Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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IYA E E eIE D D ER JSER a Democratic 3outial, tieotev ,to Soutiern stjts,Wg, 3)outlTe, geneaI *u1teugeute, at teratute, sustalit, gemvance, aitutture see "We will cling to the Pillars of the Temple of our Zaetimu, and if it must fall, we will Perish amidst the Ruins. W. F. DURISOE, Proprieter. EDGEFIELD, S. lARCH 20,1851. *s - From the Temperance Banner. THE INEBRIATE'S LAST ADDRESS. MR. EDron,-the following verses are in sub stance the language of a poor inebriate, who died some years ago, under circumstances of the most humiliating character. His insatiable thirst for alcohol knew no bounds, and even in the last hour of his existence, upon the threshold of the grave, he thus addressed his wife: Yes, Mary, I have worshipped long, At Alehy's burning shrine, And still I have an aching thirst, To quaff the ruby wine. Up, quickly bring my goblet here, That I may drink again Before I die, or I shall die In agonizing pain. AlthoughI feel upon my brow, The chilly damp of death, And know my spirit soon must be With God who gave me breath. Still there's an itching in my breast For Alcoholic bane, Which stamps upon the brow of man, A stigmatizing stain. I never knew when I began To tipple at the bowl, That I would fill a drunkard's grave, And die a ruined soul. But 0, alas! I've quickly sunk 'Neath Alehy's potent power, Without a single ray of hope To cheer my dying hour. 0 where are those Pve reveled with! From morn 'till setting sun, Ah! could 1 leave a parting word With each and every one, My prayer would be that all would cease The bitter cup to drink, To turn their eyes away from hell And for the future think. But here, alas ! I'm left alone, In this the darker day, And all, save thee, my loving friend Have coldly turn'd away. And tho' I've wreck'd thy brightest hopes, And marred thy peaceful sky, I would that thou wouldst kneel and say, Forgive, before I die. Of thy devoton need I tell! rPespctiodoesbut.serve. frght my soul to-day.' Theiround my cold form quikly kneel And hear my last farewell. Foru am surely sinking down Intoa burning hell. And when I'm gone inter me deep In yonder darksome cave, And never let my children know I filled a DRUNKARD'S GRAvE. And at the stilly hour of eve, At twilight's deep'ning gloom, Bring flowers of every hue and kind And scatter o'er my tomb. Euman Zdfe, or the First and Last minute. MINUTEs PAss.-The anxious husband paces across his study. He is a father; a men child is born unto him. Minutes pass. The child has been blessed with a parent whom it cannot recognize; and pressed to that bosom to which instinct alone guides it for sustenance-the young wife, too, has faintly answered to the husband's questions, and felt his warm kiss on her forehead. HoUxis PAss.-The low meanings from the closely covered cradle, tell of the first want of its infant occupant. The quiet tread of the nurse speaks of suff'erings around her ; while her clad countenance says that the very suff'ering which she is trying to alleviate is a source of joy, and the nameless articles which, from time to time, she arranges on the hearth, tell ofa new claimant for the courtesies and atten dions of those who have progressed fur ther on the pathway of existence. DArs Pass.-Visitors are thronging the chamber; and the mother, pale and inter esting after her recent illness, is receiv'ing their congratulation and listening proudly to their praises of the little treasure, which lies asleep in its rocking bed at her feet. The scene shifts, and the father is there with her alone, as the twilight deepens around them, while they are planning the future destiny of their child. WEEKS PAss.-The eyes of the yung mother are sparkling with health, and the rose blooms again on her cheek, and the -cares of pleasure and home engage her attention, and the father is once more mingling with the world; yet they find many opportunities each day to visit the -young inheritor of life; to wvatch overhi dreamless slumbers-to trace each other's look in his countenance, and to ponder upon the felicity, of which he is the bearer to them. AfoNTBs PAss.