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lewis m' oBisT^promietor } - An Independent Joui'nal: For the Promotion of the Political, Social, Agricultural and Commercial Interests of the South. {*2 pee ahhuji, or adtasc* YOL. 5 ~ ~~ YORKVILLE, S. O., THURSDAY, FEBRUARY IO, 1859. . 3STO. 6. _ - .. 1 ' ? -? - _ " * C|e for Me (fairer IS ISSUED EVERY THUR8DAY MORNING, AT Two Dollars per year, in Advance. SIX COPIES, Sio 50, TEX COPIES, $15 00, INVARIABLY IN ADVAKCE. ADVERTISEMENTS . Will be inserted at One Dollar per square-ft>r the first* and Thirty-seven-and-a-haLF Cents for ouch snbscqnen' insertion (less than -three months.)- A Square consists of the spaee occupied by 12 lines of Brevier'type; 100 words,, or one inch and a half space. No Advertisement connted less than a square. Semi-Monthly, Monthly, or Quarterly Advertisements, will be charged t)NE DOLLAR per square for each insertion. For AdvertisingBstrays Tolled, 82; to be paid by the Magistrate. Citations, 82; to bo paid in advance by the person applying. Notices of Application to the Legislature, 85; to paid by the person banding In the advertisement. Insolvent Debtont Notice, 88; payable in advance. Attachment Notiec^ 88; to be paid for "by the Attorney in the case. . . Business tards, of a half-square or less, win be Inserted at 85 per year. For each additional line, 81. Cy* Oblttiary Notices exceeding one square in length, will be charged for the overplus at regular advertising rates. py tributes of Respect rated as advertisements. ("P3 Announcements of Marriages or Deaths; Notices of i?..Un>tAii4 or Tecmeranoe Meetings published GRATIS and solicited. * ~ ~ All Advertisements not having the number of insertions marked on the margin', will be continued until forbid and charged accordingly. -? Quarterly, Semi-Annual of Yeurly contracts will be made on liberal terms?the contracts, however, must in all cases be confined to the immediate business of the firm or individual contracting. %*Peraonal Communications,when admissible; communications of limited or individual Interest, or recommendations of Candidates for offices of honor, profit or trust, will bo charged for at from 3 to 10 cents per line. Select ^oetrg. WHYP BT J. FORREST GOWAN. Why, with the dawn of rosy mora. Ere Sol drink9 op the dew from flow'r, Or smites the cloucT wrapped mountain side With new born light and fiery pow*r? Why, ere the lark goes fluttering up The morning air with song of praise,And the waked world shakes off its'dew, And meets the Sun's returning rays? Why, in that infant hour of day. Dear one should beauteous thoughts of thee Come sweetly over all the heart, Like sun-light in its purity? The beauty of the early mora, " The breath of flower divinely sweet, Lolls me into a dream of heav'n, And wakes me ever at thy feet. Why is it, that in the hush? -** The warm, harsh hush of sultry-noon? Or when the grateful world looks op To welcome the returning moon? Why, looking 'pon a thousand stars That twinkle in an evening skyr Should thy blue eyes eclipse their light And darken heaven??tell me, why? * f Why. when dark Bight, with frowning brow, Folds her black mantle over all, And over all the scenes of life Lets her mysterious curtain fall? Why, tbeo should whisperings of love Fall sweetly soft upon my. ear ? Why should thy lame shine thro' the dark, Aud ruby lips to mine come near? Why, reaching out into the dark, My hands should touch no form but thine; Or, peeping through the bars of sleep,' I see a creature so divine ?? Why, 'gaiust my cheek the silky touch Of thy soft curls I ever feel, And round my neck thy round white arms So tenderly and softly steal ? Why, spite the darkness of the night, See I the rose-tint on the cheek? Why, spite the howling of the storm, _ ! . I catph the words that thou dost speak ? Why, though so far away from me, And I in silent slumbers sound, Wby should our spirits, in the night, Rush into one with eager bound ? Why, spite my struggles to forget The gilded hours of other days, Should the fair past iu panoramic view Pans ever aud anoa before, ray gazoT "Why should the memory of a voice, A form, a look, or e'eaa loving kiss, Illume with heaveu's light the past, , And make all midnight in an hour like this ? |tit Original WIUTTES FOR THE VORKVILLE ENQ11REK. .. LOVE; . . OR, OLD HEADS AND YOUNG HEARTS. BY A CIIA'KLESTONIAX. CHAPTER I. 'Ha !' exclaimed Ebenezer Unaerdonk, as he perused the list of letters in the 1 Moving Ncics'?<a letter for my niece! by jiDgo!' 'A letter for me, uncle?' asked Ida Wal*. ter, who that moment entered the room. ?I thought you were in the garden, Ida,' | said the surprised guardian, moving about uneasily in his chair. 'Did you expect a letter ?' 'Yes, uncle; I have been looting for one ever since the first of the month ? have you received it ?' 'I have not received it. "Who do you supnose has written to you, Ida?' asked the old man, tapping the toe of his boot with his cane. Bless your heart!' exclaimed Ida, as a blush suffused her beautiful face, 'how do you expect me to know?' 