I *-i iii^aMi ? fflTBP1 ' ~J*~"~~~~~~~~rMTTinrrnfr|W I III -'*' T"llHf***'.r ^""v "|,--> "'^ 1 '"P* WP**?P^? ",? ??? nr.... r,..y. . ^^ ">' m. -. ? , ^p,... ., ?.,.. m , / ?|)f 9Lant*&$l*r ^.tSrty.tr* p DEVOTED TO LITERARY, COMMERCIAL, AGRICULTURAL, GENERAL AND LOCAL INTELLIGENCE. f VOLUME I. LANCASTER, C. H, SOUTH CAROLINA, WEDNESDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 0, 1852. XUM BER 3i. f - THE LANCASTER LEDGER IS PUBLISHED EVERY WEDNESDAY MORNING. R. ti. BAILEY, EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR. L TERMS: Two Dollars per year, if paid in ad vancc; Two Dollars and Fifty Cents,: paid in six months; or Three Dollars, i payment is delayed until the end of tin year. These terms will be rigidly nd here it uncalled for, is yritna fade evidence o i / INTENTIONAL FRAUD. ' ALL KINDS OF TAD DDTlTTTUTf L JUM xxumxxno 1 EXECUTED WITH NEATWESS AXD DF.SPATCI ^ At thin Office. ^f-Urteit CnlfD From Harpers' I\'ew Monthly Mafraziiu FRAGMENTS FROM A YOUNG jk WIFE'8 DIARY. I liuveltcen married seven weeks. * * ' I do not rave in girlish fashion about in Ixjrfect happiness?I do not even say ove my husband. Such words imply i separate existence?a gift consciously Ik> stowed on one being from another?I fee not thus: iny husband is to me as in; 1 , own soul. Ix>ng, very long, it is since I first knev this. Gradually, not suddenly, the grea inyswrry 01 iovo oversnauoweu mc, unti tat last 1 found out the truth, that I \va my own no more. All the world's beaut' I saw through his eyes?all the world' goodness and greatness camo reflectet through his noble heart. In his prcsenc , I was as a child : I forgot myself, my owi existence, hopes and aim*. Every wher ?at all times and all places?his nowe was upon me. lie seemed to absorb am inhale my whole soul into his, until 1 be came like a cloud melting away in sun shine, and vanishing from the face c . heaven. All this reads very well and mad; bul oh! Laurence?Laurence! none woul< marvel at it who had once looked on the< Not that he is a perfect Ajiollo? this woi shipped husband of mine; you may met a score far handsomer. Hut who cares fNot I? All that is grand, all that is beau tiful, all that makes a man look godlik i. it : J uirvugii we in??nj smiling Ol III* giXllIK . houi?I tee in my Laurence. Hi* eyes soft, yet proud?his wavy hair?hi* han | that I sit and ciasp?his strong arm tha I lean on?all compose an image wherei I see no flaw. Nay, I could scarce believ ' in any lieauty that bore no likeness ? Laureoce. Thus is my husband?what am If Hi .' wife?and no more. Every thing in m is only a reflection of him. Hometimes ?ven marvel thai he loved me, so unwoi thy as I seem : yet, when heaven raino * on me the rich blessing of his love, m; thirsty soul drank it in, and I felt that ha it never come, for lack of it I must hav died. I did almost die, for the joy wa I long in coming. Though?as I knoi now?he loved me well and dearly; yc ( tof some reason or other he would not te I me so. The vail might never have falle Iwyw viw iicmvA, euro wr onn OICTIC e 9uuei( r I will relate it. I love to drear otrer that brief hour, to which my whol < MNAoe can never show a parallel. We were walking all together?tny an term, Laurence Shelmerdine and I?wl?e -a there came on an Auguat Uiunder-etom Otir danger wu great, for we were k. th midst of a wood. My iatere fled ; but 1 being weak and ill?alaaf my heart wa breaking quiet);, though he knew it notJ had no strength to fly. He waa to I wjtind to forsake ine: so we ataid in ai K open apaea of the wood, I clinging to hi arm, and thinking?God forgive me !m *f\ if I eould otil v die then, cfoee to him eooomneaeed by hie gentle care, it woul< he ao happy?happier for than my 1H ? I * was then. What lie thought I knew not. He sjxike in hurried, broken words, and L turned his face from tnc all the while. It grew dark, like night, and there came flash after flash, peal after peal. I could not stand?1 leaned against his arm. At last there shone all around us a frightful glare, as if the whole wood were in flames ?a crash of boughs?a roar a bore, as though the heavens were falling?then silence. Death had passed close by its, and smote us not?and Death was the pre* cursor of Love. f We looked at one another, Laurent" f and I : then, with a groat cry, our hearts t ?long-tortnred?sprang together. There never can bo such a meeting, save that of two parted ones, who meet in heaven. No v.orus were spoken, Have a muriiier?"Ad,* elaide !" " Luurance !M?