Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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I 1 ' " .' " '1 :.. - 1 . '. - ^ | - - - j ; -: i ; . n: r ' ."_ & -' 8amxVmmelton | proprietors. An Independent Journal: For the Promotion of the Political, Social, Agricultural and (Jommercial Interests of the South. j lewis m. grist, pnbii?h?. v ' ' / _ < . i i VOL.3. YOEKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, FEBEUAEY 19,1857. NO.7, L. - in ..., ..I....,.,,,,.., CJjmce f0ttrg. THE COTTAGE BY THE GLEN. Many years have glided by me, Since I stood beside the stream, Which vrent bubbling o'er the pebbles, Happy in my boyish dream. My heart wajs light aud joyous? It hail felt no sorrow then, And each day came fraught with pleasure, To the cottage by the glen. I remember well the school-mates, Who were happy with me there; How we roamed the field together, And plucked the flowers fair. Every hill-sido we had clambered, A ?1,Arn ?>a? n rrn in XOV WC WUU1VU U1CUI V Vi ugaili , And ct night our laugh was merry, In the cottage by the glen. I remember well the grave yard, With its briar-woven wall; And the church that stood close by it, ^ " With its spire, grim aHd tall. Oft we sported on the verdure, Mid the graves of buried men; Never dreaming time was fleeting, In the cottage by the glen. I remember well the duck pond, And the rushes by its side; Where the croaking frog I pelted, Cruel in my boyish pride. I remember too, I planted By its side a willow, then ; Itis now a towering ginut, Near the cottage by the glen. I remember too, the sisters "And the brothers with me there ; How we gathered in a circle, At the evening hour of prayer. But that circle now is broken, Broken, ne'er to meet again; - - One, alas! in death is sleeping, Near the cottage by the glen. I have suffered many changes, Sfnce'I loft that happy spot; Many scenes of joy I've numbered, Yet I can forget it not. And often 'mid the bustle, And the strife of busy men, | My heart turns sadly, fondly, ' To the cottage by the glen. Saks sf % Jfrontier. From G***ham's Magazine. KNIFE AND TOMAHAWK. BY A WESTERN MAN. About thirty niiles below the present city , of Pittsburg, stood an ancient fort, known , as Fort Mcintosh. It was built by a revolu- , tionary general of that name, iu the sum- . p ? o ti c i:_ Ujer UI X I I O. At was uuc ui a nuo ui iualo, < which was intended to guard the people who j lived south of tho Ohio river, from the incursions of the savages to the northward. This fort was one of the favorite resorts of ( the great Indian spy aud hunter, Captain , Samuel Brady. Although his usual headquarters was Pittsburg, then consisting of a , rude fort and a score or two of rough fron- , tier tenements. 1 Brady had emigrated westward, or rather had marched thither in 1778, as a lieutenant in the distinguished Eighth Pennsylva- i nia Regiment, under the command of Geueral Richard Broadhead, of Easton. When, in the spring of 1770, Mcintosh retired from i command in the West, Broadhead succeeded him, and remained at Pittsburg until j 1781. Shortly after his advent to the west, Brady was brevetted Captain. i Brady bad served at the siege of Boston, i fought at Long Island and White Plains, i gone through the whole of the terrible cam- i paign of Trenton and Princeton, suffered at 1 Valley Forge, distinguished himself at Ger- i man town and Brandywine, and narrowly es- i caped death at Paoli. But his tastes led him to the erratic mode of warfare known upon < the frontier. Indeed, his early education upon the upper Susquehanna had inculcated j and developed those tastes from the very earliest boyhood. Hating an Indian with that instinctive hatred, which is begotten in the bosom of the white race, by long years of contest and outrage, a bitter intensity was imparted to the feeling in his case by the murder of his father and younger brother by 'the Indians, under trying and terrible circumstances. Having promised this much by way of introduction, it brings us to the opening of our story. On the 21st day of August, 1779, Brady set out from Fort Mcintosh, for Pittsburg. He had with him two of his trusty and well-tried followers. These were not ' attached to the regular army, as he was, but N were scouts and spies, who had been with him upon many an expedition. They were ! Thomas Bevington and Benjamin Biggs 1 Brady resolved to follow the northern bank ; of the Ohio. Biggs objected to this, upon the ground as Brady well knew, that the I ^ woods were swarming with savages. Brady, ! i '** however, had resolved to travel by the old | Indian path, and having once made up his ' mind, no consideration could deter him from carrying out his determination. Bevington i had such implicit faith in his ability to lead, that he never thought of questioning his will. Quite a discussion arose between Biggs i and his captain at the mouth of Beaver river, ; about a mile above the fort, and where they must cross the Ohio, if they continued upon the northern side. Biggs finally yielded his , objections, and they crossed Beaver, and j proceeded with the habitual caution of woods-1 men who fully understand their busiucss. They had started early, and by rapid travelling