'Ida,' said the old man, 'a female of your age end position in life should be very particular with whom she corresponds.? 'I cannot help people writing to me, uncle,' replied Ida, carelessly turning over the leaves of her uncle's ledger. 'You can at least, signify your disinclination to continue a correspondence, by returning the letter my child.' 'But, uncle, I must first read before I oan determine how to act in the premises?must I not?' 'No, my child; allow me to send for your letter and read it myself. After I have done so, you can then act as you choose, provided the letter be from a lady.' 'But uncle,' said Ida, slightly impatiently, 'supposo my correspondent is not a lady ?what then !' 'Not a lady !?what do you mean ? The very fact, that she has written to you, is, to me at least, a sufficient proof that she must move in a refined circle.' 'I do not mean that,' said Ida, blushing, k 'Then what do you mean?' asked her 1 uncle. n ?I meau, th-th-t h-a-t my co-corres-pon;H d-e-n-t may pos-sibly be a?g-e-n-t-l-e-m-a-p/ replied Ida. 'The deuce you doP exclaimed Underdonk. 'You take a longtime to get it out, j 'pon my word 1' 'Ida,' he continued, 'do you not know ; something about this letter ? Are you not! aware that it is from a gentleman?' [It may not be,' said Ida. 'But have you not been expecting a letter from a gentleman ?' 'Yes, uncle; I have,' replied Ida. 'Then you must return it forthwith,' said her uncle passionately. 'But uncle?' 'Not a word!?I must put a stop to this matter at once.' . 'But?'/' 'No buts?you ought to be ashamed of yourself!'replied Underdonk. .'Ashamed of there being a letter in the I office to my address? Why, uncle, it may be from one of ray friends?who knows?' 'One of your friends! Bravo ! that's j really rich! As if you had any right to contract friendships without my advice and permission?ha ! ha ! . . 'But, uncle, you surely have not forgotten that you introduced me. to several of your friends while at Glenn Springs. If either of them has been kind enough to write to me, out of respect to you, there can be no harm meant.' 'I did not introduce you to gentlemen, at any rate,' replied Underdonk.- . 'Neither do I know whether a gentleman has written to me?but, uncle, you forgot that yon did introduce me to one.' 'A gentleman V 'Yes, uncle?Mr. Evinston.' 'Right!?here Pompey! eome here !' exclaimed the old man, rushing to the window, and beckoning to a servant then in the garden. 'These fashionable watering places,' he oontinued, 'will be the ruin of every young woman, whose parents and guardians are fools enough to allow.them to form acquaintances there.' 'What do you want Pompey for!' asked Ida. 'He shall get your letter from the postoffice immediately.' 'What for, uncle ?' 'That I may read it, and judge of the propriety of allowing you to reply to it,' replied Underdone. Suppose that it be from Mr. Evinstou, uucle?will you return it?' Most assuredly I will,' replied T'nderdor?V. . It seems very strange, uoc e, that you should have introduced me to Mr. Eyinston, speak so highly of his talents and character, invite him to your house, and promise him entertainment, if he is, after all, so little of a mah, as to submit tamely to insult.' I said not that.I would insult him, Ida.' I suppose you would not esteem it an insult if Mr. Evinston should send back a letter of yours !' asked Ida. The case is altogether different,' said her uncle. 'Mr. Evinston knows that I am your guardian, and, therefore, he has no manner of right to correspond with you without | my knowledge and consent. Any gentleman, in respect to all parties, knows better than to approach a young lady, in any way, save through her guardian. If Mr. Evinston wishes to correspond with you he must astertain whether I approve of it. 'You must remember, Ida, that your late father made me promise him to deal with yon as my own daughter. Would it be fulfilling such a promise, if I allowed any man, who feels disposed, to correspond with you ? Beside all this, my child, you know I have promised you to Edwin Marlton ; and, under these circumstances, it would be very improper toencourage toe advances of another.' . But, uncle, I do not love Mr. Edwin Marlton,' said Ida with a quivering lip, and heaving bosom. 'Pshaw ! you will love him well enough when you are better acquainted with him.' 'You do not know that; for we may neitht .1 9 TJ. er dc satisuea, saiu iuu. Nonsense, girl!?his father, and your guardian have laid their heads together in this matter?its a fine match.' i 'And I and a certain person have laid our hearts together and have come to the conclusion, that old heads can never interfere with young hearts with impunity?there!' And so saying, Ida Walter indignantly left the room. These girls !'