-but we knew , that between us two there was but one soul. We stood there all the while the ' storm lasted. lie sheltered me in his 1 arms, and I felt neither the thunder nor i the rain. I feared not life nor death, for I 1 now knew that in either I should never be divided from him. * * Ours was a brief engagement.? 1 Laurence wished it no ; and 1 disputed not " ?I never disputed with him in anything, r Besides, I was not happy at home?my | sisters did not understand him. They jested me because he was grave and reserved?even subject to moody fits sometimes. They said " I should have a great deal to nut up with ; but it was worth while, for - Sir. Shelrnerdine's grand estate atoned for - all." My Laurence! as it I had ever - thought whether he were rich or jioor!? I smiled too, at my sisters, jested about his - melancholy, and the possibility of his being f a "bandit in disguise ! " None truly knew s him?none but I. Vet I was half afraid of him at times ; but that was only from . the intensity of my love. I never asked i him of his for me?how it grew?or how e he had so long concealed it; enough for me that it was thori>- Vnt i? wn?i lurm-a calm; he never showed any passionate - emotion, save one night?the night before 1 our wedding day. I I went with iiim to the gate myself f walking in tho moonlight under the holly trees. I trembled a little; but I was happy?very happy. He held mc long in his arms ere ho could part with mc?the last brief parting ere w e would iicimJ to part no 1 more. I said, looking up from his face to |? the stars, 44 Laurence, in our full joy let us 1 thank God, and pray Iiim to bless us." i His hesrt seemed bursting : he liowed his proud head, dropped it down upon my v.?vu, way. rather pray him to forqxvt mc. Adelaide, I am not worthy of happiness?1 am not worthy of you." lie, to talk in this way ! and aliout me 1 but I answered him soothingly, so that he " might feel how dear was my love?how entire was my trust. lie said, at la>t, half mournfully, " You me content to take me then, just as I am; * to forgive my past?to boar with my presy ent?to give hope to my future. Will I yon do this, my love, my Adelaide f" a I answered, solemnly, " 1 will." Then, for the first time I dared to lift my arms I to his neck ; and as he stooped I kissed his y forehead. It was the seal of this iny promise?which may God give mo strength t to keep evermore ! t I We were laughing to-day?Laurence s and I?about jirnl love* It was scarcely y a subject for mirth ; but one of his baclies lor friends had been telling us of n new J married couple, who in some comical fashe ion, mutually made the discovery of each ii other's " first loves." I said to my husband e smiling liappily , " tliat he need havo no r sneli fear." And 1 repeated, half in sjiort, I the lines? i* " He was her own, her ocean treasure ? at, i- like a rich wreck?her first love .nut her ,f last." So it was with your |ssir Adelaide."? t, Touched by the thought, my gayety mel| ted almost into tears. Hut 1 laughed ?! them off, and added, " Come, Laurence, j ?- confess the same. You never, never loved j t any one but me f" I f lie looked pained, said coldly, " I 1k?i lieve I have not given cause?"then stoj>n WhI. How I tPomkl.)? - ? jmuii IS IIIIIJ ?? WCUUCW - I?fe: not two jarring live*, but an hanmo. t> nioua on#. n * I have taken a long journey, and am - eomewhat dreary at being away, even for i, three day*, fkpa my nleawnt home. But A Laurence wal'obltged to go, and I would e not let hisq|go alone; though, for tender i dfe'-" # . ' m * fear, fie urged me to stay. So kind and ! thoughtful he was too. Because his en-! gagcnients here would keep him much i from me, he made me take likewise my sister Louisa. She is a good girl, and a dear girl ; but 1 mis* Laurence ; I did eslH'cially in n?y walk to-day, through a lovely wooded country and a sweet little village. 