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A failure to notify a discontinuance will be considered a new en gagement and the paper forwarded accordingly. 111. ADVERTISEMENTS not exceeding a square will be inserted TanEc times for $l, and 25 cents for each subsequent insertion—the number; of in sertion to be marked,or they will be published till forbid and charged occordingly ; longer ones in the same proportion. A reasonable deduction wil I be made to those who advertise by the year. IV. All Letteraand Communications addressed to the Editor by mail must be post-paid, or they will not be attended to. THE GARLAND. With sweetest !lowers enrich'd From various gardens cull'd with care." BUCKWHEAT CAKES. The bards of Now England may sing in their glory, Of dumplings, and puddings, and rich leT, pie," And thoio Of the South may sulijoin to tho story, Of bak'd beans and melons that with them can vie; The sons of the West have but little to boast of, Save their mountains and cataracts, valleys and hikes; But such as they have they con well make the most of, A elico of fry'd bacon, and hot buckwheat cakes! Oh hot buckwheat cakes! in a cold frosty morning, When smoking and light from the griddlo they With fresh molting butter their surface adorning, Would strike all the praise of an epicure dumb! And behold, too, nt ovo, by the fuesldo bright beaming, ' Where beauty prepares what Industry partakes, In honey and cream so deliciously swimming, A full plate of light, smoking Lot buckwheat cakes ! Ilow sweet thus to feast on the fruits of one's labour, The oferings of peace and the viands of health! To share the rich treat with a friend or a neighbor, And to feel and to know that "contentment is wealth." Like tho boos who prepar'd while thi; blossoms wore blowing, Our sons still enjoy while the summer forsakes; On the , cheeks of our daughters the rose is still glowing, At least when preparing our hot buckwheat Then, yo polo race of Gotham! on hot rolls and spice-cake . By Humbert, and Whitlock, and Somerun dike fed, Since laalc is your umpire, fur once good advice take, And draw mumd the board so invitingly spread, And, ye cold critics, say not my strain is a wrong ono, But unite is good cheer with the hale of the lakes, Who'll onvy no groat man, or bend to no strong Whilo thoy oat thetr own bacon awl hot buck• , wheat cakes ! MU2C318 5 11124`12ri - -',TC3o From the Philadolphio . Seturday Courier STORY Or REAL LIFE. "Father, shan't I be a carpenter when I got old enough?" "Why, my eon?" asked Mr. Ilield. "0; because I should like to bo one.— Ned Cameron is going to be, and I want to." "A carpenter!" exclaimed Mrs. Hield, in astonishment; "why, Douglass, you must be crazy. No you shall not!" "Why not, mother?" "Because it i 3 vulgar, like all other trades; and only fit for poor people's eons." "But, mother, Ned Cameron's parents are not poor, and they aro willing thr him to be ono." "Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Cameron's fathers were mechanics, and that accounts : for their vulgarity of taste." "Well;mother, I have often hoard lath. er say that yourgrand father was a me., chanic, and —" "Silence! child. Once for all, I tell you that you shall not be• a mechanic.. You must either bo a doctor or lawyer, or some• thing else that is genteel." "Yes, my son," joined in Mr. Meld ."wouldn't you sooner be a doctor, and ride . about in your carriage, or a lavvver, and become a distinguished orator, thim to be always attending to the trimming out of wood, or the raising of houses?" "Well, I don't know, father. I should like very'vnuch to ho a carpenter, but if you think I could not be a gentleman at the same lime, why I shall give up the idea." Mc. and Mrs. field, between whom, and their only child, the above conversation took place,were people of moderate fortune, residing in a comfortable mansion in the ci ty of Philadelphia. Like too many others, they had imbibed the senseless opinion— !f we may be allowed so to express our selves—that of all things, a mechanical trade was the most vulgar, and that if they wished their son to be a gentleman, he must earn his livelihood, not by hie hands, or by his hands and brains, but by his brains a lone. It is a curious notion this, that pa rents have, and yet what is still more curi ous, when they come to this conclusion, they never concern themselves to know whether or not ho possesses enough of the latter article to support him in life. And ninety times out of a hundred, the child has not; though it was not so in the present case, for Douglass field, who was now fourteen yenrs of ago, gave indications of possessing a quick and powerful intellect. Yes! we say it is a curious notion parents , have, that a mechanic cannot bo a gentleman. Why the most perfect gentleman that ever lived on earth, was He who came to 'die that we might live,' and tie was a mechanic. Yes! he who died on Calvery, deemed it not be neath his dignity to 'earn his bread by the sweat of his brow,' and he, it is declared in holy writ, was gentleness itself. In his life on earth, he set to man a true example of the character of a gentleman, and he who does his best to imitate , it, be he rich or poor, is owner of the title. Why then, do parent& withhold their sons from trades?