they had reached, ere noon came, the last piece of bottom land on the north side of the river, just below what is known as the Narrows. Upon this bottom a pioneer, more dariDg than most others, had built a cabin, j and oDened a small snot of cleared land. i ~ X" * He had planted it in com, and it gave promise of a most abundant harvest. "But, as they approached the edge of the Clearing, just outside of the fence, Brady H^Kdiscovered "Indian signs," as he called them. His companions discovered them almost as C( quick as he, and at once, in low tone.s, com- c< municated to each other the necessity for a a] keen watch. They slowly trailed them along N the side of the fence toward the house, whose ai situation they well knew, until they stood vi upon the brow of the bluff bank which over- tl looked it. A sight of the most terrible de- oi scription met their eyes. The cabin lay a k mass of smouldering ruins; from whence a ei dull blue smoke arose in the clear August w sunshine. They observed closely everything tl about it. Brady knew it was customary for li the Indians after they had fired a settler's ci cabin, if there was no immediate danger, to retire to the woods close at hand, and watch ti / ^ i p t /?i. p lor tneapproacn or any meiuoer onne iann- vi iy who might chance to be absent when they tl made the descent. Not knowing but that it they were even then lying close by, he left a( Bevington to watch the ruins, lying under tl cover, whilst he proceeded to the northward, lo and Biggs southward, to make discoveries, tl; Both were to return to Bevington, if they 01 found no Indians. If they came across the ec perpetrators, and they were too numerous to ra be attacked regularly, Brady declared it to te be his purpose to have one fire at them, and ? that should be the signal for both of his fol in lowers to make the best of their way to the hi fort. All this rapidly transpired, and with Bra- B dy to decide, was to act. As he stole cau- m tiously round to the northern side of the in- si closure, he heard a voice in the distance sing- fit ing. He listened keenly, and soon discov- ta ered from its intonations, that it was a white w man's. He passed rapidly in the direction w whence thesound came. As itapproached, he ht hid himself behind the trunk of a large tree, se Presently a white man, riding a fine horse, th came slowly down the path. The form was w; that of Albert Gray, the stalwart, brave, devil-may-care settler, who had built him a sp home miles away from the fort, where no one th would dare to take a family, except himself, in Brady wore, as he almost always did, the uj Indian garb, and had war paint upon his ih face. He knew that if he showed himself th ' -i <*i I i -1 l ._i 1 ? upon tne pain, uray wouiu snoot, raning, ?> him to be an Indian. lie therefore suffered ni Gray quietly to approach his lurking place, w When the time came, he sprang forward ere to the settler could have time to prepare, drew H his tomahawk, and seizing him, dragged him an from his horse. As he did so, he whispered so to him : "I am Captain Brady, for God's pi sake be quiet." er Gray, with the instinctive feeling of one co who knew there was danger, and with that vivid presence of mind which characterizes w< those acquainted with frontier life, ceased ot it once to struggle. The horse had been st< started by the sudden onslaught, and sprung ntJ to one side. Ere he had time to leap for- ca ward, Brady had caught him by the bridle. aP His loud snorting threatened to arouse any 1 one who was near. The Captain soon soothed the frightened animal into quiet. . ac G ray now hurriedly asked Brady what the ^ danger was. The strong, vigorous spy, turned away his face unable to answer him |ro The settler's already excited fears were thus j turned into realities. The manly form shook ] in like an aspen leaf, with emotion tears fell W( 11s large drops of water over his bronzed face. re Brady permitted the indulgence for a mo- T1 ment, whilst he led the horse into a thicket Pa close at hand and tied him. When he re- to turned Gray had sunk to the earth and Hi great tremulous convulsions writhed over ce him. Brady quietly touched him upon the re shoulder and said, "Come." He at once irose, and had gone but a few yards until cli every trace of emotion had apparently van- fo ished. He was no longer the bereaved bus-1 gi band and father lie was the sturdy, well- j of trained hunter, whose ear and eye were I m acutely alive to every sight or sound, the j cr waving of a leaf or the crackling of the small-1 su est twig. pi He desired to proceed directly toward the be house, but Brady objected to this, and they at r>necni4 rtnwn fntcnrft frhn riVPl' hnnh. As . m they proceeded, they saw from the tracks of horses and moccasin prints upon the places ^ where the earth was moist, that the party Ti was quite a numerous one. After thorough- Jto ly examining every cover and possible place ' th of concealment, they passed on to the south-1 ward aud came back in that direction to the i t'1 spot where Beviogton stood sentry. When j s'! they reached him they found that Biggs had not returned. Iu a few minutes he came.? j He reported that the trail was large and : si: broad; the