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A =*= ' ' =*=*- r ' ? ilwism'8RisT,\o^etor.} An Independent Journal: For the Promotion at the Political, Social, Agricultural and Commercial Interests of the South. |s2peeahheh,nrabvaece. VOL. 57 ~ YOBKVILLE, B. C., THURSDAY, FEBLIJATRYI^IS59. 5. C|e?0rk&ilIe(^Mnr IS ISSUED EVERY THURSDAY MORHIHG, AT Two Dollars per year, in Advance. SIX COPIES, ?10 90, TEN COPIES, SI5 00, INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE. ADVERTISEMENTS Will be luserted at One Dollar per square for the flrst? and Thirttseven-aND-A-Half Cexts for each subsequent insertion (lens than three months.) A Square consists of the space occupied by 12 linos of Brevier type; 100 words, or one inch and a hale space. No Advertisement counted less than a square. Semi-Monthlv, Monthly, or Quarterly Advertisements, will be charged one Doi.t.ar per square for each insertion. For Advertising Estrays Tolled. 82; to be paid by the Magistrate. Citations, 82 ; to be paid lu advance by the person applying. 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VPersonal Communications, when admissible; communications of limited or individual Interest, or recommendations of Candidates for offices of honor, profit or trust, will be charged for at from 3 to 10 cents per line. Cjjuite |j0ftr]|. THRILLING VERSES. The circumstances which induced the writing of the following touching and thrilling lineb are as follows : A young lady in New York was ip the habit of writing for the Philadelphia Ledger on the subject of Temperance. Her writing was so full of pathos, and evinced such deep emotion of soul, that a friend of hers aocused her of being a maniac on the subject of Temperance?whereupon she wrote the following lines: Go feel what I have felt. Go bear what I have borne? Sink 'neath the blow a father dealt, And the cold world's proud scorn; Then suffer on from year to year? Thy sole relief the scorching tear. Go kneel as I have knelt, Implore, beseech and pray? Strive the besotted heart to melt, The downward course to stay : Be dashed with hitter curse aside, Your prayers burlesqued, your tears defied. Go weep as I have wept, O'er a loved father's fall? See every promised blessing swept? Youth's sweetness turned to gal'? Life's fading flowers strewed all the way, That brought me up to woman's day Go see what I have seen. Behold tbe strong tnun bowed ? With gnashing teeth ; lips bathed in blood, And cold ana uvm ?r"i? , Go citcli his withered glance and sec. There mirrored his soul's misery. Go to thy mother's side. And her crushed bosom cheer; Thine own deep anguish hide; Wipe from her cheek the bitter tear; Mark her worn frame and withered brow; The grey that streaks ber dark hair now; With fading frame and trembling limbs; And trace the ruin back to him Whose plighted faith, in early youth. Promised eternal love and truth. But who foresworn, hath yielded up. That promise to the cursed cup ; And led her down, through love and light. And all that made her prospects bright And chained her there,' mid want and strife, That lowly thing, ft drunkard's wife? And stamp'd on childhood's brow so mild, That with'ring blight, that drunkard's child. Go hear, and feel, and see and know, All that my soul hnth felt and known, Then look upon the wine cup'B glow, See if its beauty can atone? Think if its flavor you will try, When all proclaim, "'tis drink and die!' Tell me I hate the bowl. Hale is a feeble word; I loathe?abhor?my very soul, With strong disgust is stirr'd, When I see, or hear, or tell. Of the dark beverage of hell! |tit Original JStorg. Written for the Yorkville Enqtiirer. k L ( & I BY TIMON. With a single bound, Went worth was at her side. Leaning over, he tenderly raised her in his arms, and directed by his hostess bore her into an adjoining apartment. There he watched with breathless interest, every movement of her pale features, while various restoratives were administered. At length Bhe revived slightly, and looked wildly about in order to assure herself that her senses had not deceived her; that the apparition she had seen was indeed a reality. Her eyes met those of Wentworth. Oh ! the deep devotion, the yearning love, the melting, soul-harrowing tenderness that beamed forth from those blue orbs, even as the mists of death were gathering before them. Almost maddened by the sight, he clasped her wildly to his breast, as if to snatch her from the embrace of death. But it too was late, sorrow had preyed upon her mind, until her wasted frame was tottering upon the verge of the grave; until its frail earthly casket could no longer contain the spirit; aud now the sudden transition from grief to joy, was more than she could bear. The delicate instrument had been completely shattered by the shock, and among its loose and broken chords, the cold, skeleton fingers of death were wildly sweeping. Again that look of L! a. 3 ? A nflcflorl r?lnwflr ioeuiug leuueruuss, auu out to bis bosom, as if to find warmth there from the icy touch of death. Her lips