in the bed room is som e times in dispensable, but not as usually made; it is commonly lighted only just before bed time, and prevents sleep by the noise it makes. A fire should be lighted about three or four hours before, and 5o managed that it may burn entirely out, hall an hour belbro you go to bed; then the air of the room will he'comfortably warmed; and certainly more fit to receive an invalid who has bo:n sitting all day in a ,parlor as hot as an oven, than a damp chamber that is cold as a well. From the Philadelphia North American REMOVALS FROM OFFICE.—WO I.opo among the removals front cffice, which the ins seem to apprehend,und tho oats to elai to, one man in particular will bo spared. He is a postmaster in Maine, near the A roes took line, who, when COI. BARRE tools com mand of the Post Oflico Dcpartnemt, and was sweeping all before him in the shape of reform, addressed him a letter which run in the following vein: "MY DEAR COLONEL: The sound of your broom which is now sweeping the Aegean stables is echoing among these distant hills; village and forest are alike filled with dis may; the birds forsake the woods, the trent.; bling flies to its mother's arms, and even strong men find their joints give way--they shake like Belshazzar a: the visionary kind that wrote his denth•doom. I tremble for my have eleven smell children,and nine of them are girls—it yields mo now three dollars and thirty seven and a half cents a year—thls enables me to bay them sugar-plums, jewsharps, piccantnies,bettides a"thanksgiven' goose. I cast myself on your clemency. Ever faithfully, yours." SHORT BUT Goon.—%V hen a man MIN Inmselite be in un error he does hut toll you in other words, that ho is wiser than he was, A man that do7s the best he 70, does all that he should do. If a man cannot find ease within himself, it is to little purpose to seek it ekowhore. Choose the course of life which is the most excellent, and custom will render it the most delightful. Be always at leisuril to do good; never make business an excuse to decline the offi ces of hurnanity. Defer not charities till denth;lie that loth so, is liberal rather of another man's went.th than of his own. In the morr.init, think what thou host .to do; and at night ipit thYself what thou bast dune. 4; Spend the dayw.e..ll, and thou wilt rejuice at night. Avoid as much as you can 'the company of an vicious persons whatever; fur no vice is alone, anel all are intectiouti. There ate but few who know how to be idle' and innocent. By doing nothing we learn to do ill. A PPETITE9 i c COLD CLIMATE 3..- In the frozen regions of the Not th, the appetito for food, and the power of digestion, are com monly excessive.„ Capt. Cochran, in his account of a joi*,y threugh IlitsAa and Siberian Taitary; . lgiveik:*ituo reroarlcible illustrations of this fact. ' - il4;tnirill ri !chef states that a Yanku!..informed him; that one of their men was accustomed to Colwlime nt home in the spaceof 24 hours,the hind quer. terof a large ox, 20 pounds of fitt,nnd a pro portionate quantity of melted laittiir for his drink. The appearances of the min nut justifying the assertion, the admiral had a mind to try his gormandizing powers, and for this purpose he had a thick porridge of rite boiled down with three pounds of but ter, weighing together 29 m] a l. though the glutton had aheady he eat down to it with the greatest eit:er ness and consumed the whole without Lae ing the spot. Capt. Cochran L.:vs, "f have repeatedly seen a Yatiktit or a Ten , - ouse devour 48 pounds of meet in a day; nrid 1 have seen three of these gluttons con unto a reindeer at one meal." Ile adds-- , • I my 'self have finished a whole fish in a frozen state, that might have weiiihed two or three pounds' and with black biscuit and a glass of rye brandy, have defied either n a ture or art to make a better meal."--11Ied. Jour. A Locofoco orator, who wished to gnm mon some Germans just p.pvions to an der.- lion, in order to obtain their voteo; otrerv ed that he was not a German hitns , li, hut he had a brother who wus remarkably fora of German sausages. The Van Burenitus apply the term ',Gran ny" to Harrison. Gov. AV Ken tucky in commenting upon this epithet sometime ago, remarked that Flarritindwas the most efficient Gunny he ON e r knew; for, said he, I saw him (Wirer General Proctor of fiat hundred children in abot4t forty min utes." WOIOS OF "Lo STAxnuso."---Tliere is a family of six brothers Indiat).l, all of whom voted for Gen. Elsrrison. og gregato length is forty three feet/ 14V"filefri044 , 14potr A ,A
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