?exclaimed Underdonk, taking an enormous pinch of snuff?'I verily believe, that if they were left to themselves they would fall in love with the first loafer that passed their windows. Poor things! what a blessing it is, that we have mercy enough for thorn, to use our superior and more matured judgements in chosing proper i companions for them ! It's very true, that I am an old bachelor, but?oh ! is that you Pompey ?' 'Yes, raassa,' replied the negro. Pompey, go over to the office and get the letter for Miss Ida Walter?tell the post master that he will find it among the advertised letters.' Yes, I am an old "bachelor,' continued Underdonk, as soon as Pompey left the room, I 'but I flatter myself that I have seen enough : of rash marriages in my life to render me ! PTnoAitinfrlv careful how I dispose of my ; ~~r * * I ncice. 4I rejoice in the name of Underdonk, I though my poor, foolish brother must needs j change his for that of Walter. It shows ! how poor a choice he made, whon his own daughter i3 so anxious to change her name, ha ! ha ! ha !' Mr. Underdonk, dear reader, was not one of those tyrannical old uncles, about which we read so much; neither was Ida Walter one of those sentimental youug ladies, who feed on rosebuds and german flutes to such an extent us to lose all sense of filial regard and respect. Mr. Underdonk was a kind and consider-1 ate old man, who loved his neice as he did : his own life ; while Ida was a loving and obedient girl who delighted in the approbation of her uncle, and endeavored to merit his fath- j erly love. In selecting Edwin Marlton as i her future husband, the old man was not i governed by the wealth and position of that i gentleman so much as by his moral excel- i lencies and sterling worth. Efe felt well 1 assured, that Ida could Dot but admire such < a character, and that admiration would ul- 1 timately end in respectful love. Mr. UndeFdonk, however, knew very lit- 1 tie of woman's menial or moral organization, .! and to his ignorance on these important j points, must be attributed his future conduct 1 in the premises. i If Ida acted?or seemed to act?in con* i trariety to her uncle s wishes in this affair, we i trust that the attentive reader will trace her I conduct to its legeti mate source, and that Hie present eiury msy servo rutueriia ? picas ant pastime than an incentive to that paron- < tal disobedience and mis-called independence I of action, whioh is tbe curse of the present 1 age, and the preluce of ignominious ruin. 1 Having guarded these important points, i we will; after apologizing for this-digression, proceed with our story. 1 ( 'Now for this letter !' said the old man, as ] Poirfpey placed the important missive upon f the tablaand withdiew. ' 'Miss Ida Jidia Walter'?that's well written, by jingo!' said Underdonlc, turning ] the letter towards the light and adjusting his { spectacles. I 'I somehow wish that it was nol; my duty to break this seal?it looks almost unkind,' ( continued the old man. - 1 'However, duty uiusb not yield to our likes j and dislikes?here goes!'. And the next ( moment, the seal wss broken, the letter taken carefully from the envelope ; and, after drawing his chair towards the windows, the ' old man read as foil ows : . Spartanburg, S. C., May 9th, 1845. 'My dear IdaI will not attempt an apology for these tei ms of endearment?my heart feels but two deeply how little of its love these words ex press.' 'There!?just as 1 feared !' said Under- ( donk. .. ( 'Since I saw you at Glenn Springs, your image has been continually before me, and ' - 4* Aimlooc* lifo fKo uas giveu tu iuy uikucuu aiuiic?i iiiv v..v energy and excitement of a new existance.' 'Pshaw! that's all staff,' said Underdonb. 'The little seasoc which I have spent in your society has been to me like a blue spot in a cloudy sky?a beacon light amid the tempest. Upon that spot, I would forever gaze?towards that ight would I steer my bark!' 'I'll be switched if you do !' exclaimed Undcrdonk. Pear Ida, why should I fear to confess an attachment of which I am so fully conscious?an attachment which you cannot wonder at when you- remember the purity and beauty of its object. It is not your beauty of person that I love, so much as those mental and moral beauties which you possess.' 'Yes, and the rhino, too,' said Underdonk. ?I had intended to have written you more at length, but as our acquaintance has been short, I deem it best, merely to make you acquainted with my feelings at present, and to assure you of the honorablencss of my intentions. I give you full liberty to ascertain my standing in society, the tone of my character, and my prospec's in life-before you reply, to this; trusting, that should you hod these of a worthy character, you will, at lnocf nllnw ma" # / ? ni-oCQ rfcv 9Tilt, and offer VOU t 1VOC.II) u?un ^4^ VV r ?j J - - t my hand and heart.' t 'Bravo! that beats Guy!' said Under- e donk. ?Mt(y I hope, dear Ida, to win your love ? i May I#hope for, at least, your sympathy? j Oh ! remove this painful and unendurable s suspense from my mind, and give me all \ your heart. Forever and altogether yours, s Charles Evinston.' c 'Pish !' said Underdonk, 