Indians had taken no pains to | pi conceal tbeiriraeks?they simply had struck ; fe back into the country, so as to avoid com- j di ing in contact with the spies whom they sup- j or posed to be lingering along the river. I in The whole four now went down to the ; pi cabin and carefully examined the ruins. Af- j th ter a long and minute search, Brady deelar- ; hi ed in an authoritative manner, that none of <*r I ? the inmates had been consumed. This au- (tw uouneement at once dispelled the most bar-. hi rowing feara^f CI ray. As soon as all that in could be allcovercd had been ascertained, uj each one of the party proposed some course so of action. One desired to go to Pittsburg j dc and obtain assistance?another thought it1 ? i best to return to -Mcintosh and get some j cc vnlnnteors thorp?ltrnilv listened natientlv or J L 1 tu both these propositions, but arose quickly, j ca after talking a moment apart with Biggs, j er and said, "Come." 11} Gray and Bcvington obc)*ed at once, nor ;111 did Biggs object. Brady struck the trail . and began pursuit in that tremendous rapid j th manner for which he was so famous. It was j ai evident that if the savages were overtaken, i w it could only be done by the utmost exertion. They were some hours ahead, and from the of number of their horses must be nearly all b< mounted. Brady felt that if they were not fe overtakcu that night, pursuit would be ut- ( ki terly futile. It was evident that this band : ot had been south of the Ohio and plundered ; Si the homes of other settlers. They had poun- hi ced upou the family of Gray upon their re- G turn. to When the pursuit began, it must have w been two o'clock, at least two hours had been at msumed by the spies in making the nc;ssary exploration about the house, ere they pproached it, and in examining the ruins, ot a word was spoken upon the route by iy one. Their leader kept steadily in adince. Occasionally he would diverge frotn te track, but only to take it up again a mile r so in advance. The Captain's intimate nowledge of the topography of the country, jabled him to anticipate what points they ould make. Thus he gained rapidly upon lem by proceeding more nearly in a straight ne toward the point at which they aimed to oss Beaver River. At last, convinced from the general direcon in which the trail led, that he could dime with absolute certainty the spot where ley would ford that stream, he abandoned and struck boldly across the country. The ;curacy of his judgment was vindicated by le fact, that from an elevated crest of a ng line of hills, he saw the Indians with icir victims just disappearing up a ravine i the opposite side of the Beaver. lie count1 them as they slowly filed away under the ys of the declining sun. There were thiren warriors, eight of whom were mounted -another woman, besides Gray's wife, was i the cavalcade, aDd two children besides is?in all, five children. The odds seemed fearful to Biggs and evington ; although Brady made no cotncnts. The moment they had passed out of ght, Brady again pushed forward with uuigging energy, nor did his followers hesite. There was not a man among them hose muscles were not tense and rigid as hip-cord, from exercise and training, from lrdship and exposure. Gray's whole form eraed to dilate into twice its natural size at ie sight of his wife and children. Terrible as the vengenance he swore. Just as the sun set, the spies forded the lies forded the stream and began to ascend ie ravine. It was evident that the Indians tended to camp for the night some distance )a small creek or run, which debouches to Beaver River, about three miles from c location of Fort Mcintosh, and two bcw the ravine. The spot, owing to the pcnsular form of the tongue of land lying est of the Reaver, at which they expected encamp, was full ten miles from that fort, ere there was a famous spring, so deftly id cunningly situated in a deep dell, and densely inclosed with thick mountain nes, that there was little danger of discovy! Even they might light a fire and it uld not be seen one hundred yards. The proceedings of their leader, which )uld have bceu totally inexplicable to all hers, were partially, if not fully underaod by his followers. At least they did it hesitate or question him. When dark me, Brady pushed forward with as much iparent certainty as he had done during c day. So rapid was his progress, that c Indians had but just kindled their fire id cooked their meal, when their mortal e, whose presence they dreadcd-as much as at of the small-pox, stood upon a huge ek looking down upon them. Ilis party had been left a short distance the rear, at a convenient spot, whilst he jnt forward to reconnoitre. There they maincd impatiently for three mortal hours, bey discussed in low tones the extreme disrity of the force the propriety of going get assistance. But all agreed that if rady ordered them to attack, success was rtaiu. However impatient they were, lie hirnpd nt. Inst. lie described to them how the women and lildrcn lay within the centre of a cresent rined by the savages as they slept. Their ins were stacked upon the right, and most their tomahawks. The .arms were not ore than fifteen feet from them. lie had awled within fifty feet of them, when the ortings of the horses, occasioned by the ap oach of a wild beast, had aroused a nurn:r of the savages from their light slumbers, id he had been compelled to lie quiet for ore than an hour until they slept again. He then told them that he would attack em. It was impossible to use fire arms, hey must depend solely upon the kuifr and mahawk. The knife must be placed in e left hand and the tomahawk in the right. 