breathed his name, and her pure, young spirit took its flight "to that silent laud where the good sleep, and the beautiful." CHAPTER VII. It was a calm winter evening. Not a cloud obsured the sky, and the gentle breeze scarcely rustled the dry leaves as it played above them. Woodlawo was sleeping ia quiet | placid beauty; there was scarcely a sound ; to break it's Sabbath stillness. The sun was ! just sinking below the western horizon, and j the tall oaks were throwing their long shadI ows across the lawn. Everything was in ; harmony with the mournful 6cene that was j about to be witnessed. Suddenly a funeral procession emerged from the mansion, and wound its way slowly and mournfully across the lawn to the family burial ground. There, i upon the very spot that had witnessed the happiest and saddest scenes of her life; the spot that had witnessed her grief for the ' dead, and the first going forth of thatdeath| less love, which had withered her young life in its bloom; the spot that had been so often hallowed by her prayers and her tears, was the grave of Alice Vernon. As the words of the burial service rose slowly on the evening air, they mingled with the gentlo miirninrinors nf the honk nearbv. and the J 1 low, stifled sobs of those who wept for the departed. Among those who surrounded the grave was Harry Wentworth. During the scene he stood leaning upon the arm of Ernest Graham. Bowed with grief, woru and haggard; it seemed as if years instead of days had placed their marks upon his frame. When thecoflio was lowered into the grave, and the cold earth rattled with hollow sound upon it, he felt that hope, happiness and peace were buried forever with that cold and silent form. His heart was in her grave, and his earnest prayer was, that death might soon claim its earthly tenement, and consign it with her to the tomb. And when he turned to leave the grave, it was with a shudder that he thought of again mingling in the scenes of the cold and heartless world. Wentworth felt that while life and strength remained, the world had claims upon him which could not be entirely disregarded. He knew that it would be no less sinful than cowardly, to repine at the lot that had been assigned him, and fail to meet the responsibilities that devolved upon him as a member of society. But as the various objects of human desire, and the various incentives to human ambition, passed in review before his uiind, he turned from them with unutterable loathing and disgust. Fortune held out her allurements, but her most precious gifts possessed no charms for hirnj his richest treasure bad passed away from earth, aud with it had fled all his desire for fortune's tavors. .Measure spreaa its eucnammeuis before hitn, and with its bewitching smiles, beckoned him onward in its -pursuit; but pleasure's voice could not dispel the gloom in which his soul was shrouded. Fame offered its honors and rewards as a prize worthy of attainment; but the trump of fame could never drown the tones of that small voice which was heard in his inmost soul, whispering of hopes blasted, happiness ended, and joys forever fled. How fleeting after all is the breath of fame ! yet does genius sell its birthright, and the mind sqandcr wantonly its sacred energies, to catch the tumultuous hosannas of the multitude, which signify nothing, and when life is past, to sleep beneath a monument, "which tenches no moral, but the futility of that pride which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes, and to live in an inscription." For this, does fame's votary kneel in abject reverence at her shrine, hailing every breeze that wafts his own praises to his ear, as from Elysian bowers, little dreaming that it is the fatal si: moon's breath which fanshis wan cheek, and will soon sound his requiem. It is only when the heart has been bruised and broken by overwhelming misfortune; it is only wheu we stand by the grave, and see it close upon all that was dearest to us on earth, that we feel the utter worthlessness of ail worldly distinctions, and the vanity of all human desires. Then it is, that we regard the glory of earth iu its true light, as an empty, fleetiug bauble? "A name, a jester's lying story! A rose stuck in a dead man's breast! A joke scrawled on an epitaph ! A grin at death's own ghastly laugh 1" In moments when the bright sun of prosperity is obscured by the storm clouds of adversity, or wheu the scenes of time are fust fading away before the light of eternity, we feel that the honors and applause of the world can bestow no abiding happiness; that it is better to fill an humble station in life, and whom death summons us hence, to have our grave bedewed with the few tears ofaincerity and truth, than polluted by the lamentations of a hollow syeophautie hypocrisy. "Toll not the bell of death for me, When I am dead ; Strew not the flowery wreath o'er me On my cold bed. Let friendship's sacred tear On my fresh grave appear, Gemming with pearls my bier? When I am dead. No dazzling proud array Of pageantry display, My