--The cradle is deserted. Baut the chamber floor is strown with playthings, and there is a little one loiter* ing mong them whose half lisped words, and hearty laugh, and sunny countenance, tell yen that the entrance of life is over a pathway of flowers. YEAzs PAss.--Childhood is strengthen. ej into boyhood; and boyhood is gain. 'xled along into manhood. Old connec foss are broken-parents are sleeping in tieni graves, new intimacies are formed ,a naei home is about him; new cares dis .tract hi.-He is abroad struggling amid those whom he has chosen from his own generation. YEARS PAs.-His own children have become men, and are quitting him, as he also quitted the home of his father. MON-Ts PAss.-He gradually diminish es the circle of his activity. He dislikes to go abroad, when he finds so many new faces, and he grieves to meet his former companions, after a short absence, they seem to have grown so old and infirm. WEErs PAss.-Infermity keeps him in his chamber. His walks are limited to the small space between his easy chair and his bed. DAYs PAss.-The old man does not leave his bed-his memory is failing-he talks but cannot be understood-he asks questions, but they relate to the transac tions of a former generation-he speaks of occurrences, but the recollection of no one around him can go back to their scenes. HovRs PAss.-The taper grows dimmer and dimmer-the machinery moves yet more and more slowly-the sands are fewer as they measure the allotted span -the motion of those above him is un heeded or become a vexation-the " silver chord" is fast untwisting-the pitcher is broken at the fountain-and time "is a burthen." The course is run-and utter weakness brings the cold damp, which ushers in the night of death. hMINUTES PASS.-His breathing grows softer and slower-his pulse beats fainter and feebler. Those around him aie lis tening but cannot tell when they cease. The embers are burnt out, and the blaze flashes not before it expires. His " three score years and ten" are numbered. Hu man life is " finished." Shall we Submit, because South Caro lina is Small and Weak. The burthen of taxation will fall lighter upon the shoulders of our citizens, under an independent State government, than it does now, or ever has done in the Union. Is this doubted, and can a plausible reason be given to make the doubt worthy of be ing entertained.? The complaint of our lives has been, that we are robbed of the fruits of our labor, by a partial system of excessive taxation, which falls heaviest ,upon us of the South, and is -scarcely of ,a feathers weight upon the ..industry of 'the North. 'We of the South have sup. ported the extravagant profligacy of this government, and South Carolina pays ten times more than her just tribute to minis -ter to this bloated profligacy. Not half, scarcely one tenth of this tribute, now paid to this bloated tyrant, would be need ed by South Carolina to support a sepa rate government. The idea that the smallness of South Carolina as an objec tion to her separate existence, is a two penny* argument, hardly worth an argu. ment. To refuse it, let any one cast his eyes over' the map of Europe, and see what a large proportion of governments are smaller in extent of territory than South Carolina; and that their positions are not near so favorable fur a strong, peaceful and prosperous government as ours. Surrounded by monarchies and despotisms, Switzerland maintains her ex istence, without danger of being swallow ed up by the rapacity of h-er powerful neighbors. Holland, Denmark, Portugal, Belgium, and other small sovereignties in the heart of Europe, stand respected and respectable before the wodd, with no con stant fear of being crushed by more puis sant powers. They are among the oldest established Governments in Europe, and before nowv have measured their swvords, both on land and sea, with the giants of the earth. At this epoch, there are more reasons to apprehend civil wear within the borders of large States, than that small States will be crushed by the superior force'bf the large. Thisb is eminently so in the history of the past three or four years, and will be true, as far as concerns the United States, before very long, if disunion does not scatter the combustible materials nowv threatening momen tary- ig nition. Is it not known to