1 was thinking ot' him all the time, so much so, that 1 quite started when 1 heard one of the village children shouted after as "Laur? nee." Very foolish it is of mc?a loving weakness 1 have not yet got over?hut I never hear the name m\ husband hears without I a pleasant liirill; I never even sec it writ-1 ten ii|> in tin* street without turning again j to look at it. So, unconsciously, I turned ] to the little r?>s\ urchin, whom his grandma honored by tin; natnu ??f " Laurence." A pretty, sturdy hoy of five or mx years old?a child to glad any mother. 1 won do red had he a mother ? I stayed and asked?I always notice children now.? <>h, wonderful, solemn mystery sleeping at my heart, my hope?my joy?my prayer! 1 think, with tears, how I may one day watch the gambols of a hoy like this;and \ how, looking down in his little face, I may j see therein my Laurence's eyes. For the j sake of this future?which (Jod grant?1 j went and kissed the little fellow who chanced to hear my husband's name. 1 | asked the old woman about the child's mother. " Dead, dead five years." And his father I A sneer, a muttered curse? bitter words about44 poor folk" and "gentle folk." Alas? alas! I saw it all. l'oor beautiful unhappy child ! My heart was so pained, that I could not tell the little incident to Laurence.? Even when my sister began to talk of it I asked her to cense. But I pondered over it the more. I think, if I am strong enough, I will go and see the poor littlo fellow again to-morrow. One might do some good?wlio knows i To-inorrow lias conic?to-morrow litis gone. What n gulf lies between that yesterday ami its to-morrow ! * * * Louisa and I walked to the village?she very much against her will.? "it was wrong and foolish," she said "one should not meddle with vice." And she looked prudent and stern. I tried to speak of the innocent child?of the poor dead mother; and the shadow of motherhood over my own soul taught me compassion towards both. At last when Louisa was half angry, I said I would go, for 1 had a secret reason which she did not know. Thank heaven those words were |?vs% mWv my li|*w So w e went. My little beauty of a hoy was not there; and I had the curiosity to approach the cottage where his grandmother lived. It stood in a garden, with high hedge around. 1 heard a child's laugh, and could not forbear peeping through. There was my little favorite, held aloft in the arms of a man, w ho stood i halt hidden behind a tree. " lie looks like a gentleman : perhaps it is the w retch <>i a tatner!" whiskered Louisa. "Sister, weought to eoine away." And -I talked forward indignantly. Hut I still staid?still looked. r my horror of the crime, 1 f? >i .. .?ttraction : it was some sign ' grace hi the lilllll I lull In* slit >11 la I ill le:i>.- i.L-11. ?\v I... I ir.. and show kindness to the child. And tli?miserable mother! I, a Imppy wife, could have wept to think of In-r. I wondered, | v laughed hii?I clinttereet diminutives I which ?'hil111**111 ami I will go." The little one had ceased chattering: | the father put it dow n ami came forth from liia covert. Heaven it was hunbnnd / * * * I think I should then have fallI en down dead, save for one thing?I tnrn| ed ami met my sister's eves. They were I I full of horror?indignation? pity. She,! too, had seen. Like lightning there Hashed across me all the future: my father's wrath?the , world's mockery?hin shame. I said?and I had strength to say it quite calmly?44 Louisa, you have guessed our secret: hut keep it?promise! " She looked aghast?confounded. 44 You see," 1 went on, and 1 actually smiled, 44 you ace, I know all almutit, and so does Laurence. It i??a friend's child." May Heaven forgive mo for that lie I ioni ; u was 10 save inv uusoanu s Honor. | 1 )ay after day, week after week, goes by yet I live?live, and living, keep the horrible secret in my soul. It inust remain there, hurried forever, now. It so chanced, that after that hour I did not see my husband for some weeks: Louisa and I were hastily summoned home.? So I had time to think what 1 was to do. I knew all now?all the mystery of his fits of gloom?his secret sufferings. It was remorse, perpetual remorse. No marvel ! And for a moment my stem heart said, " Let it be so." I, too, was wronged, Why did ho marry nto and hide all this f O vile! O cruel! Then the light broke on mo: hia long struggle againat his love?his terror of winning mine. Tt..? l.? AlA I L.t/ u ? J -- I 'H> IIO UHI IUTC 1IIC I linil-IIIIHUI^Illll H* 1 was I grasped at that. Whatever black* neaa was on the past, he loved mo now? he had sworn it?" mow than he ever loved woman." I was yet voting: I know little of the wickedness of the world; but 1 have beard of that mad passion of the moment, which ll,av u.'ir.