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* < - ? ? ~ ? ~ . . 4** ;, - ?: -- - ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^?- ^ rnrnmrnm ^ ^ lewis m. grist; proprietor, j An Independent Journal: For the Promotion of the Political, Social, Agricultural and Commercial Interests of' the South. , , ^ |$2 pera*huiiir adyaecs. AOL. 6. YOEKYILLE, 8. O., THURSDAY. MAY 17, 1860. NO. SO-., * T W.- : , . : . . _ _ I " J ' ' ' "||[J- T'1tHfi?'l11r " 'l"Til*l Jifiedefr pwttj. "WHEN THIS OLl> RING WAS NEW." This beautiful poem commends itself to every heart. Bennett, the author of it, is one of England's choicest cotemporary poets, who is taking a high place in his country's literature: Your wedding ring wears thin, dear wife ; ah, summers not a few, Since I put it on your finger first, hare passed o'er me and you; And lore, what changes we have seen?what cares and pleasures too? Since you became my own dear wife, when this old ring was new. a KiM?incra on that hannv dav. the happiest of my life. When thanksto God, your low sweet "Yea," made you my loving wife; ' * Your heart will say the same, I know; that day's as dear to you, That day that made me yours, dear wife, when this old ring was new! How well do I remember now, your yonng sweet face that day; How fair you were?how dear you were?my tongue eould hardly say; ; Nor how I dcated on you; ah, how proud I was of you; But did I lote you more than now, when this old ring was new ? No?no; no fairer were yon then than at this hour to me, And dear as life to me this day, how could you dearer be! . ? As sweet your faoe might be that day as now.it is, 'tis true, But did I know your heart as well when this old ring was new ? 1 0 partner of my gladness, wife, what care, what' grief is there, For me you would not bravely face?with me you I would not share? 0 what a weary want had evey day, if wanting j you, Wanting the love that God made mine when this old ring was new 1 Years bring fresh links to bind us, wife?small voices that are here, Small faces round our fire that make their mother's yet more dear, Small loving hearts, your care each day makes yet more like to you. More like the loving heart made mine when this old ring was new. And, blessed be God, all He has given are with as yet; around Oar table, every little life lent to op, still is foaad ; Though cares we've known, with hopefal hearts the worst we've struggled through; Blessed be His name for all His love since this old ring was new. The past is dear; its sweetness still oar memories treasure yet The griefs we've borne, together borne, we would not now forget; * Whatever, wife, the future brings, heart unto heart still true, We'll share as we hare shared all else sinoe this old ring was new. And if God spare us 'mongst our sons and daughters to grow old, We know His goodness will not let your heart or miae grow cold. Your aged eyes will see in mine all they've still shown to you, And mine in yours all they have seen since this old ring was new. And 0, when death shall come at last to bid me to my rest, May I die looking in those eyes, and resting on that brest; 0, may my parting gaze be blessed with the dear ? sight of you, Of those fond eyes?fond as they were wheh this i old ring was new. ammmmmmmamKmmmmmmmmmmtmmmmmmmmmmmm |in #ripal J?foq>. written for the torkville enquirer. NELLIE; OR, THE FATAL SIFT. I BY WILLIE LIGHTHEART. CHAPTER XI. I "Thug lived?tins died *henever more on her Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not made J Through years or moons the Inner weight to bear, Which colder hearts endure till they are laid By age in earth " Contrary to the expectations of the physicians, the third day after Nellie's terrible accident found her still in the land of the living, though hastily passing under the1 oloud into the land of rest, song, light, and bliss unutterable. Her parents, who had been sent for, soon after the accident took place, had arrived;: and, at the time when the present chapter opens, were, with several of Nellie's friends, seated around her bedside. In the opinion of the physician, her injaries from the fire were not, of them-! selveB, sufficient to cau9e her death. The j diseased mind; the utter extinction of hope ; the long years of heart-aches and sorrow, caused by the conduct of her husband? these were enough to sap existence of its sweets and make the grave a Beulah to her soul. Seated in an adjoining room beside a small pine table, is Benson. His face is care-worn, pale and haggard ; and upon a chair beside him stands the once magnifi-j cent decanter-stand, now scratched and j bent, and with one of the bottles missing, j <Tn Heaven's name. Mr. Benson !' ex- i claimed Wilkinson, who at that moment j entered the room, 'are you utterly lost to all | sense of shame?' 