all, that civil tear is a calamity ten-fold more to be dreaded thani other warsi Once strike fire in the Union, and no man will live to see, posterity won't see, the end of the conflagration that will burst from that spark. It will be a wvar betw~een races, sections, and religions-with fanatics on one side, holding a religious and political end that will fire and consume the worldl in its career, once let blood madden their brains. Disunion, separaie State seces sion, can now take place peaceably) and arrest and avert these threatened dalngers. -Abbeville Banner. A CAIFORNIAN writIng to one of his friends in New York, says. "You inform me that Dr. G. and others are crossing the Plains this season ; wvell, I am glad to hear of it, as " misery loves company," but if they do not buckle right in to hard wvork like honest men, they can't mess with this end of misery's crowd." SOMETHING GRAPHIC.-The following letter was written sonte time since by a boy down in Alabama to his father in Georgia: AIABAMxx, PIKF, CY., Jan 1851. Dear Daddy-Corn- is riz and brother Hlenry is dead likewise. Yours, omnip~otent, Jons~ McCLURE. To Cotton Planters. NEW ORLEAS, March 1. I desire through the columns of your widely circulated journal, to address a few in words to the Cotton Planters of the uth; and I trust there is not a pa per published in the Cotton region that will refuse to lav them before its readers for what they are worth. I would then address this body of men as follows: Gentlemen-You have lately wititessed an almost unprecedented decline in your preat staple, Cotton. For this decline, I assert without the fear of rational contra. diction, there exists no good and suficient cause. There is but one apparent cause -the increased receipts up to this date: but there is no man pretending to the slightest knowledge of the subject, who will say that there is anything in this fact simply, to indicate a larger crop than the almost universal estimate made some sixty or ninety days since of twenty-one or twenty-two hundred thousand bales. What, then, is the cause of this decline? It, in my opinion, results from a regular and systematic combination on the part of the English manufacturers, and their aids, to depress the article-which is the most desirable object in the world to them -and for this opinion I offer the follow ing reasons. Judge, then, for yourselves. It is believed by many, even in Liver pool-men quite as honest as those who are intrusted with taking an account of the Cotton there on the first of January -that the stock was falsely reported, and not to be relied -upon ; in plain words, that it was not as large as it was given out to be. Having got thus far, the manufacturers, aided by the Bank, (for Cotton is the life blood of England, and the cheaper the more nourishing,) and others interested, proceeded to effect their purpose of low ering the price of Cotton in this manner: It is known that they are literally without stock; in other words, thatthey are work ing from hand to mouth, but they report five hundred thousand bales in Liver pool, and then, instead of purchasing their supplies there, they leave that market to sink by its own weight, and send here to -buy juat-barely-enug -to -epireir&mills going. The effect of this course is plain and certain. The holders of Cotton in Liverpool-speculaters and shippers--find no demand for it there, and of course the article rapidly declines, and is followed by a still more rapid decline with us. Having gotten up this decline, and conse quent panic, from which it is hard for us to recover, they have from sixty to ninety days to purchase the bulk of Cotton at low prices, which they generally succeed in doing: and this is repeated, year by year, as it becomes necessary. And now, gentlemen, is there a man amongst you so dull as not to see the keen art and teri ble potency of the tactics, and the entire practicability of carrying them into effect by such a body as the manufacturers of Manchester? You have felt, and are feel ing, their effects to your hearts' content. Nor can any man give you any other rea. son why Cotton, that was worth thirteen cents sixty days since, should now be worth but nine and a half cents, and which will be worth thirteen three months hence? Gentlemen, I have given you but one specimen of legerdemain ; many more could be produced If these be facts and I see not how they can de denied might it not with propriety be asked how long you intend enduring this dis graceful vassalage to another people disgraceful to your self-esteem as men, and destructive to your interests? How long, by refusing to protest an interest at home, whieh would be antagonistic to this, and conscqnently friendly to you, will you be ruled and laughed at by thdse Who de light to prey upon you? You have the remedly in your own hands whiendver you dare to use it.