— Why do they sneer at the appellation of mechanic? Is it one to bo ashamed of, when He who is greater than all on earth was not? Besides let such parents look up on the history of this, the most enlightened country in the world, and mark upon its pa ges its greatest men. What were they? The greater majority of them were mechan ics and almost all of them have labored for their support with their hands. Nay, look at the great men of other nations —the truly great—trace their histories back, crud you will find the same result. But to our story. Mr. and Mrs.,' Cameron's conduct was different from the fields. When their son expressed a wish to become a mechanic, they did not oppose him in that wish, and endeavour to force him into a profession for which he had no inclination. They were as well to do in the world as the fields, and could with as much ease, have supported their child through the course of studies requisite for a lawyer, or physician—but they deemed neither more respectable than a trade. Besides, they knew that whatev. er tho young mind is boot upon, that it will pursue with avidity, and raise its owner or at least maintain him in life. Three years rolled by since the conver sation recorded above between the field family, during which time Douglass field was preparing for college—for he had de. termined upon becoming a lawyer—and Edward Cameron was receiving an cdu cation suitable for making him a learned and distinguished mechanic, At the expira tion of that time, the former took his depar ture for ono of the learned institutions of our country, and the latter became nppren ticod to ono of the best carpenters of Phila. delphia. * * * Six years have passed since the period at which our gory commenced. In the parlor of a plain, though cornier. tably furnished house, in a pleasant part of the city, sat two beings, both young and handsome, a gentleman and lady. The for mer possessed a high and lofty brow that told of intellect and intelligence; a fine con• tour of features, and a somewhat slight, yet manly form- We have said he was young, yet in his countenance there seemed to dwell a slight shade of care and inelanchol ly. Whilst conversing with the lady his dark hazel eyes beamed with a sparkling brightness, but soon again it would flee, and a troubled, anxious expression take its place. The lady was a being of loveliness and beauty. Light and fq►ry was her form —exquisite the outline of hor features—and soft and mild, her eves of Heaven's blue. Tho hues of the rose and lily were blended upon her cheeks, and the raven's plume wore no darker shade than the curls that clustered around her snowy forehead.— Her voice was clear and thrilling as the wildwood bird, and when she spoke to him it seemed to wear a still more witching tone. For some moments they sat in silence, his arm encircling her waist, and his eyes bent affectionately upon her. At length he spoke as if continuing a conversation, "Yes, Marten, I long for the day when I may call you my own—my own dear wife; but I fear it must be long hence." "Why, Douglass? why do you talk thus? My mother would not withhold her consent, for she loves you as it mother does her son." "I know it—l know it. 'Tis not that, Marian. lam too poor!" "Poor! then I will share your poverty."' "No, no; talk not of it," said ho with e motion; "I could not dare subject you to it. Besides, I swore, when first 1 started in life, that never would I call a woman wife' until 1 could give her a worthy. home. I love you, Marian, and I would not see you live in poverty—perhaps in want. But 1 mast to my office," he added "some lucky God-send may come to me yet." Ile imprinted a kiss upon her cheek, and then putting on hie gloves and hat, he de- parted. lie walked slowly along after quitting the house, for it• was a beautiful moonlight evening in Spring, meditating upon his &unsettle prospects. A deep sigh QM and G. W.A./SZINC-TOll :BOWEN, azziron, & PROPMIZITOP.. "The liberty to know, to utter, and to argue, freely, is above all other libertiee.”—MlLTON 6.waluixazarata...pcno. wunee Dais o e110P.1201.122ZU sa,aada. anon arose from his bosom, and hiiAnnd was raised at intervals as if to dasli ) away a tear. He heeded not the gay throng that passed him by, but strode moodily onward, wrapped in his gloomy reflections. "Yes! I am poor--a poor gentleman—a poor lawyer!" he muttered bittterly.— Li Would to God I wore but a poor mechan ic, then could I work, and earn my daily broad nt least. But lam &gentleman law yer! My parents—peace to their ashes —scorned to make me an honest workman and made me choose one of the professions, all of which are already overstocked. I went through college triumphantly, through all, my studies—l was admitted to practice, but I have had little practice—very little! The little money my parents left me at their death, has now wasted away, and I am almost penniless. Good God! what shall I do? I cannot work—l know not how. The playmates of my youth aro tact rising around me. Edmund Cameron, who my mother taught me to shun, because he was a mechanic, has long ago taken a bride to a comfortable house, but me—l have none for myself Thus he walked on for several squares, when suddenly he was startled,by hearing his name pronounced. Ho looked up.