'I could do bet- . ter than that myself, if I felt under the in- J, fluence of Morpheus?I mean Cupid.' So saying, the olc. man laid the letter upon v the table, put his spectacles in the case, and, T laying back in his arm chair, spent the next ' hour in thinking how he had best act under I these present circumstances. After reflection, he resolved to return the c letter to Charles Evinston, and write him a r few words of exph nation in as kind and ? polite a manner as jossible. No sooner had Underdonk left the room ' for his writing materials, than Ida noiselessly ? entered; and, tip-toeing to the table, seized k the letter, and read its impassioned declar- ^ ations of love with a flushed cheek and 1 wildly pulsating heart. She had just replaced the letter from c whence she had removed it, when the sound of approaching footsteps warned her to make * a hasty retreat. 'A delicate job, 'pon my word !' said Underdonk, entering the room. 'It is plain,'he g continued, 'that Ida. must not see this letter, or be made aware of its contents. L must j immediately enclose it in an envelope and return it. What will Evinston think of me ! Stop !?I will just write a few words oa the lower margin. There, I think that will answer very well.' The letter was enclosed and carefully sealed, aud delivered to Pompey, with instructions to post it immediately; after which, j TJnderdonk fell intc a brown stucy. <So Mr. Evinston really loves me!' said Ida, as she sat beside the window of her chamber, with a flushed cheek. But uncle < says that he has promised my hand to Mr. t Marlton. Now, ic/o is this Murlton ? Cer- ( tainly, if he loved iac at all, he would have < put himself to some trouble to fiad out the j state of my feelings concerning him. Now, i here is a man wh y has actually consented j to become my hu3band, and yet he has < not so much as written me ;i line, nor i given me an opportunity of beholding j bis personal attractions. A nice state of j things, Imustooafeas! v I suppose Mr. Marl- j ton thinks that alL hos to do, is to call upon me, whenever it suits his convenience, md claim me as his bride. I, of course, tvili be very much honored by his preference; 7, forsooth, will be but too happy to wait until ho can afford the time to notice mo I 'On the other hand, Mr. Evinston, during ' my short acquaintance with him at the Springs, made use of every opportunity to pay. the most polite attentions to me. He would take me out .riding with him every lfternoon ;-sing for and with me, every evening ; gather the chesnut flowers for me, and, in short, done everything to make me pass ;he time agreeably. 'Now he has written me a letter, wherein ire expresses his love in all candor and hon;sty. That his character is one of the very aest, I have no doubt; for uncle Would not aave spoken so highly of him, or introduced aim to my acquaintance unless his position in life warranted such a course. 'Mr. Evinston's letter must be returned; por the simple reason, that my hand has been iffered to, and accepted by, a man wbom I iave never seen ! Now, I do protest against ' rnch a coarse of action!?I won't marry VIr. Marlton ! indeed I will not!' " So, lovely Ida Walter tossed her pretty 1 aead, and pouted her rosy lips for awhile, ind them barst into tears, and eased her heart J ly a real good cry. And down stairs sits old Ebenezer Unlerdonk, laying 'the flattering unction to lis soul,' that he has put an end to 'this foolish love affair,' as he calls it. Poor, :asy old man. [to be continued.] ripal faper. Written for the Yorkvillo Eaqnirer. _ EMIGRATION. i Mr. Editor:?Emigration with the spirit if emigration, constitutes one of the greatest calamities?and I say it with a knowledge if the import of the word?that has befallen inr State. We complain of tariffs fcnd taxes, ind they may be bad enough. We complain >f hard times, the mismanagement of banks ind banking, and may be they are bad too. We complain of drouths and floods; and they ire bad. We complain of poor lands and Rallied fields, to which our manageaxentiias :ontribnted; but all combined bare not, in ny judgment, so much.affected the prosperty of the State, as that drain upon her wealth and blight upon her prosperity caused >y the desolating and mildew principle? .'migration. It is the pestilence that has )ften, in one year's time, vacated many of , Carolina's beautiful homes, sweeping alike , nany of her best citizens and much of her ivenlth taken from fields, that have been vorked to be worn. It too, is the torpedo vhose touch has npmbed and paralyzed the icrve of improvement and reform. When we look around and see on every land that destructive goose-ripping policy, n cuttiog down with ruthless hand and jailing and gullying those beautiful table *- - 1 ands, witn no otner sctuuug w>u Dressing for the last tithe, we aro forced to snst about to find, somewhere, a solution to ( iostrange a proceeding; for every intelligent nind will be in search of a reason for the ndifference manifested, in not taking oare or the future, in the preservation of the oil. It is found in the fact that this is not 1 Icsigned to be the future abode of the occu- ' >ant, and the raven croak of wear out and ' eave is heard to rise from those impoverishing ' ields, and wc may point to emigration with ' he exclamation thou art?not the man, but 1 :vi! spirit and bane to improvement. J The course of emigration as pursued by- j is to the State, is unjust, ungrateful, and . >aricidal. It robs the State of that wealth . he nee.ds for her future prosperity and de- ! 