-N. 0. Crescent. A WoMAN OF F~~w WORDs.-A Jour nalizer in California makes the following entry: "I encountered, to-day, in a ravine, some three miles distant, among the gold wash ers, a woman from San Jose. She was at work with a large wvooden bowl, by the side of a stream. I asked her how long she had been there, and how much gold she averaged a day. She replied, "'Three weeks and an ounce." Her reply reminded me of an anecdote of the late Judge B--, who met a girl returning frg market, and asked lier, "IHowv deep did you find the streami and what did you get for your butter ?" " Up to the knee and niniepenicm," was the reply. "Ahi !" said the Judge to himself, "she is the girl for me: no words lost there;"' turned back, proposed, was accepted, and married the next week; and a more hap py couple the conjugal bonds never uni tid, t'ie nuptial lamp never waned; its ray was steady and clear to the last. Ye who paddle off and dn f'or seven geai-, and are at last capsized, take a lesson of the Judge. That "up to the knee and ninepence" is worth all the rdse letters and melancholy rhynles ever penned." LoRNzo Dow once said of' it grasp ing, avaricious farmer, that if he had the whole world enclosed in a single field, he would not be content without a patch of ME. CALuoVA--WonKs.-We under stand (says the '(0Pumbia Carolinian, of the 11th inst.) th4. Mr. Cralle has com pleted the stereot3pe plates for the execu tion of the first 0 these works. It. is stated that the fi, volume will comprise Mr. Calhoun's e orate Disquisition on Government, an .a Discourse- on the Constitution and overnment of the Uni ted States, in whhare displayed in a systen-1tic mannet the author's opinions upon the whole su ect of the phylosophy e '-,p ment. hose treaties, it is un derstood, we . any years ago, and though the d no ived the ultimate revision w ch was intende are very complet and by the careful and judicious edi of Mr. Cralle, his intimate friend an ufidential secretary, will perhaps appe perfect in all their parts as if re-wri n by Mr. Calhoun himself. The seri f the entire works of this great man, to' er with his biogra phy, written by Cralle, will, it is thought, be embrac in six volumes. [Charleston Sun. A LIFE-BoAT, novel in its design, has been invented England. It has air-tight seats all nd the side, but the bottom consists of en work of iron, so that the water p freely through, and even wets the feet' the rowers. The advantage is, that- e water inside and outside- is on the me level, and the boat is ballasted a kept upright by the water itself. TE3 STORT Z. zVRn. WE give our r , to-day, the Story of LE FEVE, tak om STERNE's Tuis TRAM SHANDY. I long been regarded the gem of that an 's productions. The style, in places, pa es, rather too much, of the affected q ess of the narra tive upon which it engrafted. Divest yourself of any it prejudice this may awaken, and read tively the follow ing, and you will owledgeat the end, that a better sto never better told. -[ED. It'was-a summer ft year in which DNa "'nd was'taken by the allies,-which was about seven years before my father came into the country, -and about as many after the time that my uncle Toby and Trim had privately decamped from my father's house in town, in order to lay some of the finest sieges to some of the finest fortified cities in Eu rope ;-when my uncle Toby waL one evening getting his supper, with Trim sit ting behind him at a small sideboard,-I say, sitting,-for in consideration of the Corporal's lame knee (which sometimes gave him exquisite pain)-when my uncle Toby dined or supped alone, he would never suffer the Corporal to stand ; and the poor fellow's veneration for his mas ter was such, that, with a proper artillery, my uncle Toby could have taken Den dermond itself with less trouble than lie was able to gain his point over him ; for many a time, when my uncle Toby sup posed the Corporal's leg was at rest, lie would look back, and detect him standing behind him with the most dutiful respect. -This bred more little squabbles be twixt them, than all other causes, for five and twenty years together. But this is neither here nor there-why do I mention it ? Ask my pen ; it governs me,-I go vern not it. He was one evening sitting thus at his supper, when the landlord of a little inn in the village, camne into the parlor with an empty phial in his hand, to beg a glass or two of sack. "'Tis for a poor gentle man, I think, of the army," said the land lord, " who has been taken ill at my house rour days ago, and has never held up his head since, or had a desire to taste any thing, till just now, that he has a fancy for a glass of sack, and a thin toast. " I think," says he, taking his hand from his head, " it would comfort me." " If I dild neither beg, borrow, or buy such a thing," added the landlord, "I wvould almost steal it for tho poor gentle. man, he is so ill. I hope in God he will still mend," continued he ; " we are all of us concerned for him." " Thou art a good-natured soul, I will answer for thee," cried my uncle Toby; " and thou shalt drink the poor gentle man's health in a glass of sack thyself, -and take a couple of~ bottles, with my service, and tell him hoe heartily welcome to them, and to a dozen more, if they will do him good." " Though I am persuaded," said my uncle Toby, as the landlord shut the door, "he is a very compassionate fellow, Trim, yet I cannot help entertaining a high opinion of his guest too. There nmust be something more than Common in him, that, in so short a time, should win so much upon the affections of his host ." " And of his whole family," added the Corporal, "for they are all concerned for him." " Step after him," said ify uncle Toby, " do, Trim; and ask if he knows his naine." " I have quite forgot it truly," said' the landlord, coming hack into the parlor with the Corporal; but I can askc his son again. "Has-he a son with him, then I" said my uncle Toby. " A boy," replied the landlord, " of about eleven or twelve years of ago: but the. poor etrie has. tasted almost as little as his father: he does nothing but mourn and lament for him night and day. He has not stirred from the bed-side these two days." My uncle Toby laid down his knife and fork, and thrust his plate from before him, as the landlord gave him the account; and Trim, without being ordered, took it away without saying one word, and, in a few. minutes after, brought him his pipe and tobacco. " Stay in the room a little," said my uncle Toby. " Trim !" said my uncle Toby, after he lighted his pipe, and smoked about a do zen whiffs. Trim came in front of his mas e , d made his bow; my uncle To by smokedo , nd said no more. " Corpo ral!" said my uncle " - the Corporal made his iow. My uncle o . eeed ed no further, bat finished his pipe. " Trim!" said my unle Toby, "1 have a project in my head, as it is a bad night, of wrapping myself up warm in my ro quelaure, and paying a visit to this poor gentleman." "Your Honor's roquelaure," replied the Corporal, "has not once been had on, since the night before your Honor received your wound, when we mounted guard in the trenches before the gate of St. Nicholas; and, besides, it is so cold and rainy a night, that what with the ro quelaure, and -what with weather, 'twill be enough to give your Honor your death, and bring on your Honor's torment in your groin." "1 fear so," replied my uncle Toby; " but I am not at rest in my mind, Trim, since the account the land lord has given me." " I wish 1 had not known so much of this affair," added my uncle Toby, " or that I had known more of it. How shall we manage it 1" " Leave it, an' please your Honor, to me," quoth the Corporal. "I'll take my hat and stick, and go to the house and reconnoi tre, and act accordingly ; and I will bring your Honor a full account in an hour." " Thou shalt go, Trim," said my uncle Toby, " and here's a shilling