> nn A hurl ?aI aiknllu ?!!.> ?] overflowing. lint oh ! the agony,ofknow- i ? ing my idol fallen?that where once t: worshipped, I can only pity, weep, and t: pray. lie told inc yesterday, he did not feel u like the same man that he was befo'e mar- j I riage. He said 1 was his good angel ; ,j that through me he became caltne*, hap- d pier every day. It was title ; I rend the : o change in his face. Others read it two.? b Even his aged mother told me wit! tears, n how much good I had done to Laurence, i For this, thank God! ; o My husband ! my husband! At times ri I could almost think this horror wcie otne 1 delirious dream, cast it to the winds, and I e worship him as of old. I do fee, as 1 1 ought,deep tenderness?compassion. No, l no, lot me not deceive myself : I love him ; <| in defiance of all I love him, and shall do j I; evermore. : n Sometimes his ohlen sufferings came j ( over nun ; aim men i, Knowing me wnoie r truth, tell my very soul moved within inc. v If he had only told inc all : if I could now 1 c lay my heart open before him,with all its I love and pardon ; if he would let nic com- s fort him, and speak of hope, of heaven's mercy?of atonement even on earth, hut 1 dare not?I dare not. r Since, from this silence which he has i < seen fit to keep, 1 must not share the st-rug- \ gle, but must stay afar off?then like the t prophet who kueft on the rock, suppliea- . ting for Israel in the battle, let my hands 1 i fail not, noriny prayer cease, until Heaven sendeth the victory. I i Nearer and nearer comes the hour 1 which will be to mo one of a double life, i 1 or death. Sometimes, ^ nil I * have lately suffered, there conic# tOiuc a ! J neavv foreboding. What, if J, ?*>.young, v to w hom one little y< ar ago, lire seemed ! J ail opening paradise?what, if I should die ] ?die and leave hiw?, and he never know 1 how deeply I have loved?how much I have forgiven t Yes, he might know, and bitterly.? ' should Louisa tell. Hut I will prevent 1 that. In my hushatn's absence I have sat up i half (he night writing; that in ease of my death he may know the whole truth, and ( hear it from me alone. I have poured ulil i all my sufferings?all my tenderuesa : I ( nave mipiorcu mm tor tiicioveot Heaven, i for the love of mo, tlint lie would in every [ way atone for the past, an-l lead for the { future a righteous life ; that his sins innv he forgiven, and that after death, we may i ( meet in joy evermore. I I I have heen to chureli with Laurence? for tlie last time, as I think. We knelt I together, and took the sacrament. Ilis i face was grave hut peaceful. When we I came home we sat in our Iteautiful little t %?so garden, lie looking so content?even happy ; so tender over me, so full of hope j i for tiie future. IIow should this l?e ifhe I had on his soul that awful sin ! All seetn- I I ed a delusion of mv own creating: I ;i doubled even the evidence <>t" my own sen- t sea. I longed to throw myself on his ho- j sum and tell him all. Hut then, from I some inexplicable cause, the olden cloud < came over him; I read in his face, or thought I read the torturing remorse which * at once repelled me from him, and yet drew 1 me again, with a compassion that was ah < most stronger than love. I 1 thought I would try to say, in some passaing way, words that, should I die,* tl might afterwards comfort him, by telling him iiow his misery had wrung my heart, t and how I did not scorn him, not even for I his sin. "Laurence,"! said, very softly, I wish t you and I had known one another all our ? iives, from the time wo were little chiM a dren." j I a ol. I .1.