'elopments, and in the production of which J he has been impoverished; and in the doing 5 if which, we are robbers without the plea ( bey sometimes make in extenuation, if not 1 n consecration of .their acts?the taking 1 rom the rich and giving to the poor; for 1 re take from our native State, not only that ( rhich is her own under the right of produo- ! ion and claim of gratitude; but we also im- ( loverish her to aggrandize the new States. \.nd the good old State is becoming nothing ' ore than a foster mother, to her own injuy, of the other States?a mere crysilis whose * hell is to remain, while the butterfly flits 1 ts gaudy wings to beautify other lands. But ( rhilst I deprecate the policy, I would not ( ensure,, or have a quarrel for the other I States; it is to their interest?our loss is to 1 heir gain, and although it may be death to k is, it is sport to them. No State can endure, k nuch less prosper, under ao rasping a pro- ' ess. 5 Emigration is legibly written on those ( enccless faTms, shackled yards, and tenant- 1 ess houses. "Gone away," is whispered from * he waiving broomsedge. Going away beomes vocal in the apathy and lack of the i pint of reform, discoverable in those places < nnat ? fnr besides the vacant negro i """w , ? ? ? _ louses and deserted farms, we there meet, \ re feel a conviction in our minds that the re- < nainder are halting between two opinions? < his country and some other. Their feet I landing on this?their minds lixcd oo an- I ither; and when asked why they do not ditch I md save, or manure and reclaim this or that i )lat: oh ! they will answer coolly, "going o move*?only want to get the good of it 1 ind leave." < Now although gratitude is a noble virtue, I md her claims, even for a State, touch chords 1 if sympathy in every feeling bosom, and al- 1 ihough dulcc et decorum est pro pat rid mori, I fit is sweet and glorious to die for one's | jountry) is the patriot's motto;'yet the State isks, on the present occasion, neither a sacrifice of life or interest in the discharge of ;he debt of gratitude owed her ; but holds ' >ut the additional inducement of interest, i which should meet some favor even after the failure of more refined sentiments. i To maintain the claim of interest held out on the part of the State, I will not again sum up advantages and disadvantages to strike a balance by way of contrast. The new States have some inducements I am free to admit; and that there are manylneonvcniepces and grievances, none wijl be so hardy as to deny. But I am willing to take this cpuntry on its own taerits, and boldly assert that most settlers here will find it to their interests to stay ; because they can do well enough which might be well to let alone, lest they should be brought to consider, at least, the condition of that fellow who was well, wished to be better, took physic and died ; because they are in the land, of their nativity and choice,-surrounded by their aoquain tances and friends, and manner? and oustoms to which they are used?just wheTe they shoald be ; for it is hazardous to contentment to change them; because they have plenty, which receives a relish from every convenience and comfort that necessity requires, or that may pander to luxury? houses built and lands cleared. Air, yes, 3ome may, answer! But those lands' you mention?too many cleared, and some too long. Well then about that! I admit the axe has made wasteful ravages in our forest; blit there yet remains abundance for health, or-' nament, and the purposes of the farm.? Then woodman spare the residue of those noble wood-lawns ! Farmers keep up and reclaim this and the other land?, and you will soon need no fresher fields. Many startle at the idea of reclaiming land ; but I am of the opinion that it is easier to bring such land as ours back to its pristine fertility, than bring those heavy timbered new laods into full cultivation. The former may be the work of women and children, the latter must be the work of able bodied men. The old land is easily worked while reclaiming, the other, rooty, stumpy and difficult to man and horse. No more such expense for public., buildings. Our country is well adapted to saving, lying better than most farming lands, and well suited to reclaiming from an additional advantage of being based upon -a fine clay, hard of washing and holding in combination large quantities of the recuperative principles, which only need turning up to the