— A gentlemanly looking young man with a fine open countenance, stood before him. He immediately recognised him, and stretched forth his hand. ing?" said the other, grasping it; "I have not seen you for several weeks. Why don't you come to see us oftener? Come, go home with me now, and spend the even ing with me—will you," "I'd rather not, Ned," said Douglass, hesitatingly." "Yes, but you must. Come!" and he put his arm through that of his friend, end they walked on. • "How is your business, Ned?" said Douglass, as they proceeded. • • "It is very brisk at present. I . have con tracted to put up twenty houses this sum• fuer, and 1 expect to realize a handsome profit. HoW is it with you?" • "Bnd enough in all conscience. I was just contemplating my prospects when you . Met me, and came very near cursing my parents for making me what I am, instead of a good mechanic, like yourself. What I shall do I know not." "I feel for you, indeed," said Cameron, warmly; but you should not despair—:still hope on." "Aye, I have hoped, till I have grown sick upon it. Day after day passes, and still no clients. God knows what I shall du!" They walked on in silence, for Cameron felt too much sorrow to speak comfort. In a short time they arrived before a neat, three story brick dwelling, and entered. It was the house of Ed mund Cameron. They proceeded along a neat furnished entry, to a comfortable draw. ing-room, where sat a female engaged with her needle. It was Cameron's wife.• She was a fine looking woman, with - a pair of bright black eyes, and a countenance full of sweetness and mildness. She arose as they entered, and the manner in which she greeted them, showed that her breed ing had been good. She welComed Doug lass with a winning smile, and sincere warmth. Laying aside her sewing when they were seated, she sat down and joined them in conversation, for she was as intel ligent as she was gentle. The evening was well advanced when Douglass started fur his boarding house. Cameron put on his hat, and walked with him to the corner of the square in which ho resided. As they were about to part he said— "Now, Douglass, if there is any way in which I can help you, do not tail to call up on me. If you aro in want of money at any time, come to me, and I will lend yon what I can. Do not think this impertinent in me; I take the privilege of an old friend, and J speak to you as it you wore my broth. or. Do not let any feelings of false pride hinder you from applying to me in your need, but come as you would to one of your nearest kin." "You are kind, Ned—you are a true friend, indeed. But—" "Your pride will not allow you to accept kindness at my hands. There—those are not perhaps the very words you were going to use, but it is what you meant to say. I. tell you throw such feelings aside, and come to me without reserve." "Perhaps so. Many thanks to you.— Good night." "Good night." It was a cold, stormy, blustering night, some three years subsequent to the date last spoken of. The wind howled in shilling gusts through the almost deserted streets of Philadelphia. The rain and sleet fell fast and thick. No stars wore to be seen in the firmament, but ono thick impenetrable pall of gloom shut its beauties from the Bight. It was a dismal night—such an one as makes the poor feel the pain of pov. erty, and the rich the worth of wealth. It was on snch a night, that a wietched being was thrust rudely forth from one of the many low rum shops that infest the low er part of the oity. He lay for some mo• meats afterwards upon the pavement, and then slowly raised himself upon his feet. The rays of a street lamp near by, that fell upon him, shc,wed . a wan, emaciated figure, half clothed, and that iu filthy rag. gednoss, disgusting to behold. An old bro ken hat was slouched over - his face, and "Ah, Douglass, how are you this ' oven- 4 ♦ * the remaining portions of what bad once been boots scarce hung to his feet. After raising himself up, he muttered some deep and fearful curses upon the inmates of the house, and then staggered elf. _Threugh tho raviiigs of the pitiless storm, he proceeded i on for many squares, at a brisk rate; but as he approached the heart of the city, his gate became more and more feeble, until from cold and intox• ication he sank upon the stoop of a large now house in a state of insensibility. For the space of half an hour, or more, ho lay there, exposed to the inclemency of the win try blast. At first, a groan would ever and anon arise from his bosom, but gradually it grew weaker and weaker, until eventually it ceased and ho became as noiseless as 'the marble whereon his body Teeter!. . At