fate to spread; Let not the busy crowd be near, When I am dead, Fanning with unfelt sighs my bier, Sighs quickly sped, Deep let the impression rest On some fond, loving breast; Then were my memory blest Wheu I am dead. Let not the day be writ, Love will remember it, Untold?unsaid." ntlAPTHR VTTT Several years had passed since Alice Vernon had been laid in the graveyard at Woodlawn. A simple marble slab marked her last resting place. The grave had not been neglected by those in whose hearts the memory of the dead was stil! sacred. Beautiful flowers had been plauted around it, and the place exhibited every mark of the most careful attention. It was a fit resting place for one whose whole life had been an embodiment of virtue and simplicity. In Summer, when the flowers were in bloom, and the large oaks completely sheltered the spot from the rays of the suq, tempering the noon-tide heat into the mild air of evening; when birds were warbling their "wood-notes wild" ia the o'er-h&Dgiag brandies, and the oon tinual noise of the water-fall floated through the still air, it might have rivaled iu picturesque beauty, some of those famous vales and grottos of old, where Apollo and the Muses were wont to spend in gentle dalliance, the sultry noon-tide hours, and through which they wandered in the cool eveoing-time. At such times, we can almost fancy some Naiad of the neighboring brook, singing, as Bhe tripped lightly about the grave, the Peri's song for Al Hassan's daughter. "Oh fair as the flowers Su close to thee growing, How light was thy heart, till love's witchery came, Like the wind of the south, o'er a summer lute blowing, And hushed all itsmusic, and withered its frame." It was now winter, and the sighing of the ?lrtnflnoo hronnhno nf fliA VYILIU UIIUU^II bUC ibUUboo h/iuuvi*\,o v* VKV trees, sounded like a requiem for the departed. The shades of evening were falling around, when there was heard among the dry leaves, the sound of approaching footsteps. The gate of the enclosure was opened, and a person who seemed familiar with the plate, entered. His form was bent, grief hud worn deep furrows on his cheek, and disease had written its ghastly characters upon his features. Despite his altered appearance there was little difficulty in recognizing him as Harry Wentworth. . Approaching Alice Vernon's grave he seemed for a time overwhelmed by the flood of recollections that came rushing upon him; joy, grief and love were sweeping in a wild torrent over his soul. To those who would fully understand his feelings, we would say in the beautiful words of Irving: "Go to the grave of buried love and meditate. Theresettle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited?every past endearment unregarded of that departed being who can never, never, never return to be soothed by thy contrition. If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent?if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole 'happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth?if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged in thought, word or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee? 'if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet;?then be sure that every unkind-look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memo ry, and knocking dolefully at thy soul?then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear; more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing." What an eventful life did Wentworth live again, in those few moments that ho stood by Alice Vernon's grave! His mind reverted to the past, and he saw that there had been spent the brightest, and the darkest moments of his life. The time when he had first visited the spot, and one grave only was there ; and the time when another had been made, and his "heart had beeti crushed in the closing of its portal." As he looked forward into tho future, it did not require "the raptured ken of prophecy," to tell him that yet another grave would soon be there, side by side with hers. Approaching the grave, he knelt silently upon it, and seemed to hold communion with the spirit of the dead? "Alice lo! Thy lover kneels upon thy verdant grave, And calls upon thy name. The breeze that blows On bis wan cheek, will sopn sweep over him In solemn music, a funeral dirge, Wild and most sorrowful. Now lest he stands, The ghost of what he was, and the cold dew wmcti oatnes ins acmug icujpii;s gnco ouiv omen Of speedy dissolution. Alice, soor. Thy love will lay his pallid cheek to thiae, And sweetly will he sleep with thee in death." GOV. HAMMOND'S LETTER. At the banquet given io the Revere House, in Boston, on the 18th inst., in honor of the birthday of Daniel Webster, many letters from distinguished gentlemen who could not be present, were read. Among them we find one from the Hon. J. H. Hammond which we append : Washington, Dec. 1858. Dear Sir: lam very grateful to you and to those whom you represent, foryoi\r polite invitation to attend your dinner in Boston on the 18th pros., in