3 Biggs lie assigned the duty of securing eir arms. He was to begin the work of iughter upon the right, Gray upon the ft, and Bevington in the centre. After each fairly understood the duty aslined him, the slow, difficult, hazardous ap oach began. They continued upon their ct until they had gotten within one hun cd yards of the foe, and then lay down upi their bellies and began the work of writhg themselves forward like a serpent apoaching a victim. They at last reached e very verge of the line, each man was at s post, save Biggs, who had the farthest to >. Just as he passed Brady's position, a tig cracked roughly under the weight of body, and a huge savage, who lay withthe reach of Gray's tomahawk, slowly sat 3 as if startled into this posture by the und. After rolling his eyes, he again lay iwn and all was still. Full fifteen minutes passed ere Biggs raov1; then he slowly went on. When he reach1 his place, a very low hissing sound indiited that he was ready, Brady in turn rcitated the sound as a signal to Gray and evington to begin. This they did in the ost deliberate manner. No nervousness as permissible then. They slowly felt for ie heart of each savage they were to stab, id then pluuged the knife. The tomahawk as not to be used unless the knife proved efficient. Not a sound broke the stillness ' the night as they cautiously felt and stab;d, unless it might be that one who was eling would hear the -stroke of the other's aife and the groan of the victim whom the her had slain. Thus the work proceeded, is of the savages were slain. One of them id not been killed outright by the stab of ray. lie sprang to his feet, but as he arose i shout his war cry, the tomahawk finished hat the knife had begun. He staggered id fell heavily forward, over one who had . not yet been reached. He in turn started up, but Brady was too quick, his knife reached his heart and the tomahawk his brain almost at the same instant. All were slain by the three spies, except one. Jle started to flee, but a rifle shot by Biggs rang merrily out upon the night air and closed his career. The woman and children, alarmed by the contest, fled wildly to the woods; but when all had grown still and they were called, they returned, recognizing , amid their fright the tones of their own people. The whole party took up their march for Mcintosh at once. About suurise next morning the sentries of the fort were surprised to s-o the cavaf.-b\!e of horses, men, women and children, approaching the fort. When they recognized Brady, they at once admitted him and the whole party. In the relation of the circumstances afterward, Bcviugton claimed to have killed thrf*r> nnrl fJr.iv thrpr* Thus Brndv. whn claimed nothing, must have slain at least six, whilst the other two slew ns many. The thirteenth Biggs shot. From that hour to this, the spring is called the "Bloody Spring !" and the small run is called, "Brady's Bun." Few, even of the most curious of the people living in the neighborhood, know aught of the circumstances which conferred these names which will be preserved by tradition forever. Thus ' ended one of the very many hand-to-hand fights which the great spy had with the savages. His history is fuller of daring incident, sanguinary, close, hard contests, pcrlious explorations and adventurous escapes, thau that of either of the Hetzels, of Boone or Kenton. lie saw more service than any of them, and his name was known as a byeword of terror among the Indian tribes, from the Susquehanna to Lake Michigan. ! > ? A FRONTIER SCENE. About seven miles noytl) of Ilopkinsville, 111 ivcntucKy, is a very rcmarKame spot. 4 solitary post oak stands in the barrens, iu the forks of the roads, and has obtained universally the name of the "Lonesome Post Oak." In the early settlement of the country more than half a century ago this was the only tree to be seen for many miles round, and hence obtained its name. It was then tall, green and flourishing; it is now, huwever, if it yet stands, a leafless, branchless, thuuder-riven, shattered trunk, sending up its shafts as straight as the mainmast of a ship of war. Superstition has long guarded the spot. The tree is looked -upon witls.something like the same veneration with which the Egyptian regards his pyramids, those grim sentinels of antiquity, j The place is remarkable for a very severe ] battle fought by Ilarpe and Davis. The i Big Harpe, and little Harpe, his brother, were the terror of the surumnding country in those early times. Two more execrable monsters never disgraced humanity. They lived with two women as bad as themselves, in a cave about twenty miles from this tree. Blood and massacre were their delight. It was their custom to sally forth, and, without 1 any reason, to murder, without