length, through the darkness and gloom that in spite of the street lamps pre vailed, two men carrying lanterns,approach ed the spot whore the wretched being lay. Tho badges they wore upon their hats, and the slew pace at which they walked, showed them to Lo city watchmen, who were going their hourly rounds. They were convers• ing as they came along, but tho noise of the storm almost drowned what they uttered. "God take care of the poor this night!" eatd one, as they arrived nearly opposite the house. "Yes, so say I," responded the other; "'faith, it's a hard evening." They pulled their hats closer upon their brows, and were passing on, when a ray of light from ono of their lanterns fell upon the stoop, and discovered to them its occu pant. "Good God!" exclaimed the one who had spoken first before; "hero's a poor devil, stiff enough. Come, wake up. Aro you asleep?" said he, as he shook the inanimate form. 4.lche's boon lying there long in this cold, he'll not be easily vrakened,"remark. ed the other. !‘That's a fat!, Peter. Poor fellow! what'll we do with him? Jr he's not dead now, ho would be against we'd got him• to the wateh•house." "That he would. S'pose wo ring up the people of tho house, and have him taken in, so that we can see if there's any life in him yetV' “Yes, but it seems to be a mighty grand house, and maybe they wouldn't be very ready to trouble themselves for a poor fel- low creature.” "Don't you believe that, Charley. Sure, theie's not a kinder hearted man in the ward nor Mr. Cameron. He's a perfect gintlemen; and as for his wifo, there's never a more rale lady living. No 'poor fellow creature,' as ye sny, 'is over turned away from their door." "Rouse them, then, for the sooner we Rot him in the better, if there's any life in him yet. which I much doubt." His companion ascended the steps and rang the bell, besides which ho gave sever al lusty raps upon the door. In a few moments a window was hoisted overhead, and a voice inquired who was there, and what was wanted: "Here's a poor sowl, here, Mr. Came ron," said he whom his comrade called Pe ter, who's freezing to death on your steps, and we want to know it you'd be kind enough to let us bring him in to the fire. sir?" "Certainly. Wait n moment, and I will come down and open the door." Soon after, the door was opened, and our old friend, Edmund Cameron, now the inhabitant and owner of the "grand house," as the watchman called it, appeared in a morning gown and slippers. "Bring him in, friends," said he to the watchmen, who lifting tho stiffened body from the steps, bore it in. "Follow me," said Cameron, when ho had shut the door; and he led the way into the dining room, where a warm fire was burning in the grate. Wheeling a so fa near it, he bade them lay their burden down, and each speed away for a physician. At this moment, Mrs. Cameron and female servant entered, with restoratives— cordials, dic. They removed some of his ragged habiliments, pulled his toots from his feet, and took his ,hat front qla head.— Having done so, they proceeded to use all the means they knew of, to restore him.— All their efforts, however, were in vain: no signs of animation cheered their exertions. At length, almost at the same instant,t he two doctors sent for, arrived. They pro ceeded immediately to operations; all their fertile minds could suggest, they tried. All, however, was useless, and they at last pro nounced him beyond the roach of their skill. During the lime they were engaged in trying to restore him, Mr. Cameron had been intently occupied in surveying the features of their patient. "Is it then so!" he exclaimed, as the physicians gave their opinions, the tears streaming down his manly cheeks. " Tim even so!" responded one - of the physicians. "But, Mr. Cameron, you weep for him as if he were a friend." "lie once was, sir E and one whom I dear ly loved," answored he. "During your operations, I have been scanning his well known features, and they cannot be mista ken. • Yes, he who lies before you, was not always thus degraded. You may have known him too, air. His name was Dou glass Hield." "I did indeed know Douglass We passed through college together. But this cannot be him!" "Would it were not true! But that face (was too deeply engraven on my memory darts of unkindness? Memory presents it. when we were schoolmates, to ,be forgot I Have we performed netlons of generosity? ton. It is a painful fact.' I Have the desolation of the widow been "But how came ho to this condition?" ; cheered and the low !Mess oldie orphan inquired the doctor. ""He Suns law, if ; been relieved by IA Has t h e path of one I recollect aright, and ho %Vn9 intelligent ; helividual lost a thorn by our instrumental.' and learned." i ity, or• the wreath of love had one rose ad• "I will tell your how it war," said Mr. !dad by our hands! Delighted with the oc- Cameron. "Ile did, as you say, study ; curronce, rnoniory repe n t s it i n ~treine, of law, and he was indeed intelligent, and a, exultation. Crowded into this narrow pe• learned and a finished