honor of Mr. Webster's birthday; and for the kind assurance accompanying it in which I have full confidence. My duties here, however, so entirely engage all my time that I must respectfully decline your invitation. * You say that in the Revolution Massachusetts and South Carolina stood "shoulder to shoulder." It would be well for the world if they stood so now. And why do they not ? To have brought about their present relations, one of them must have erred much; possibly both, another age, will decide between us. Born and bred in South Carolina,of which State my mother is a native?my father is a Massachusetts man, a college friend of Mr. ? __JJ J - J T J 4^ WeDSier?aoa aesuuuuuu x urn jnuua tu ouy from your earliest Puritan immigrants. In the antagonistic positions of these two small but noble States I have personally much to to regret?as a patriot still more. I wish the breach could he filled up and obliterated. If we have done you wrong, if we have been the aggressors, I think I can assure there is not a man in South Carolina who is conscious of it; not one who would deprive Massachusetts of a single political right; not one who would thwart in the least any of her peculiar and legitimate interests; and could it be shown that we have done any of these things, not one but would desire to make prompt and ample reparation. If the same spirit animates the people of Miissaohusetts to the same extent, we may justly hope that ?the deluding falsehoods of political aspirants trampled under foot?our two States may yet stand "shoulder to shoulder," the pillars of constitutional republic, wisely and justly administered for the protection and advancement of all, without special priviliges or endowments to any section, class of individual, but insuring to all and each the full development of themselves. I have the honor to be, most respectfully, your obedient servant, J. H. Hammond. Peter Harvey, Esq., Boston. jfkeltatmts ?tobing. From the Homo Journal. CANINE SAGACITY. A frieod of mine, William P. Gould, Esq., of Green County, Alabama, owned, many year" ago, a Newfoundland dog of remnvkable size und beauty. Carlo, for that was his cognomen, possessing an uncommon share of the docility, sagacity and adhesive atts.chment for persons characteristic of his race, was, of course, a prime favorite with his master and the family. His usual places ftf t'rtPAwf irorn fVlA wnr/l nn/1 Info 1 m r*^ o/linfnlo \jl itcui i nciv biic juiva auu IUIO iuiiuguiai\;i^ around the faimily residence. -Beyond these he seldom strayed, either in the pursuit of game or to follow a person he liked. His masterwent, one day, into the woods, near the house to shoot squirrels. Carlo, impelled by an uncommon freak*oL playfulness or affection, followed him, Dut kept some distance in the rear, as if conscious that, being uninvited, he came unwelcome to the sport. A few caressing words and ( pats upon the head sufficed to restore his confidence, and he trotted along close upon the heels of his master, stopping when he did, but never venturing to circle through ' the woods in quest of game. A large fox squirrel ran up a tree close by ( the sportsman, who levelled his gun and shot it dead. The noise which it made in ( falling upon the dry leaves attracted the ( uotice of Carlo, who rushed forward, seized , the carcass, and began to shake and rend it with great violence. The voice of his mas- j ter commanding him to put it down was un- j heeded. The destructive instincts of the dog triumphed over his habit of prompt obe- , dience, and he tore the squirrel into fragments, and scattered them upon the ground at, the base of the tree. Irritated at the disobedience of his favorite, the sportsman whipped him severely with a branch he tore from a bush, holding hitr h-v the lpnther onllnr whinh war fasten ed round his neck. The dog howled most piteously during the infliction of the punishment, and ran back borne the moment he was released. It was quickly noticed by tho family that some great change had come over the gay and frolicsome Carlo. He discontinued his almost constant visit to the house to receive the caresses of the family. With drooping head and tail, and most reuful expression of face, he glided mournfnlly about the premises, and, when called, especially by his master, would hasten to bide himself from sight in some covert place about the yard. He , showed, by his actions as plainly as words could have spoken it, that he felt himself to , be i n deep disgrace. As he persistently rejected all overtures of reconciliation made ; by his master, the affair seemed to be as incapable of adjustment, as it was of explana-"' tion, between the offending and offended 5 party. ^ , After several days spent in this way, Car- ] lo disappeared, and was not to be found | anywhere upon the premises. Could it be < possible that he had gone into voluntary exile to atone for his fault? Or had he, imi- ( tating the folly of lordly man, made way | with his own life to cancel his disgrace and ; escape the taunts of hia fellow