distinction, all the men, women and children they could find. As the country filled up, the people could no longer submit to their horrid ch p- ; redations. Men and dogs collected and took the pursuit. They came on the two Ilarpes in a narrow valley, at about two miles from this tree. They immediately mouo- ; ted their horses and dashed off in the direction of their cave. In going about five miles Davis, whose horse was very fleet, had left his companions aud caught up with Big Ilarpe, he having previously separated from his brother, the little Ilarpe Here were two powerful meD, armed with j rifles, butcher knives and tamahawks, by | themselves, far from help, :md Lent on death, j Davis well knew that if overpowered he would certainly be killed; and Ilarpe had j determined to die rather than be taken alive, j They passed and repassed each other, fre- j queutly making, blows without effect, each i dreading to fire for fear of missing, and j thereby placing himself at the mercy of his J antagonist. Finally, the horse of Big Ilarpe j j fell and threw his rider, then rose and gal lopped off. Ilarpe sprang to his feet., and j fired at Davis' horse, which reared and fell. ; They were now not more than ten yards j apart. Ilarpe, whose sagacity was equal to j his courage and villainy, kept dodging and j springing front side to side, approaching ' ! Dirfrs, however, by imperceptible degrees. : | Davis, discovering he would soon lose the I benefit of his gun, now fired in his turn, but | without effect. Each man now drew his ! j knife, and they closed in mortal struggle. j i Very soon they fell side by side, but, at I I this juncture, a large wolf deg of Davis' j came to his master's assistance, and seized j i Ilarpe by the throat. This produced a di- j version in favor of Davis, who immediately i recovered himself and stabbed Harpe to the ; heart. The hideous yell which the wretch sent up is said still to be heard on dark i nights ringing widely along the heath. Some of Davis's friends soon joined him; they dug a hole and burried Harpe at the foot of the Lonesome Post Oak. Little Ilarpe escaped, went down the Mississippi, and joined the celebrated Mason I and his gang at Stack Island. Soon after I ILimo ln'm ATnsnn nHnolrprt n flat |.iU.|<BJW.UVU ^ _ i boat from Cincinnati and killed all the hands. For this a large reward was offered for Mason, to obtain which Harpe decoyed him to Natchez, and there informed against and betrayed him. On Mason's trial Harpe himself was recognized, was tried and found guilty; and, on the same day that Mason was hung, he also expiated his crimes on the gallows. Mason was a very remarkable and extraordinary man. He was distinguished by a strong double row of under and upper teeth that clenched together with the energy and tenacity of a steel trap/ 'Tintion !' exclaimed an Irish sergeant to his platoon; 'front face, and tind to rowl call! As many of ye as is presint will say 'Here !' and as many of ye as is not presint will say 'Absint!'' Select Jleafoing. RESPECT OLD AGE. There, give him all the path. Tread slowly and reverently in his presence. Hush that rude laughter; check ihat idle jest. Sec you not upon his temples the snow of ranny winters? See you not the sunken eye, the bowed form, the thin hand upon whose surface the blue veins stand out like cords ? Crone are the beauty and the strength of manhood; and in that faded eye but little light is left, save that of love and kindness. That voice has lost its musio, save the soft undertone of affection. Sit down, young friend, and hear that story of the olden time; and if, in looking backwards into the mists of the past, he sometimes forgets sometimes confounds dates, and incidents, or tells the same old tale for the twentieth time think, over what a vast, vast field his laboring memory wanders. Think, over what a checkered web of events, thought takes her beaten track down into the depths of years. Oh, the joys and sorrows, the hopes and disappointments, the anxieties, and wrongs, and sufferings he rouses from their dreamy beds, as he fights life's '-battle o'er again." 4< And scenes long lost, of joy and pain, Come wildcring o'er his aged brain." Standing upon the boundary line between life and the untried future, his feet would fain turn backward into the paths of the past. One moment he longs for rest the next come back the mocking memories of departed joys. Tho thorns have dropped silently away amidst the leaves of the roses he gathered in childhood and youth their beauty and fragraucc alone remain. Oh, you in whose hounding veins young life yet lingers; and you in the full beauty and vigor of manhood, respect the aged ! Speak gently, hush the rude laugh, check the idle jest, listen to the wisdom which is the voice of experience. Cheer him with kindly words; encircle with your strong arm, and lead him as he descends the Western hill of life, the shadows deepening into night the white hairs upon his temple already drifting in the cool breeze which comes up i from the valley of death. Honor the aged, that ho may leave you his bleesing on the threshold of the unkuown land. Honor him, and God will raise up for you friends to remove the thorns from the