scholar. Just before i tied, the moments resemble the waves that lie was admitted to the bar, his parents both , how dance in the sunlight to the nsusic of. died of a fever then prevalent. His father ! the breeze, and now flow on in solemn si had been thought to have been in good cir.i-lenee beneath the shade of over banging cumstances, and I believe was until with- I boughs. But does the past alone employ in a short time of his death; when by the i the fugitive hour? That hour, inngination failure of some speculation in which he was also makes her own. Whatever may have engaged, he lost very nearly his all; so that hindered its operation is now retrieved. when he died, his legacy to his son was but !Loftier and freer than ever soars its wing. scanty. Well, Douglass, as I have said,loVer the highest summit it easily rises, was admitted to practice. You know,' borrowing life from death itself. Doctor, the trials of a young profeesional The ds lug hour! It is then that time man—of a new beginner :n any of them— and we are parted. Though he may have I dare say, by experience?" led us over a, diversified way, we then for "I do, indeed, sir," responded Dr. S—. sake him; he continuos to travel on in his "How day after day, and night after own course but.we are ushered into a new night, he sits in his office idle, praying and I condition. Cares ceass to distress- . The hoping that the next hour, or the next day, ' last, tear falls troni the eye, the last . sigh may bring some employment with it: bow escapes from the bosom. Darkness. with. that hour or that day passes, and still leaves ers upon the earth, relieved only. _by thet him as did those that preceded it; how his pure light which, proceeding from Heaven, heart sickens, and he grows almost mad bath power to gild the closing scene.— with disappointment, and his bosom tills Mortality, shrink not from this hour? Bur with despair—and poverty stares him in sue virtue—let religion be thy study. 0 the face. "Well, so it was with him.— man, and whenever and wherever the event The little he had from hiS father soon west. occurs, it shall find thee happily prepared. ed away, and ho was left without a dollar. Whether death meet thee at the door when I offered to loan him some if ho were in midnight reigneth, or mid-day pours its need, at any time, but his proud spirit tide of glory on the world—whether it meet would not let him accept it. He loved a thee amid the consolations of home, or the lovely girl, and he would have made her privations of a stranger's country—whethee his wife, but he was too noble to lot her it meet thee on the uprising billow, or in share his poverty. Strange a soul so noble the fruitful plain, its stern brow shall bear can thus become debased! He struggled a soft and holy expressiOn, and its angry on for Some time manfully, but at length voice shall speak uo tones but those of peace ono day he was arrested, and thrown 'into and love. jail for debt which he had been compelled to contract. I heard ea, and immediate• y obtained hie released. Ho thanked me warmly for my generosity, but _from that day he was lost. His proud spirit had received a fatal stab. He forgot his love, his former respectability, and all, and plung• ed headlong into destruction. In gadibhng and drinking, he sought to forget the past, and, oh! Doctor, too surely he forgot the future. For the last year I had heard nothing of him. A few months ngo, she whom he dearly loved--but alas! whose heart he broko—was laid in ,the grave; he will lay beside her in a few days• Poor fellow! what a wreck—a shattered wreck!" •Reader! our tale is ended, and we have but a little more to say. It is this: we hope you will ponder well upon what we have written. You may say it is an overdrawn picture. We tell you it is not, for it is not only taken from real lite, but from real facts. You may also, say that professions are as profitable as trades. We grant it. To those few who are so fortunsie as to rise in them, they perhaps aro more so; but they are so overstocked, that two•thirds of heir members can scarce obtain a living; whilst all who are masters of a mechanical trade can, if they are sobor and industrious, always oThnin a comfortable one and moro often than in professions, a wealthy inde pendence. e...-- TH E DYING HOUR. If the experience of the dying hour could be faithfully written, the thoughts that then till the brain, like the last inhabitants of a crumbling temple, and the feelings that then occupy the chilled heart, be revealed to the eye of sense, what a view would be displayed! The period of dissolution brings with it emotions of a peculiar character. There are at that time operations through which the soul never before passed. Noth ing appears in its old aspect. Like a splendid hall hung in new drapery, each object wears a different dress. Opinions, that the strongest force of argument could not repeal or Withdraw from the mind, then hastily depart; prejudices that rooted them selves more and more deeply at every at tack, then bend before the blast; cherish. ed feelings, that the bosom had ever clung to, then are hated; and desires that had ever found a home beside affection's altar, then are banished. What fearful change is this,'that then befalleth the spirit? Are the faculties then eo weakened as to pre vent it from thinking and feeling aright?