dogs ? There was do conjecture in the family 39 to the cause of his disappearance, and no end to the search for his retreat. But he came not at the accustomed call, and there was neith-- , er footprint nor sign to tell whither he aad gone. In the evening of the second day of his absence, his master was seated in the front | piazza of the family mansion, engaged in reading, when Carlo suddenly walked in with a large fox squirrel in his mouth.? , Goi Dg straight up to his master, he deposited , the carcass at his feet, looked up into his face, and gave a few short, cheerful yelps, i waggiDg his tail all the time, and looking , the very picture of canine content and delight. The squirrel had evidently just been killed, as the body was still warm, and show- , ed unmistakeable signs that life had been { extinguished by the pressure of teeth and i claws. . J Carlo at once recovered his cheerfulness, anc. resumed his former habits. He had i erred, repented and atoned for his offence, i and remained ever after to the end of his < days a privileged favorite in the family of i his owier. i Strange as this instance of canine sagaci- 1 ty may seem to those who deny to dogs eren the faintest glimmer of the rational faculty, < it is nevertheless not more strange than true, since the facts herein detailed are related by ODe of the most respectable families in i the South. How Carlo came in possession of the squirrel has never been satisfactorily ascertained. All the probabilities are in J favor of the supposition that he caught.ii; in t the woods by stratagem or by the fleetness ] of his foot. i Ry what process did the sagacious animal 1 reach the conclusion that his offence was to ^ be atoned'for by the return of a whole squirrel for the one he had torn? Yea, more. ? How came he to knov or believe that the 1 offence either required or admitted of at- 1 tonement at all, and especially of attoneujeot ' by the restoration of like for like ? There's ( the rub. For ourselves, we neither concede ? nor deny a qualified rationality to the lower 1 orders of creation, but define our position in * relation to the question by saying, in the * language of good old Sir Roger de Coverly, c that "much may be said on both sides of it." ? j. w. t. 1 g A Pretty Conceit.?We saw yesterday, ) in the parlor of a friend, a very beautiful < conceit. It is of course the fancy of a lady, ? and consists of the bun of a pine tree placed i i bimii?! ! < ? ihiiih*pmi in a wine glass half full of water, and from between the different layers of the burr is shooting forth green blades, bright, beautiful, refreshing. For a little thing, we have seen nothing that so. pleased us with its beauty and novelty. And the secret is this: the burr was found dried and opened; the different circles were sprinkled with grass seed; and it was placed in a wine glass, with water in as above. In a few days the moisture and nourishment gave the burr life and health, and different circles closed and buried in themselves the grass seed, an,d a few days more gave to the seed also life, sprout, and growth; and now a pyramid of living green, beautifully relieved by the sombre hue of the burr, is the result?as pretty and novel a parlor ornament as we have for a long while seen. .We do not know whether the idea was original with the lady, but we do know that its success is beautiful.? Troy Times. SPEAK GENTLY TO EAdH OTHEtt. 'Please to help me a minute, sister.' <0 don't disturb me, I'm reading,' was the answer. 'But just hold this stick, won't you, whileI drive this pin through ?' ?I can't now, I want to finish this story,' said I, emphatically; and my little brother turned away with a disappointed look, in search of somebody else to assist him. He was a bright boy of ten years, and my only brother. He had been visiting a young friend, and had seen a wind-mill, and as soou as he came home his energies were all employed in making a small one; for he was always trying to make tops, wheelbarrows, kites and all sorts of things, such as boys delight in. He had worked patiently all the morning with a saw and jacknife, and now it only needed putting together to oomplete it, and his sister had refused to assist him, and he had gone away with his young heart saddened. I thought of all this in fifteen minutes- after he left me, and my book gave me no pleasure. It was Dot intentional unkindness, only thoughtlessness, for I loved my brother and was generally kind to him ; still, I had refused to help him. I would have pone after htm and anoraea tne assistance be needed, but I knew ho had found some one else. But I had neglected ail opportunity of g^ddening a childish heart. In half an hour he came bounding into the hous\ exclaiming, 'Come, Mary, I've got it up ; iust see how it goes !' His torn s were joyous, and I saw that he had forgotten my petulance, sol determined to atone by unusual kindness. I went with him, and sure enough, on the roof of the wood house was fastened a miniature wind mill, and the arms were whirling around fast enough to suit any boy. I praised the windmill and my little brother's ingenuity, and he seemed happy and entirely forgetful of my unkindncss, and I resolved, as I had many times before, to be always loving aDd gentle. A few days passed by, and the shawow of a great sorrow darkened our dwelling. The joyous laugh and noisy glee were hushed, and our merry little boy lay in a darkened room with anxious faces around him, his cheeks flushed and his eyes unnaturally bright. Sometimes his temples would moisten and his muscles relax, and then hope would come into our hearts, and our eyes would fill with thaukful tears. It was in one of these deceitful calms in his disease that he heard the noise of his little wheel and said : 'I hear my windmill.' 