for thee to drink with his servant." "I shall get it all out of him," said the Corporal, shut ting the door. M.y uncle Toby filled his r - ai4 r6om the oinlftino rin); whether it was not full ts iell to have the curtain of the tenaille a straight line, as a crooked one,-he might be said to have thought of inothing else but poor Le Fevre and his boy the whole time he smoked it. It was not till my uncle Toby had knocked the ashes out of his third pipe, that Corporal Trim returned from the inn, and gave him the following account ; "I despaired at first, " said the Corpo ral, " of being able to bring back your Honor any kind of intelligence concern ing the poor sick lieutenant." " Is he in the army then ?" said my uncle Toby. "He is,'" said the Corporal. "And in what regiment?" said my uncle Toby. " I'll tell your Honor," replied the Corpo. ral, "every thing straight-forwards, as I learnt it." " Then, Trim, I'll fill another pipe," said my uncle Toby, "and not in terrupt thee, till thou hast done; so sit down at thy ease, Trim, in the window seat, and begin thy story again." The Corporal made his old bow, which gene rally spoke as plain as a bow could speak it-Your Honor is good :-And having done that, he sat down, as he was order ed, and began thme story to my uncle To by over again, in pretty near the same words. "I despaired at first," salid the Corpo ral, " of being able to bring back any in telligence to your Honor, about the lieut. and his son :-for, when I asked where his servant was, from whom I made my self sure of knowing every thing wvhich was proper to be asked,"-(" That's a right distinction, Trim," said my uncle Toby") " I was answered, an' please your Honor, that lie had no servant with him ; that J'o had conme to the inn with hired horses, which, upon finding himself unable to proceed, (to join, I suppose, the regiment) he had dismissed the morning he came." " If I get better, my dear," said he, as he gave his purse to his sori to pay the man, -" we can hire horses from hence." "But alas! the poor gentleman wi'll never go from hence," said the landlady to me, " for I heard the death-watch all night long ; and, w~hien he dies, the youth, his son, will certainly die with him; for he is broken-hearted already." " I was hearing this account," continu ed the Corporal, " when the youth camne into the kitchen, to order the thin toast the landlord spoke or:"-" but I wvill do it for my father, myself," said the youth. " Pray let me save you the trouble, young gentleman," said I, " taking up a fork for the purpose, and offering him my chair to sit down upon by the fire, wvhilst I did it." " I believe, Sir," said he, ver'y modestly, "I can please him best myself." "1I anm sure," said I, "his Honor wvill not like the toast thle worse for being toasted by an old soldier. The youth took hold of nmy band, and instantly burst into tears" " Poor youth!" saidnmy uncle Toby ; "he has been bred up from an irifant in 0ie army ; and the rianie of a soldier, Trim, sounded in his ear likce the name of a friend !-I wish I had him. here." " I never, in the longest march," said eli Corpraln "had an grat a mind for. my dinner, as I had to cry with him for company:-What could be the matter with me, an' please your Honor 1" " No thing in the world, Trim," said my uncle Toby, blowing his nose,-" but that thou art a good-natured fellow." " When I gave him the toast," continu ed the Corporal, " I thought it was proper to tell him, I was Captain Shandy's ser vant, and that your Honor (though a stranger) was extremely concerned for his father; and that if there was any thing in your house or cellar-" And thou might'st have added my purse too," said my uncle Toby-he was heartily wel come to it. He made a very' low bow (whi.ch was meant to your Honor) but no answer; for his heart was full: so he went up stairs with the toast." "I war rant you, my dear," said I, as I opened kitchen-door, "your father will be well again. n. ' 's curate was smoking a pipe by the kitchen-fir , ut said not a word, good or bad, to com o youth. I thought it wrong," added the Corporal. " I think so too," said my uncle Toby. " When the lieutenant had taken his glass of sack and toast, he felt himself a little revived, and seat down