— No, it now sees things as they are. False hood has ceased to obscure its, vision.— Truth, long deprived of her authorit), long forced to crouch like a slave,obtains her rightful station, and shows that the preten ded nature of the world is Verr unlike its real character. 0 what an hour is this! When the soul is aroused to the true rola- lions of objects—when mistakes are seen, but alas, too late for correction—when eter nity's importance and awe enter into the decisions, wishes, and feelings of the mind! The hour of death! In this brief space the past is reviewed. However treacher ous memory may. have been on a thousand occasions, she now acquits herself with fi eelity. Omits she new to unroll the rec ord, which her hands had so often clasped? Is she like the trumpet that bloweth an 'uncertain sound?' Life's history her tongue now repeats—scenes, forgotten scenes are recalled, and buried events are brought up before the eye. Over the lout; path which we have made, she leads Us / hero she stops to meditate on seine dark deed; here she shows another way into which passion. hurried us. Have we inji.t• red friends? Have the true and fund bosoms on which wo rented been pierced by the c`i-(!)0 Clleo TUE EFFECT OF POVERTY ON TILE MIND. —Dr. Charming thus sensibly doscribes the narrowing and depressing effect of poverty on the intellectual powers: "The condition of the poor is unfriendly to the action and unfdding of the intellect, and a sore calamity to a rational being.— In most men, indeed, the intellect is nar rowed by exclusive cares for the body. In most, the consciousness, of its excellence is crushed by the low uses to which It is perpetually doomed. But' still in most, a degree of activity is gtven to the mind, 'by the variety and exteat of their Aiketior. wealth or substance: The bodily %Q MS of most carry them in a measureinto ; thefu, ture, engage them in enterprisca*, , requiring invention, sagacity and It is the unhappiness of the:POOr that. they are absorbed in immediate wants in providing for the passing day, in obtaining the next meal, or throwing off a present burden. Accordingly their faculties 'live and move, or rather pine and parish,' in the present moment. Hope and imagina tion, the wings of the soul, carrying it for ward and upward, languish in the :nor; for tho future is uninviting. The darkness of the p...lient breeds over coming years. The great idea, which stirs up in other mon a world of thought, the idea of a better lot, has almost faded from the poor man's mind. Ile almost ceases to hope for his children as well as himself. Even parental love, to many the chief quickener of the intellect, stagnates through despair. This poverty starves the mind.— And there is another way in which it pro duces this ('ffect, particularly worthy , the notice of this assembly. The poor have no society beyond their own class; that is, be. yond those who are inclined to their own narrow field of thought. We all know that it is contact with the more tictive and soa ring, from which intellect receives its chief impulse. Few of us could escape the para lyzing influence •of perpetual intercourse .with the uncultivated, sluggish, and nar row minded; and here we soo what I wan particularly to bring to view how very poor is the boasted civilization ufnur times which is built so much upon the idea of property. in communities little Advanced in opulence, no impassable barrier separates different classes as among ourselves. The least im proved are not thrown to a , distance from those who through natural endOWtnent or peculiar excitement, think more strongly than the rest; and why should such division • exisi any where? flow cruel and unchris tian are the pride - Mid prejudice which form the enlightened into a caste, and leave the ignorant and depressed to strengtheo and propagate prejudice and error without end." --...00 %.,.._ A pailful of lye, with'a piece of copper as halt as big.as n ben's egg, boiled in it, will produce a fine nankeen color, which will not wash out. This ie very useful for the linings of bedquilts, comforters W. Farrier. 11 1 / a uxo nu m' Tittins.-11'hon . .you wish to procure . 7,4.1111 g t 1 iTS of a particular kind off , nit for tree-planting, dig around' the old tree until ou roam to a healthy, growing rer,t, which cut ad', and .turn the end of the detached per tion out of. the ground. It will produce .shoots the , first Beason, and in a few yearn bear fruit of the Berne kind as the parent tree . . . , CONVICiED OF MunDtl2.-... - NiellUlas Ri enhardt has been enr.victed of murder in the first degree for taking the life of Coorid R• Crist, in, Berke county,_E'u• v± hen re, mended to pri:Am, he bled pergiated in bite innocence.
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