action of the atmosphere awhile to beeome soil, rich in the elements of plants. Geologists seem to think our subsoil is possessed of a greater abundance than many others. This added to the unbounded resources every fanner has in composting, and in the additional aid of peas and other green crops, together with the still further assistance of hill ditching and deep cultivation, makes the reclaiming process sure and comparatively speedy : perhaps as much so as clearing heavy timbered land. When reclaimed, it is equally good, and likely surer for a crop of our great staple, cotton; being less liable to those disasters that ravage'the rich virgin soils. I know some argue that it will do for small farmers to attempt reclaiming their lands; but not for the large ones. It will hold equally good with both. Large areas give large resources, and the failure only proves that the man has a force he is incapable of wielding. And for a general success of tie policy, wc need anly look to those old countries in which .v n 1 i _ 1.?- o nnnfn. Lneir DC1QS IIUVU UCUU uumvaitu AVi i# vvuvury and more, and now command and are worth one hundred dollars per aere. In contributing to such a result to our State, we should feel a patriotic pride and satisfaction. I recollect, when a boy, to have heard in the streets of York, one of our large planters asked why he did not take his force West: His reply was, be thought it nore creditable to stay here and improve our country; and to show to many his success n doing it. Perhaps it would not be amiss ;o say, it was the eldest Dr. Bratton, in his ' ife-time. I admired the sentiment and the mpression has long lingered with me.? Northern custom seem3 founded on this, or ?ome kindred fabling, and although we might jbject to some of their doings, we might do svell to imitate them in this; for although ;hcy may populate other countries with their mtcrprising young citizens, they keep their older ones and wealth at home. I cannot jail to mind, in all my acquaintance, one old Yankee farmer, who has fleeced his native State and transported it here to enrich onrs, tnd I mention it to their praise. I have closely noticed, for my own satisiactiop, the difference between this country ind the West,- in the geperal accumulation )f the wealth of its citizens, the last fifteen or twenty years, and taking the increase of poung negroes, the contrast is favorable to .his, although drained of much of its wealth. Some men stay here and make nothing.? Some go there and do the same. Some get jroke here. Some go there and do the same. Some go there and make fortunes, >thers stay here and do the same. More deT 1 __x jends on the man than country, 1 nave got o think. By staying here and pursuing a course of mprovement, as other old eountries have lone, we may present to the world the imposing spectacle of a landscape of model "arms, possessing the fertility of which they )nce could boast, and which, in years to jome, may surpass many sections for which :his is now exchanging. Many of which ;hen, shall have been swept to the deltas of ;heir rivers, or its fertility sunk beneath its rotten, porous clay or sandy foundations.? Then let this idea of wholesale emigration be abandoned; and let us go to work in earnest to beautify our homes and enrich our Sclds in this salubrious climate, free alike from pestiferous insects and pestilential fogs; for heavens dews have watered, or breezes refreshed few countries under higher obligations to God for his free bounty. A FARMER. B?&*Col. Joseph Rond, of Macon, Ga., has made this year twenty-one hundred and seventy bales of cotton, which would at present prices bring him over one hundred thousand dollars PkeII?us Jtedttng* THE MYSTERIOUS GAMBLER. BY AN OLD jTAGEE. I have made several passages up the MIssissippi-and Ohio Rivers, and never without seeing on board the steamers- more or less professional gamblers, It is a thriving, business on the boats where time hangs heavily on the heads of the passengers, and the blacklegs carry off large sums of money.? They usually remain on board but a day or two?lobg enough to have their true character exposed. These gtyitry had become-such an intolerable uuisance that the japtains of the boats did not knowingly permit oue to come on board add not unfrequently a brace of blacklegs were landed in the woods when their profession was discovered. During one nf my trips the boat pat in at th<? month of the Arkansas rirer, and as -usual, I took a stroll on shore. . I heard the bell for the departure of the steamer, and hastened back to the landing. ,As I was on my way, I was over-taken by a gentleman with a broad brimmed bat, green goggles, and a white neek-cloth, tugging with a large valise. 'I am rather late, am I not V said he, as he joined me. 'True enough, sir,' I replied, respectfully, for tho gentleman was a clergyman, a Methodist itinerant, I supposed. 'My valise is rather heavy, and I feared I should lose the boat.' 