'Does it make your head ache?' I asked," 'Shall we take it down ?' 'Oh no,' replied he, 'it seems as if I were out of doors, and it makes me feel better.' He mused a moment, and then added : 'Don't you remember, Mary, that I wanted you to help me fix it, and you was reading, and told me you could not V But it didn't make any difference, 'mamma helped me.' 0, how sadly those words fell upon my ear, and what bitter memories they awakened ! How I repented as I kissed little Prank's forehead, that I had ever spoken unkindly to him. Hours of sorrow went by, and we watched his couch, hope growing fainter, and anguish deeper, until one week from the morning on which he spoke of his childish sports, we closed the eyes once so sparkling, and folded his hands over his pulseless heart. He sleeps now in the grave, and home is desolate, but the little windmill, the work of his busy hands, is still swinging in the breeze, just where he placed it, upon the roof of the old wood-shed; and every time I see the tiny arms revolving I remember the lost little Frank; and I remember also the thoughtless and unkind words I Brothers and sisters be kind to each other. Be gentle, considerate, and loving.? Examiner. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN'S LETTER TO THOMAS PAINE. This interesting document is taken from Nile's Register, vol. 30, page 397. It was , written after Mr Franklin had read the first -?-4. AT ? Dn Inn'n 11 A r\f T? OO Q " OflH I ' purii ui i*ir. x aiuc o ui XW/U.7VUJ mm?. llustrates fully the seDtiment of this distia- , ;uished man on the windy theories of Thomas Paine: , "Dear Sir :?I have read your manu- , icript with some attention. By the argu- : ncnt it contains against a particular Provi- , lence, you strike at the foundation of all reigion. For without the belief of a Provi- , lence that takes cognizance of, and guards j ind guides, and favors particular persons, ( here is,,no motive to worship a Deity, to , "ear its displeasure, or to pray for its protec- } ion. I will not enter into any discussions { )f your principles, though you seem to de- , lire it. At present I shall only give you ( ny opinion, that though your reasonings are mbtle, and may prevail with some readers, fou will not succeed so as to change the gen- j >ral sentiment of mankind on this subject; t md the consequence of printing this piece < viil be a great odium upon yourself,'mischief \ I to you, and no good to others. He that spits against the wind, spits in his own face. But were yon to succeed, do you imagine any good will be done by it ? You yourself may find it easy to live a virtuous life without the assistance afforded by religion. You have a clear perception of the advantages of virtue ami the disadvantages of vice, and possess strength of resolution sufficient to enable you ' to resist common temptations. But think how great a portion of mankind consist of weak and ignorant men and women, and of inexperienced, inconsiderate youth, of both sexes, who have need of the motives of religion to rest* ain tbem from vice, to support their virtues and retain them in the practice of it until it becomes habitual, which is the great point for its security. And perhaps, you are indebted to her, originally,?that is, i i:_i?_ -j?v 10 jour rungiuua euuuauuu,?ivi iuc ubuiio i. of virtue upon which you justly value your- a self. You might easily display your excel- a lent talent of reason upon a less hazardous c subject, and thereby obtain rank with our t most distinguished authors." c That was sensible advice given by Dr. i Franklin to Tom Paine, not to print his t "Age of Reason," as it would be a great c odium upon himself and produce no gpod to t others. This copy has been read by multi- r plied thousands since, but no good has ever < been done to any body, but the subtility of t the reasoninghas wrought incalculable injury, f This remark of Franklin is worthy of a pas- i sing notice: ? "You yourself may find it easy to live a i virtuous life without the assistance afforded by religion. You have a clear perception of t the advantages of virtue and the disadvant- i ages of vice, and possess strength of resolu- t tion sufficient to enable you to resist common ? temptation." ( Tom Paine did not find it very easy to live 1 a virtuous life! With all