last league of your own life-journey; for the sake of the weary one of the long ago, who never wept for your ingratitude, whose bowed form never struggled with a weight of care or grief which you might have carried, while you walked carelessly along, intent upon your own ease and pleasure. Honor the aged, for ///# sake who was old before the world was whose life is from everlasting to everlasting. Honor him tli.it feebly walkcth With his staff, the white haired sage, God will curse the wretch that mocketh Hoary hairs, with t Ugh led age. . ... . >B? THE VASTNESS OF LONDON. We Americans are so accustomed to expiating on the growth of our cities, that the most of us are surprised to hear that the capitals of Europe increase nearly as fast. The growth of Paris, Vienna aud Berlin on the continent, and of London, Liverpool, Glasgow aud Manchester, in England, have been especially rapid. But no city in the world has thriven like the great British metropolis. Iu 1801, for example, the population was nine hundred and fifty eight thousand, eight hundred aud sixty-three; uow, it is two millions and a half; in other words, at the beginning of the century, it was hardly more than a third as large as it is at present. We think Philadelphia, with its half a million inlinViitonlc i; lnivm Irtwn l\nf T.ntwiATl 10 five times as large. Iti fact, the latter city j contains nearly as many inhabitants as the i State of Pennsylvania, and more than all the great cities of the United States together.? Nor does there seem at present any likelihood of this enormous metropolis decreasing in size. On.the contrary, there is every indication of its continued growth. The sewerage commissioners, in view of its probable necessities in future, arc already projecting a drainage for six millions of inhabitants, a population which London will yet contain, if the increase goes on at the present ratio. It is curious to examine the statistics in detail of such a metropolis. Every year there are eight thousand children born in London, according to the Edinburg Review?a competent authority. Yet the majority of the adult population, in spite of this, is country born, there having been at the last census, out of one million three hundred and ninety-five persons twenty years old and upwards, only six hundred and forty-five thousand born in London. Every sixteenth person of full age is a native of Ireland. There is always a permanent stock on hand, so to speak, of three hundred and fifty thousand marriageable, but unmarried women.? Thorn nro civ hnnrlrnd thousand scholars. AMV*W ****"' V ? / six thousand schools, twelve hundred places of worship, and a million church-going people. Fifty thousand persons are always resident in poor houses, prisons and other institutions, where they are fed out of public or private resources. Twenty thousand persons are engaged constantly in killing and selling animal food; thirty thousand in making and vending beverages; and twenty-five thousand in doctoring, preaching and managing law suits. To complete the catalogue, there are thirty thousand clerks, two hundred thousand domestic servants, thirty thousand tailors, forty thousand chair makers, and one hundred thousand needle women. In Horace Mayhew's work and in others of a similar character, may be found statistics as to how this enormous population is to be fed. London has the richest as well as the poorest people in the world, among its inhabitants. Thousands of persons get up every morning without knowing how they may be enabled to buy a breakfast. On the other hand, there are, during the^jfashiouable season, seventy thousand people in London who have nothing to do but to amuse themselves. Several wealthy men, most of them noblemen, own whole squares of houses and stores, and receive incomes of above a million of dollars annually from this source. There is one aore of ground in the British metropolis which pays the interest, on a long lease of four millions of dollars, and several worth, not estimated in this excessive way, from two to three millions! Ancient Home has always been thought to have been the richest and most populous city that ever existed. But the best historical students concede that London already surpasses what that city was, even in its palmiest days; and even those who rate the population of old Rome lit a higher figure, confess that London, before the end of the century, will be ahead. Philadelvhla Lcdacr. J. u END OF FOUR QEEAT MEN. Cast your eye upon a printed page of miniature portraits, and it will be perceived that the four personages who occupy the four most conspicuous, places, were Alexander, Hannibal, Caesar and Bonaparte. Alexander, after having climbed the dizzy heights of his ambition, and with his temples bound with chaplets dipped with the blood of countless millions, looked down upon a conquered world, and wept that there was not another for him to conqner, set a city on fire, and died in a scene of debauch. Hannibal, after having, to the astonishment and consternation of Rome, passed the Alps, and after having put to flight the the armies of the mistress of the world, and stripped "three bushels of golden rings, from the fingers of her murdered