'Let me help you carry it^sir.' He acoepted my civil offer, and I took .hold of the valise, which was certainly loaded very heavy for a Methodist parson. Ia a few moments we reached the steamer, and I passed on board, but my new acquaintance had . accomplished bat half the distance, when the plank canted, and he was thrown into the rivpr. Fonrtunately for him, I was prompt in my efforts to rescue him, and he was immediately drawn on board, with no other detriment than a thorough ducking. My friend, whom, as I never learned bis Dame, I shall have to call the Eev. M. Goggles, retired tor a vacant state-room. It was now nearly dark and I did* not see him again that night. As usual, in the evening, there Was a table in the cabin, devoted to the cards; in a word, there was gambling without stint. No one objected to_the practice, so lopgasit was not done by professional blacklegs. I never played but I ofteo stood by the table to observe the progress of the game, and study the looks of the players, as they were agitated by-the .fickle changes of a momentWhile I was thus watohing them, I observed on the opposite side of the table a well-dressed gentleman, who was regarding with eager interest the plays of the gamblers. He manifested a desire to engage in the place of one who had been 'oleaned out.' It was soon apparent that the new comer was a skilful player, and time after time, he swept the board of all that had been staked.] In a short time his companions bad enough of it and withdrew. He had won a large sum of money,- and Was evidently satisfied with his evening's work. He Smoked on the boiler deok until all the passengers bad retired, and then left.? Much curiosity had been manifested to know who and what he was. Nobody had seen him before, and nobody remembered when he came on board, and what seemed most singular of all, he was not seen the next day though the boat was not stopped during the night. The next day was Sunday, and at breakfast time my Methodist friend made his appearance. <My good friend, I have to thank you for the good service yoa did mo last evening. i am poor; I have none of this world's goods. I trust that all my treasures are up in heaven. But 110. Lord will reward you if I can not.' 'Don't mention it, my dear sir. I am happy to have been the means of saving you.' We conversed awhile upon the matter, and my friend then spoke of having a service on board, if agreeable to the passengers. Of course it was agreeable, and the parson prayed and exhorted with a zeal that would have done honor to the most celebrated of the revivalists. The impression produced by the servioe, I am sorry to say, was not so permanent, for when evening came, the gaming table was spread out as usual, and the games commenced. The mystrious gambler appeared again, much to the surprise of all, for it was believed that he landed, or been lost overboard. He played, and swept the board as before. Some of the weaker ones began to think he was the devil in disguise, and their belief was almost confirmed when the next day nothing could be found of him. The passengers made him the subject of their conversation, and quite and excitement was kindled. The Captain swore if he appeared again, he would throw him into the river. A thorough search was made for him, but all in vain. My Methodist friend was especially indignant, and believed it would be a good plan to hang every gambler. As soon as the true character was discovered, I agreed with him entirely. One young man from Cincinnati was particularly distressed in the sudden disappearance of the blackleg, for he had, utfder the influence of an overdose of brandy, staked and lost a half eagle, which his mother had given him just before her death. It was - - '*'11 V.I J not the Joss of the money tnat naa aisiresseu him, for he had plenty of that, but it was the associations connected with the coin itself. There was a history belonging to it, he said, and he would give the gambler double the value of it, if he would return it, with a little ring attached to it. ' That evening to the disappointment of all on board, who were prepared to deal with bim in a summary manner, the blackleg did not appear. Man or devil, he had the means of knowing of the indignation his acts had caused. There was a strange mystery about him. Every part of the steamer was again searched in vain for him. And it seemed certain that he could not have gone ashore. The next day I was talking with the Her. 'Mr. Goggles, not about the gambler, bat ou topics.