his "clear percep- \ tions of the advantages of virtue," etc., and his "strength of resolution," he lived a wretched, wicked, depraved life, became a vagrant drunkard, outraged all the decen- s cies of life, sent one broken-hearted wife to I a premature grave, compelled another to ? seek a refuge from his brutalities by a di- 8 vorce, and finally ? died a scathed, blasted, profane, gutter drunkard,?died alone, a- * bandoned of man and forsaken of God,?of 1 delirium tremens. c The life and death of Paine should be a y warning to all young men who would throw ' off the restraints of religion. It is fit and a proper that the lager-beer infidels, who re- * pudiate the Bible, discard the Sabbath and 1 Christianity, should celebrate the birth-day, ( and {pud the virtues of such a man. it ne had devoted his excellent talents to a more ' praiseworthy object, and had conducted hira- * self properly, he might have left a name t worthy of being enrolled-among the great and good of earth. * RESTORATION TO LIFE. t The Birmingham (Eng.) Post gives the * annexed particulars of the singular case of 1 a girl, named Amelia Hinks, 12 or 13 years of age, who resided with her parents in Bridge street, Nuneaton, England, and c dwindling away under some unaccountable r complaint, some weeks ago, as her friends ^ imagined, died. The corpse was then re- f moved to another room. The body was rigid j, and icy cold. It was washed and laid out ' with the usual deathly accompaniments, t penny pieces being placed over the eyes, and the coffin was ordered. For more than 48 0 hours the supposed corpse lay bteneath the winding-sheet, when it happened that her g grandfather, a very aged man, came from j, Leamington to the neighborhood of Nunea- t ton. On going with a female relative to see j the corpse, the old man removed one of the copper coins, and although the eye remained closed, he fancied bo saw a movement be- ? neath the lid. The woman with him at first * ridiculed the idea, but on looking more close- ^ ly, she, too, observed a movement. The medical attendant was then apprised of the circumstance, and, although he at first treat- ^ ed the matter as a delusion, the application y of an instrument in the region of the heart E soon convinced him that there was life within ? \ the apparent corpse. The body was then removed to a warmer room, and the existence fl of life soon became apparent. By degrees j. animation was restored?a loud sneeze pla- j cing the fact of her being a living subject beyond all doubt. When speech was res- j( stored, the girl described everything that had taken place from the time of her supposed t death. She knew who closed her eyes and placed the coppers thereon. She also heard e the order given for her coffin, as she lay in g her death-clothes. At first, on her restoration she refused all sustenance, and on some aliment being forced upon her, she became ^ frightfully excited; and, though in a state ^ nf fiitrema debilitv. it reauired great force v # " A w to hold her. Since that period her conduct ] has been very strange. She entertains a wish to destroy her father and mother; and, on one occasion, when they were asleep, in the same rbom with herself, she arose from ^ her bed in the dead of the night, went down stairs for a light, and having first destroyed, Qj by burning, some needle-work, which she knew her mother "set great store" upon, she ' set fire to the curtains, and then retired to j( her bed, from which it was thought impossible she could have moved. In fact, so mys-' terious was the origin of the fire that her pa- hi rents were at a loss to account for it, until si the girl herself confessed to having been the la ;ause. She now lies in such a state that st she can neither be called alive nor dead, the sv former state being only ascertained- by a cc jareful examination of her pulse. Were it le not that there is no motive for deception, m ind the parents being creditable people, we bj should imagine there was some ruse in this ni 7ctj extraordinary affair, which is causing sq jonsiderable interest. w te B&* A physician, after a post-mortem ex- rc imination in a case of infanticide, reported ;hat he was unable to discover whether the J ;hild was alive or not at the time of its vs leath. tc <Good Night/ 'Good Night, Papa I' ?These are the words whose music has not left our ears since the gloaming, and now t is midnight. 