-1 I I I .1 i l.?,l ?. _ "II . llhll wu UHU . llldll 1 IHIU WI'II 1% letter and a happier man, my Adelaide!11 li wan his answer. "We will not talk of that, l'lcaae Uod ? we may lire k long and happy life togetb- ji cr; hut if not?" v Ho looked atme with fear. " What ia h that jrou aay t Adelaide, yown, fi wife's jealousy I down, woman's pride I It g was long, long ago. She is dead ; and be or mother felt, who, living, left her child > the mercy of the bitter world. I>ut raven's will be done. I shall write here j more?perhaps forever. * * * It is all past and gone. I have roll a inotlior?mIhu ! />?> . !.. ? I i'Vit knew it. I awoke oat of a long i lank dream?a delirium of many weeks I -to find the Messing had come,^nd hoen iken away. Onk only givetli?one only iketh. Amen. For seven days, as they toll me, my ' j ahe lay by my side?its tinny arms 11 melted mine?it slept at my breast. 11 ul I remember nothing?nothing ! 1 was !: nite mad all the while. And then?it ied?and 1 have no little face to dream f?no memory of the sweetness that has eon, it is all to me as if I had never seen iv ehild. * If I only laid my senses for one day? no hour: if 1 could but have seen Laut'liec when they ga\e him his baby boy. ; itterly he grieves, his mother says be ause lie lias no heirs. * * * My lirst waking fear was liorri- j le. Had I l et nyed anything during my lelirium i I think not. Louisa says I iv all the time silent, dull, and did not ; lotiec even my husband, though he hent iver me like one ?listraeted. I'oor I.ait- i ence! I see hut little of liiui now : they iill not sutler me. It is perhaps well : I otihl not hear his grief and nr. own two: i . .11.. . i imgm ih.il uu hiv m'cicl j afe. I wont yesterday to look at tli?> tinny uouiul?all that is loft to mo of inv dream '< I" motherhood. Such a happy dream it ] vas, too 1 I low it comforted me many a inn;: how 1 used t<> sit and think of my larling that was to come : to picture it lyng in my amis?playing at my feet? growing in beauty?a hoy, a youth, a man ! \lid this?this is all?this little grave. Perhaps I may never have another | liild. It'so, all the deep h.ve that nature . caches, and whieh nature has even now l iwaketied in my heart, must lind no oh- j ect, must droop ami wither away, or he I into jlUM Uialf 1 /?'/shall never he: I will not embitter the I ilessings 1 have by mourning over those j leiiitd. In Mr. Shelmordine's absence, 1 have iceotupiished inv plan. 1 have contrived 0 visit the place whore lives that helpless -hil.l?my husband's child. 1 do believe that my love to Pan ranee [ mist be such as never before was borne to nan by woman. It draws me even tovards this little one : forgetting all wifeike pride, 1 seem to yearn over the hnv. t Jut is this strange i In my first girlish 1 reams, many a time 1 had taken a hook io had touched?a (lower he ha appointed time ?if we could but turn and read. Vet it s best not. I went to the cottage?alone, of course. ' asked the old woman to let me come in ' ind rest, for I was a stranger, weak and ! ired. She did so kindly, remembering, j crimps, how I bail once noticed the boy. j le was her grandson, she told me?her laughter's child. Her daughter! And this old creature , vas a coarse, rough-spoken woman?a la* j orcr's wife. Laurence Shclmcrdine?the legant?tlie refined?what madness must lave nnsseaaed him 44 She died very young, then, your laughter!" I fouinl courage to say. " Ay,av, in a few months after the hoy's irth. She was hut a weekly tiling, at est, and sh had troubles enow." Quiekly came the blood to my heart? , o my cheek?in hitter, hitter shame.? sot for myself hut for him. 1 .shrank like guilty thing before that mother's eye.? j dared not ask?what I longed to hear ' ?concerning the poor girl, and her sad listory. 44 Is the child like hor I " as gran<|ft gentleman as himelf: he'll never do tTiivo with poor folk ke granny." " Alas! " kgnpd, forgetting all but my ompassion ;**Won how w ill the child benr is lot of shame !" "Shame!" and tho old woman came D fiercely tome, i* Yon hail Un?rmin,1 our own business : my Bern is as good ?y?u-n , ^ I trembled Jg^lently, but could not peak, Tbe wlronn wont on : Jttfc u I dunoot care If I blab MP out, tiough Boss bogged mc not. Sho was a ooI,hik1 the young follow something worse, lis father tried?may-be lie wished to try oo?but they cotildna undo what had )eeii done. My girl was safe married to litn, and the little lad's a gentleman's Uavul son." ^ Oil! joy beyond belief! Oh! bursting dossed teats! My Laurence! my Laucnce ! * * * 1 have no dear recollection of unthiug more, save that I suppose the ivoman thought me mad, and tied out of he cottage. My lirst consciousness is of indir g myself miglit have been his when he was a bo v. I evict!, tremulously, ' Laurence! little Laurence'.