into the kitchen, to let me know, that in about tan minutes, he should be glad if I would step up stairs." "I believe," said the land lord, " he is going to say his prayers, for there was a book laid upon the chair by his bcd-side, and as I shut the door, I saw his son take up a cushion." " I thought," said the curate, " that you gentlemen of the army, Mr. Trim, never said your prayers at all." " I heard the poor gentleman say his prayers last night," said the landlady, "very devoutly, and with my own ears, og I could not have believed it." " Are you sure of it -" re plied the curate. " A soldier, an' please your Reverence," said I, " prays as often (of his own accord) as a parson; and when he is fighting for his king, and for his own life, and for his honor toohe has the most reason to pray to, Godof any one in the whole world." "'Twas 'eli said of the$ Trim,'i mimpl twlve liours ge li" tie c #eft to his kneew in cold water,-or hngged,* said I, " for months together, in long d dangerous marches; harassed, perhapir' in his rear to-day; harassing othersto morrow; detached here; countermanded there; resting this night out upon his arms; beat up in his shirt the next; be numbed in his joints; perhaps without straw in his tent to kneel on; must say his prayers how and when he can." " I be lieve," said T, " for I was piqued," quoth the Corporal, for the reputation of the army, -" I believe, an' please your Reverence," said I, " that when a soldier gets time to pray,-he prays as heartily as a parson -though not with all his fuss and hypo crisy." "Thou shouldst not have said that, Trim," said my uncle Toby,-" for God only knows who is a hypocrite, and who is not:-At the great and general review of us all, Corporal, at the day of judgement, (and not till then)-'t will be seen who have done their duties in this world,-and who have not; and we shall be advanced, Trim, accordingly." "I hope we shall," said Trim. " It is in the scripture," said my uncle Toby ; " and I will show it thee to-morrow. In the mean time we may depend upon it, Trm, for our comfort," said my uncle Toby, " that God Almighty is so good and just a go vernor of the world, that if we have but done our duties in it,-it will never be in quired into, whether we have done them in a red coat or a black one." "I hope not," said the~ Corporal. " But go on, Trim," said my uncle Toby, " with the story." " Whet1 I went up," continued the Corporal, "into the lieutenant's room, which I did not do till the expiration of the ten minutes,-he was lying in his bed, with his head raised upon his hand, with his elbow upon his pillow, and a clean white cambric handkerchief beside it. TIhe youth was just stooping down to take up the cushion, upon which, I supposed, he had been kneeling; the booky was laid up on the bed; and as he rose, in taking up the cushion with one hand, ho reached out his other to take it awvay at the same time." "Let it remain there, my dear," said the lieutenant. "lHe did not offer to speak~ to me, tillI had walked up close to his bed-side." "If you are Captain Shandy's servant," said he, " you must present my thanks to your master, with my little boy's thanks along with them, for his courtesy to mec." " If he was of Levens's," said the lieutenant. " I told him your Honor was." " Then," said he, " I served three cantilinigns wvith him in Flanders, and remember him,-but 'ts most likely, as I had not the honor of any acquaintance with him, that he knows nothing of me. You wvill tell him, how ever; that the person his good-nature has laid undler obligationis to him, is one Le Fea lieutenant in Angus's ; but he knowvs me not,"-sai he a second time, musing; " possibly he may my story," added ho. " Pray tell the captain, I was :he ensign at breda, whose wife wvas most mnfortunately killed with.a musket-shot, is she lay in my arms in my tent." "I -emember the story, an' please your Ho mo," said 1, "very well." " Do you so ? said he, wiping his eyes with his hand kerchief,-" then well may I." "-1 iay ing this, he drew a little- riig out of hii bosom, which seemed tied with &alack, ribbon about his neck, and kissedit teice." "Hero, Billy," said he; - the- boy flew across the room to the 1ed-_ieiif and'1!7 ing down upon his