'Good night, darling I' God )less you; you will have pleasant dreams, ;hrough t toss in fever, haunted by the dehods of care that harrass me through the lay. Good night!' The clock on the man* le struck twelve, and no sound was heard n the house save the regular breathing of hose little lungs in the next room, heard hrough the door ajar. Wo dropped our )en, folded our arms, and sat gazing on the arcy fire, while the whole nanorama of a life >efore as, with its many 'good nights.' It s a great thing to be rich,, hot At- is ? rich hing to have a good memory?provided hat memory bears no unpleasant fruit, biter to the taste; and our memory carries us >ack to many a pleasant scene?to tbe little ,rm chair by the fireside; to the trundle bed ,t the foot of the bed; to the lawn in front if the house and the orohard behind it; to he butter-cups, and the new clover, and tbe thickens and tho swallows, and the birds* tests, and the straw-berries, and tbe many hings that attract the wondering eye of ihildhood, to say nothing of the mysteries of he starry skies, and the weird gloom of the norning forest. But, then, there were the good night,' snd tho little prayer, and the lowny bed, on which slumber fell as a snow lake, only warmer, and such dreams as only risit perfect innocence! The household Good night 1' Somebody, in whose brain ts rioh music still fingers, has written this: 'Goodnightl' A loud clear voice from he stairs said that it was Tommy. 'Dood light!' murmurs a little something from the rundle-bed?a little something that we call Fenny, that filled a large place in the oentre if two pretty little hearts. 'Good night!' isp3 a little fellow in a plaid rifle dress, who ?as named Willie about six years ago. "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soal to keep; If I should die before I wake"? ind the bundle in the trupdle-bed has drop>ed off to slaep, but the broken prayer may ;o up sooner than many long petitions that et out a great while before it. And sn it was 'f?nnd niodit' all around the ~ " * O" O lomesteadj and very sweet music it made, oo, in the twilight, aod very pleasant meltdy it makes now, as we think of it; for it ?as not yesterday and the day before, but a ong time ago?so long that Tommy is Thomis Somebody, Esq., and has forgotten that le ever was a boy, and wore what tbe brarest and richest of us can never wear but )nce, if we try?the first pair of boots. And so it was 'good night' all around tbe louse; and the children bad gone through he ivory gate, always left a little ajar for hem?through into the land of dreams. And then the lover's 'Good night/ and he parting kiss 1 They are as prodigal of he hours as the spendthrift of his coin, and he minutes depart in golden showers, and all in dying sparks at their feet. <Good ught/?N. T. Atlas. ^ SLEEP. The first sensation ot drowsiness is nature's iall for sleep. Waking shows the body is ested. After the degree of strength, of rhich the sta?e of the system is capable, is estored by sleep, longer stay in bed only reaxes. He perverts reason, who, by a habit f artificial excitement, keeps awake so late bat he is not ready*to rise by day-break? lature's undoubted signal for quitting repo&e, bedience to which secures a desire to rest t the fit hour. Some people close their hutters against it. George III, consulted lis household physicians, separately, as to he modes of life conducive to health and ongevity; as to the importance of early ising, there was full coincidence. Old teople, examined as to the cause of their ongevity, all agree that they have been in UU UflUlb Ul gUlUg IV wvi vutij JLU uvuut* ated people, a degree of fever, or something esembling it, comes on towards evening; ping very early to bed is of great conscience to tbem. Rising an boor or two carter than usual often gives a vigor which :otbing else can produce. Many people, at raking, feel a disposition to rise; tbey lose t by indulging a letbargio state, or lolling while. We lose vigor by lying in bed in lealth, longer than for sleep ; the mind is ess tranquil; the body is less disposed for efreshing sleep; appetite and digestion are esscned. After long or late mental exertion leep is a watch; the thoughts continue hemselves, effecting useless fatigue. Some eople cannot go to sleep; others wake too arly. Without spirit to rise, they hope to nd refreshment in an additional nap; anther, and another, leaves them more lanuid; they fancy themselves unfit for exerion until they have taken a breakfast, which bey make no effort to merit. Nothing reaks up the strength sooner than want of leep at the hour nature obviously designed >r repose, marked, as well by the regular ?turn of day and night, as by our own feeligs, if not prevented by artificial habits. >abor, which is light in the day, is burthen>me in the night. The accumulated itimuli f the day are sufficient for the temporary shaustion of the system : the rest of night requisite to recruit us for each successive *yLand Measure.?Every farmer should ive a rod measure, a light stiff pole, just xteen and a half feet long, for measuring nd. By a little practice he can learn to ep just a rod at five steps, which will aneer very well for ordinary farm work. Asirtain the number of rods in width and ngth of a lot you wish to measure, and ultiply one number by the other and divide j one hundred and sixty, and yon have the imber of acres; as one hundred and sixty TJ-' [ are roas mase a square acre, ju yvu iah to lay off one square acre, measure thiren rods upon eaofa side. This lacks one id of full measure. J@*Tbe best method for a man to reap adintages in love matters, is to turn his hand i the cultivation of wztst property.