knights," and made her foundations quake, fled from his country, being hated by those who once exultingly united his name to that of their God, and called him Hamli Baal, died at last by poison, administered with his own hands, unlamented and unwept, in a foreign land. Cmsar, after having conquered eight hundred cities, and dyed his garments in the blood of one million of his foes, after having pursued to death the only rival he had on earth, was miserably assassinated by those whom he had considered his nearest friends; and in that very place, the attainment of which had been his greatest ambition. Bonaparte, whose mandates kings and popes obeyed, after having filled the earth with the terror of his name?after having de1 .in i J1 1.1 1 J .l.iL lusrcufjurope wicn rears anu oiooa, ana eiumed the world in sackcloth, closed his days in lonely banishment, being literally exiled from the world, yet where he could sometimes see his country's banner waving o'er the deep, but which did not and could not bring him aid. Thus these four men, who from the peculiar situation of their portraits, seem to stand the representatives of all those whom the world calls great these four, who each in turn, made the earth tremble to its very centre, by their simple tread, severally died one by intoxication, as supposed, by poison mingled with his wine one a suicide one murdered by his friends and one a lonely exile. How arc the mighty fallen. WHAT IS RESPECTABLE SOCIETYWe heard a man, otherwise intelligent enough, lately sneer at another, ''because," said he, one never meets him in respectable society! The speaker did not mean, however, that the person he affected to look down upon was immoral, but merely that his circle of intimates were not composed of the fashionable or the rich. This notion of what constitutes respectable society, is quite a favorite one with that class of individuals whom Thackeray has so significantly called "snobs." Empty pretence always making its own characteristics a standard by which it strives to measure the respectability of persons at large. In a community of mere money getters, wealth is the test of respectability. Among the proud, narrow-minded, effete nobility of the Faubourg St. Germain, respectability depends upon being descendants from ancestors who have married their cousins for so many cen lunus, nun ntruuci iuu?uies> uur umiuo <uc ' n loft any longer to degenerate descendants. With the dandy officers who constitute a considerable portion of the American Navy, respectability consists in having sponged on "Uncle .Sam," iu wearing gilt buttons, and in jilting tailors. Every conceited fool thinks himself, in like way, the only man really weighty, the only person who is respectable. Rut true respectability depends on no such adventitious circumstances. To be respectable is to be worthy of respect; and he deserves respect who has most virture. The humblest man who bravely does his duty, is more worthy of respect, is more truly respectable, than the covetous millionaire among his money bags, or the arrogant monarch upon his throne. The fine lady who backbites her neighbor, is less worthy of respect than an honest wash-woman. The profligate noble, though he may wear a dozen orders at his button-hole, is not often really as respectable as the shoe-black who cleans his Vkrt/ifn TKnf vrrVi?rtV? i'o no llnrl {(fha nmrW AT* I alts the one and despises the other, but it does not make them respectable according to the real meaning of that word. Their respectability is but a hollow sham, as they themselves frequently feel; and those who worship them bow down to a Fetish, a thing of feathers and tinsel. The selfish idle drone, who wastes life in his own gratification, and dissipates the fortune of his progeny, is not and cannot be respectable; but the hardworking, self-denying father, who wears out his life to bring up his children is, even though he be but a day-laborer. Nothing can make Dives fit to lie on Abraham's bossom while Lazarus is welcomed there, even with the sores the dogs have licked. This false view of life, which would measure respectability by a conventional standard, is totally at variance with our republican institutions. It creates an "imperium in im^erio," for while the law declares all citizens equal, it erects a social standard which endeavors to inore that great truth. The coarse, brutish knavish, profligate criminal? in short, all who fall short of their duty to themselves and their fellow-men?are those who are not "respectable;" and this, whether they are rich or poor. While those who" live honestly, and strive to dowhat good thdy can, constitutes in reality the respectable class, irrespective or the fact whether they eat with silver forks or steel ones. ^ Philadelphia Ledger. - THE WATER OP THE NILE. ? Bruce, in his "Scenes and Sights in the East," says: The waters of the East, whether good or bad, are all soft. About the analysis of the water of the Nile I have no ion- * "riosity, aud ! ifWHW" !uul be pleased to reinformation. To bo made nnnnainied with the ohemical elements which compose oar food or our drink, is enough to destroy all pleasure in eating and drinking, and to subject the substance