*' lie came to me, smiling ami [ileascl. (.>ne faint struggle 1 Lad?forgive nie, poor dead girl 1? and then I took the child in luv arms, ami kissed him as though I had been his niothe . For th\ sake?for thy sake?my husband! 1 understand all the past now. '1 hewild, boyish passion, making an ideal out of a poor village girl; the uucipial tu ion; thedreatn fading into common r good It shall not fail him now : it shall eneom pass him with arms ?,f peace: it shall statu between him and the hitter past: it slta! load him on to a worthy and happy ft; til re. There is one tiling which ho mu-t do I will strengthen him to do it. Vet, whet 1 toll him all, how will he tncct it.' X< matter, I must \?I hav< a l alm even for tliut now. 1 told liiiu the storv, as it wort in a para hie, not of myself but of anotln r a friend 1 had. His color came and wctil ?his hands trembled in my hold. 1 hit nothing: 1 told him of the wife's lir.-t hor rihle fear?of hor misery?the r. his vt-rv Imw. I c<.11!< 1 Imv. fallen at his feet ami prayed forgiveness hut I dared not )> t. At last 1 spoke o the end, still using 11.0 feigned names had used all along.. lie said, hoar-elv, "i>o you think lie wife?a good and pure woman?woul< forgive ail tiiis " Forgive! < 'i.I Laurence?Laurence!' and I clung to him and wept. A doubt seemed to strike him. "Adelaide?tell me?" "I have t<>!d. 11ushatid forgive me 1 1 know all, and still I love you?1 love you! 1 did not sav, / /umlon. 1 would not let him think that I felt 1 had need to pardon. Luuroneesank down at my feet, hid hi* face on my knees, and wept. The tale of his youth was as I guessed He told me it the same night, when w< sat iu the twilight gloom. 1 was glad o this; that not even his wife's eyes tuigh scan too closely the pang it cost him tore veal these long-past days. But all tin while he spoke my head was on his breast that he might feel I held my place then still, and that no error, no grief, no shame could change my love for liitn, nor maki me doubt his own, which 1 had won. My task is accomplished. I rested not day or night, until the right was done Why should he fear the w orld's sneer,w her his wife stands hy him; his wife, win most of all might he thought to shrink from this confession that must be niadcl But I have given him comfort?ay, courage. I have urged him to do his duty, which is one w ith mine. t 1 1 ? >i\ iiiim'.'iim iias ncaiiow isiiged lus first marriage, ami taken home his son. His mother, though shocked and bewildered at first, rejoiced when she saw the beautiful hoy, worthy to he the heir of the Slielinerdines. All are happy in the thought And 1? I go, hut always secretly, to the small daisy<1110111)11. My own lost one! my balw wAose face I never saw! If I have nt chihl 011 earth, 1 know there is a little nn gel w aiting mo in heaven. Let no one say I am not happy, as hap py as one can he in this world : never was any woman more blessed than I am ii my husband and my son?mine. 1 tool him as such : 1 will fulfill the pledge wliih 1 live. The other day, my little Laurence die something wrontr. He rarelv does ?<>? he is hi* father's own child for gentlone? nnd generosity. Hut here ho whs in error: he quarrelled with his Aunt Louisa, nnd refused to l?e friend*. Louisa was not right either : she doc* not half love the boy. I took my son on my lap, and tried to show him the holiness and beauty of returning good for evil, and forgetting unkindness, of pardoning sin. lie listened, as he always listens to me. After a while when hia heart was softened, I made him i kneel down beside inc. saying the prayer ( ?" Fort/ire us our tresspasses, us tee Jarejire those that trespass uyainst us." Little Laurance stole away rcpentnut ami go.nl. 1 sat thoughtful : I did not | notice that behind me had stood my Laurence? my husband. 