knees, tookthe-ring in his hand, and kissed it'i, ohen kiksia his father, and sat down upozi the bed.and wept. "I wish," said my uncle- Toby,.wiUh w. - deep sigh,-"I wish, Trim, I waeasleep."' " Your Honor," replied tbe'Corpora. "is too much concerned. " Shall I pour out your Honor a glass of dlis; to, your pipe I" " Do, Trim," sai4 iy~ un6lbr Toby. "I remember," said my uncle .Tob;. sighing again, "the story. of the' e6 i' and his wife, with a cl-Cui I desty omitted- and particuliil' a-r he, as Vel1 as she, up'o sou4.e nt'b thei, (I forget what) 'ss -ioii- *ll ': Pitie whole regiment;%fyish!i story-thou artu . ,. ready," said the .Corp'l, longer; so wished his Honora Young Ie Fevie rose from o 1bif' and saw me to the botto - of: the'ittad and as we went down t gthit Ufd'i. they hd come frori2 Ir elaid,ad their route to join the reginTeiat% 1 ders." "But alas!" sad 'th - C I " the lieutenant's last :dajei nii ki over !" " Then what i tp 7 1neb WhTV poor boy I" cried my uncleToby. . . a -a *o-e * It was to my uncle Toby's etei-del hon or,-though I tell it only -for thesikfW those who, when coop'd in betwikt's nM4W ural and a positive law, know no'fdt their souls, which wayin the" dri t6b turn thjmselves,-That izdt Wtstaitii' my une Toby was warml' - izgl that time in carrying on the.sei &W dermond, parallel with the Alies, 11W pressed theirs so vigorou sy,: it hW scarce allowed him time to efinWn . -that-nerertheless he eiME~W 1P. leferf ~Dened~t~ Iievd&oubtyt' Titiali 61,'Es* French king thoughtgood; andionly co' sidered how he hindlf lio -ele tho poor lieutenant and his s -m -That king Being; who'is. 'ietMto [the friendless, shall recoripetisheb fox this. "Thou has left this matter sloj igaid: my uncle Toby to the Cotporal, as- he' was putting him to bed, "and I will tell' the in what, Trim!'-" In the fz'tplace, when thou mad'st an offer of my s'eitbes to Le Fevre,-as sickness and trivellling are both expensive, and thou kno\v't'he' was but a poor lieutenant, with 'a soh to subsist as well as himself, out of his psy,. --that thou didst not make an :offer to) him of my purse; because, had'he-stoodl in need ; thou knowest, Trim, he had been as welcome to it as myself." "Y6tif Honor knows," said the Corporaly "e had no orders." " True," quoth my.,tsg cle Toby,-" thou didst very right, Trin as a soldier,-but certainly very wrong s a man - " In the second place, for which,ini3'd, thou hast the same excuse," co~in my uncle Toby,--" when thou ofleres him whatever was in my house, thon' shouldst have offered .him mydhouse foo. A riek brother officer should have the-bat quarters, Trim; and if wve had him *i'i us,-we could tend and look to liiW-. Thou art an excellent nurse thyself Trit,. and what with thy care of him, .and ther old woman's, and his boy's, and mine to gether, wve might recruit him again 'at avce, and set him upon his legs." " In a fortnight or three weeksj 5de X my uncle Toby, smiling,-" he': MtI march." " He will never miar ani' please your Honor, in the wiorld, said the Corporal. "He wvill march, said my uncle Toby, "ri~sing up from the sidd b the bed with one shoe off." "A?* pease your Honor," said the Corporal, "lie will never march, but to his grave' - " He shall march," cried my unidle- Toby, marching the foot wvhich had a disse on, though without advanciug an inlia'is shall march to his regiment. He innhiot stand it," said the Corporal. " Ho shal be supported," said my. uddi: TFoby. " He'll drop at last," -said the Cos'poral, and what will become of -big boy.I "-He shall not drop," said -in daelt Toby, firmly. " A-well-a-day! dv wat we can for him," said Trim, maintiiikhis point, -" the poor soul will die:" "'He shall not die, by G--," crie4l tuh. Cncle. Toby. The accusing spirit whicidlew up-to Heaven's chandety' with the oath, blush'd as ho gave it in ; and the recording ngel, as lhe wrote it-down, dropp'd a fear upon the wvord, atnd blotted it out for ever. . 0 0 0 0 *0 0 My uncle Toby went to his bureau, put his purse into his breechmeepocket, and haying ordered ,the~ Corporal .to'go sarly in the morning-for s.physiciau,-hae went to bed, and fell asleep. The sun looked bright the morning af-~ ter, to every eye in the village but Le Fe mens and his ted san'w: the hii of,