of the venerable good Nilus to the torture of scientific analysis looks like impiety. The Nile water is particularly soft; it fills the mouth with a rich oreamy taste; and in drinking it, in order to enjoy it, it is well to spread it over every part of the palate. It should be drank, not *to quench thirst, but to create high pleasure. It should not, therefore, be swalloewd in,ferg8 draughts at a time, but taken at short inter- vals, every hour so. In the house, the water jar?the admirable Egyptian water jar, which is so much more porus than the Indian jar? should be at handday and night continually. Much refreshment of soul would be obtained by your rising from bed during the night and taking repeated draughts?allowing them, to remain some little time in your mouth, so as to keep up an .abiding sense of pleasure oh your palate. The passion of Nile water* like the love of every thing that is intensely ex- 9 quisite in its way, increases with its enjoyment. No one who has once or twice tasted Nile water, and has a capacity foT pleasure, will ever after consent to drink of it poisoned m. ii_ - r. e -.1 ? T??l wun me iniusiuu 01 a oy oiuer nquiu. t/iauous of its own honor, it appears to be the most averse of all waters to join in harmony with wine. Indeed, mixed with wine, it is a most nauseous compound. The illustrious river seems opposed to all alliance with ignoblcr fluids, and to court admiration andJove in its own character, "without the foreign * aid of ornament." At the hotels the water undergoes filtration. In the cottages through the country, it is kept in largo vessels which allow the sediment to fall to the bottom. The small clay jars in which it is placed before you in the hotels, are very graceful in form and finely adapted to keep the- liquid cool. THE YOUTH OP OUB DAY. $ Where is now our youth ? where our. old men ? We have men boys and boymen. But where are the veritable boys the boys with eager hearts, throbbing pulses^ buoyantspirits, gay hopes, glowio? fancies, unreasoning beliefs, and ready faith the boys, with the young thoughts and the young-feelings gushing through them like the juices of young life the boys who hail tljllr-stage of existence joyfully, gathering its pleasures, battling its sorrows, and venting its impulses, not striving and straining after-an unripe knowledge and a forced maturity? Where are now our veritable grey beards^the old men who calmly and of conrse:entef on their stage of life, assuming its dignities, claiming its nriviWes. and fnlfillin> its func - - o r-*- o 7 , 07 ~ ~f tions; separating themselves from the turbid action, the toil and strife of the world, and reposing honorably in the retirementof experience and council; not clinging to the semblance of foregone periods, not envying the energies of youth or the prime of manhood, but keeping alive the memories and feelings of both to ray their declining day with mellow light the old men who rejoiced to wear their grey hairs as a crown of glory, and stood amid their fellows with their hoary | heads, their wise hearts, and their brows enj graven with the lines of thought like. ' "Tbe white almond trees full of good days.".Such men may still exist, scattered like old pollards over the levelled face of society; bat they are the products, not the result of thy materialism. 0 Age 1 The youth whicfr open under ray auspices, and run by their creeds, cannot sow the seeds of such a harvest. The youth formed under thyrinllaences and aotion will have no growth, will not know the natural process of matnrition "First the blade, then the ear, after that the full corn in the ear." The youth will be put up and fashioned like a piece of mechanism, set to work like a steam engine, moving evOr by the same hard heavy material laws sO much speed from so much pressure. Btachcood. , . . *?. THE OLDEST MAN IN AMERICA. The Lancaster Examiner says that Peter Nassau, a colored man, now a resident of Woodstock, Vermont, has reached the extraordinary age of one hundred and twenty^rix years 1 This fact has been established by N. Haskell, Esq., town clerk of Wcpdatookj who baa taken great pains, in order correctly to trace out Peter's history. .v When quite young, he came as a gentleman's eerk&nt from Martinique, his native places . to Boston, but, for many years past, Woodstock has been his home. Peter Nassau is as well known in Vermont as the Green Mountains themselves. He is of a thin, spare frame, and is nearly bald, but his skin is remarkably smooth and uowrinkled. He has no son, but seven daughters, two of whom yet live in Woodstock, by which town he is supported. Go, however, where he will?and he is fond of wandering about?he always finds friends who are glad to give him food and shelter. His eyesight is still good, and his teeth remarkably sound for a man of his age. He converses freely, but, unlike most old men, is not garrulous. While he was sitting in the office of the Windsor House, lately, some one asked him how many more winters he expected to see. Ah!" said Peter, "if this yere house was offered to me all full of gold, I wouldn't 'cept it to live my days over again." It is almost certain that Peter Nassau is the oldest living man in America.