11c came and knelt. where his hoy had knelt. Like a child ho laid his head upon my shoulder, and blessmo in broken words. The sweetest of all were : "Mv t\ ife ! mv wife who has saved her husband 1 " The Indian Mother. The affection of Indian parents for their children, says Mrs. Moudic, in her Cuna1 dian scenes, entitled "Roughing it in the lJush," and the deference which they |?av to the aged, is a beautiful and touching trait in their character. < >ne extremely cold, wintrv day, as I was huddled with niv little ones over (ho j stove, the door softly unclosed, and tho mocaasitied foot of an Indian crossed the floor. I raised niv h< ad, for I was too much accustomed to their sudden appearand-at any hour to feel alarmed, and perceived a tall woman standing silently and ' respectfully before me, wrapped in a largo^ > blanket. The moment she caught my eye. 1 she dropped the tohls of her covering from ' around her, and laid at my feet the at ten. uat< 1 figure of a boy, about twelve years of age, who was in the last stage of consumption. ' J'apousc die." she said mournfully, ela-ping her hands against her breast, and |o< king down noon the sutleving lad with the ino-t i'.eartfelt expression of maternal love, wli.i tears trickled down her dark face. ' M lodi. 's sipiaw save papottse-? poor Indian wotnun niueb glad.' lb r child was lu-yond all biiman aid. I l<'ookci.l a\loti-l\ upon lam, and knew. by t!> | imbed-up feuturi - and purple bue \ ..i" iiis \v:t >1 ehecks. that lie had not , | many ! i:r : > live. I ?r I ike Shomong, ill Indiana) upon my bin k. I'iir white squaw to cure."' " I cannot euro him, my poor friend. , lb- is in < 1 oil's rare: in a few hours he , will be with liiin."' ^ ] The rhiM was smkil with a dreadful lit of roughing which 1 expected every inoment would^Jeruiinate bis frail exist1 i nee. I gave him a teaspoonful of eur^ ' r-.nl j .Uy, wltioll lift took with avidit V, t nt e>>uld not retain a moment on his stomach. ?"? - -v "l'apouse fii m Joe Mu-krat's squaw, some days af. ter, that the hoy died a few minutes after , Klizaheili Iron, Ins mother, got home. Imi*ko\ i.mi:nt <>n \ ioi.ins.? Moses Cohnrn, of Savannah, (Jcorgin, lias taken measures tn secure a patent lor a uni?i e ' improvement on violins. The instrument i> made of a gradually increasing width from the neck to the bottom, or of a near1 ; ly angular form, only so lar departing from it as to destroy sharp corners and stillness of form. I lie external convexity of top ' and l>ottom?Jioti'c\cr, are preserved. The ! reasons for departing from the common ' l form of violins, is, that the instrument being iioide so much narrower at the middle, | it inalas two vibrating bodies instead of | one, as by the new improvement. The ' two parts of the common violin vibrate in' depondently, and not in accordance with > each other, therefore they interrupt the free and perfect intonation of the strings, j Mr. (.'churn is a professor of music, and 1 loaches it in Savannah ; ho is, therefore, 1 capable of forming an excellent judgment ' j respecting the defects of the old violin,and the improvement which scientifically will remove Um evils. In his violin lie places i the air apertures in the sides, in order that the tfsp?hinv not he weakened bv cutting ' 11 icm through. Thus the top of his instuiment presents a fair, unbroken, trian' gular table, and looks r.e.tand handsome [ I to our notion of such things.? Scientific. , < American. ' i A N'"\v Cl he fou ltdnvnmi. ' j Consumptive Complaint*. ? Dr Cartwright, of New Orleans, communicates to tli? Huston Modicul and Surgical Journal, j an article entitled?"The Sugar-House Cure t'nr l'ronchirtt. Dyspeptic, and Coni 1 suinptive ('omnluints.'' It is stated tliat a i residence in a sugar-1 muse, during the rolJ ling season, far surpasses any other know n ! means of restoring flesh, strength, and I ' health, lost l?y chronic aliments < f tho j chest, throat, or stomach. The rcllingseat son is the harvest, when the cr, and ends at Christi mas, but it is sometimes protracted into January. Dr. C. says the vapor it niost^ 1 agreeable and toothing to the lungs, and in his own case entirely removed a diatrea sing cough. Ho stood for hours in tho i sugar-hoiiso inhaling tho rapor, and drink1 ing occasionally a glass of the hot cansJ" io*? ? * * +