- Of coarse, his life, as an itinerant, was fall of interest to me. He told me how cheaply he lived and travelled from place to place; that he was often hangry, and never had over ten dollars at once. * <1 have ODly five, now,' he said; and to verify his statement, he took from his pooket a half eagle. I glaneed at it. There was a hole in it, with a ring attached 1 It was oert&inly the property of the yonng man from Cincinnati. ' ?What is-this ring^ftrf* I asked! ' inis piece was given me nya woman in Arkansas, who was converted under my preaching.' The liar, I had already made up my mind that he was an impostor, in short, that he was the mysterious gambler. Before dinner time, I bad on opportunity Jo whisper my views to the captain, and while we were at dinner,"his state-room wis searched. A large sum of money was found there, and many of the gambler's tools, as well as the dress the 'unknown' had worn. v 'Parson can you swimP asked .the weptain as the Reverend Mr. Goggles came up oa the boiler deck. 'A little,' he replied, with a demure smile. 'You will have a chance to try; I am going to throw you overboard.' . * The captain took him by the collar, and explained the matter to the astonished passengers, who were quite ready to assist in emptying his pockets, and then throwing him overboard. The money taken from him was paid over to bis victims. The last we saw of him, be was swimming vigorously towards the shore, cdrsing thg. captain with quite ae much zeal as he bad used in praying and exhorting. The yonng man from Cincinnati got his cherished ooin, and I trust learned a useful lesson. AWOTTWMOna .TOTTO.TffAT?T?lf. Newspaper writers io France are required to affix their signatures to their published attides. It is the opinion of many that this regulation, which in France is a compulsory measure of imperial policy, might well be extended, not by law, bat by voluntary custom, to the writings of journalists every where. . - There are very few things, if anything, in which it would cot be equally honorable and profitable for men to take the responsibility of all statements made and opinions expressed by them. Tbe plea in defence of all concealment is expediency, and surely, expediency is but a poor substitute for honest candor. 'There are no mysteries with honest men/ 'says Sheridan; and we doubt whether right can ever be so much in subjection to wrong as to be under the necessity of fighting it with its own weapon of deception. , A signed article appears boldly, with all the authority, and no more than the authority, conferred opon it by the naiiie appended to it. If it be true and meriterious, its author receives just praise; and if it be falso or slanderous, or in any way contemptible, v its author, and no other, receives his just reward of contempt; or, if need be, of legal punishment. An anonymous article is like an anonymous letter?a stab in the dark, instead of an open challenge, if in disparagement of its subject; and, if in praise, jneffectoal and unserviceable, as having no-credit nor responsibility. Yery often newspaper and magazine articles receive a degree of attention which they may not deserve, because supposed to be written by some favorite writer; ana, on the other hand, artioles of great merit fail to attract attention, simply because attributed to authors of inferior ability. AH suoh misjudgment would be at once avoided by the adoption of a custom of placing the responsibility of good or bad writing where it belongs, by publishing in all cases the name of the writer. Literary history presents numerous illustrations of the injury of literary concealment,'not only to poor authors, but to literary itself. Many an obsenre writer has wasted on the desert air, the sweetness of the flowers of his mind, when, if known as the author even of a single verse orline of promise, he might have planted the paradise of unJ-I on OT7ar_Vv]/\nmi nr* frAA fnf til A Uy 1 Ug tUUUgU U UU VIW-H1VVU..Q ... intellectual delight of all succeeding ages. The merit of Virgil's first poetical effort, anonymously published, was, for a time, appropriated by another. "Thus, ye bees,'1 said the poet, in his retort on the bold plagiarist, "do ye gather honey, but not for yourselves." Who can tell how much injustice has been done, and how muoh has been lost to the world of mind in the misappropriation of tho great thoughts and words of others??Washington Globe. Goodness Eternal.?<The pains we spend upon our mortal selves will perish with ourselves: but the care we give out of a good heart to others, the efforts of disinterested duty, the deeds and thoughts of pure affection, are never lost; they are liable to waste; and are like a force-that propagates itself forever, changing itself, but not losing its intensity. In short, there is a sense in which nothing human dies; nothing, at least, which proceeds from the higher and characteristic part of man's nature ; nothing which he does as a subject of God's moral law. Material structures are dissolved, their identity and function are gone, but mine! partakes of the eternity of the great parent spirit; and thoughts, truths, emo i- -1 M _ 1 tions, once given loine won a are never jodi, j they exist as truly, and perform their duty as actively, a thousand years after their origin as on their day of birth.' S&* A year and a half ago, fonr young ladies, in Cincinnati, were married at the same hour. Two have since separated from their husbands, and the other two are trying to get separated. *