'Would to God I were!' said BenBon, i taking the glass from his lips, and looking; sadly down. I 'But can you not abstain from drinking even while your poor wife is dying ? She has called your name several times, and seems anxious to see you.' 'Dying !' almost soreamed Benson, starting wildly to his feet. 'Did you say dy-1 ing, Mr. Wilkinson ?' 'Yes, sir.' 'Then,' said Benson, striking his closed fist upon the table with an emphasis that caused the glasses to ring, 'it matters not what becomes of me !' Then looking down upon the decanter-stand, and grinding his' teeth together, he added, 'oh sir! that was i a fatal gift!' 'Fatal, indeed!' said Wilkinson; 'but,I Mr. Benson, it is not too late yet to rush from beneath the impending ruin that: stares you in the face; to become a sober, respectable, and even pious man. Shatter these bottles; sell the stand, and promise your wife never to touoh a drop of liquor agaia; and who knows bat what this sad affliction may be overruled for your future good/ 'Future, sir!' said Benson, 'what is there in the future for me, save darkness, desolation and death ? Look upon me. Am I what I was, physically 'And is there any wonder, Mr. Benson ?' asked Wilkinson. 'The habit to which you are addicted is, of itself, enough to undermine your constitution and ruin your health/ 'Ah sir! it is not drinking that has brought abont this ohange, bnt the misfortunes, disappointments and sorrows which drove me to it/ said Benson. 'But what good does it do you ?' 'What good ? Why, sir, it has hardened my heart to endure the woe whioh a cruel world and an unjust Providence have been pleased to heap upon me.' 'Why, Mr. Benson !' exolaimed Wilkinson, 'how can you thus speak! No, do, my dear sir; do not drink any more.' 'No danger now,' replied Benson, snatching the decanter from Wilkinson, who had taken it from the table, 'it cannot affect me, sir; I have drunk, drunk, drunk nearly all the morning; but my head is quite clear and my wretohed heart fully alive to its sorrows. Oh! that it were I, instead of Nellie, so soon to lie and rot in the grave.' Mr. Wilkinson was silent a few moments, then, observing little Lily about to enter the room, he placed his hand upon Benson's shoulder, and said: 'Can you not, and will you not, become a better man for that child's sake ?' Benson looked suddenly up, and, as bis eyes met the soft, laughing blue ones of his angel daughter, his careworn face brightened np for a few moments; then grew sternly dark and sad again. | 'Papa!' said Lily, plaoing her hand on Benson's knee, and looking wonderingly lup into his face, (me want you to come see, poor mamma , 'Yes, Lily.' 'Come papa/ said the ohild, after waiting some moments. 'The doctor is making mamma drink a whole heap of nasty physic; and she wants you to come and make the bad doctor go away?I know she does.' 'Poorchild !' said Benson; then, after a long silence, he looked up; and, finding T -i_-_.;ii t ;_i_ L!_ ;j . ,n_ L~ I Juiiy sua oesiae aim, sum ; -vxu tu mauums, darling, and tell her that I will be there directly.' 'Mr. Benson,' said Wilkinson, as Lily left the room, 'is not that lovely child worth living for ? Can you not, for her sake, and the love which yon bear to her, determine,by God's help, to reform your life ?' 'Oh sir ! it is useless to try.' 'But God will help you, my dear sir.' 'No, no j not now!' 'But you certainly have no authority for thinking so,' said Wilkinson, earnestly.? 'Depend upon it, His grace will be amply1 sufficient for you, if you ask it in an earn-: est, prayerful and childlike spirit.' 'God hates me,' said Benson. 'Shocking !' exclaimed Wilkinson, with uplifted hands. 'How can you thus speak,; Mr. Benson.' 'Because I feel so, sir !' said Benson.? | 'My whole life has been one of disappoint-! ment, sorrow and misfortune.' 'Your whole life ?' 'Yes, sir; almost every year of it.' 'You do well thus to qualify your re- j mark,' said Wilkinson ; 'and you must admit oAmfl tiAnh'Ano Trnil f llfu VlQTfO ViPOn : CUUL DUUJC pvi UUUO VI JUUl ai?v ?m?v ww?. i spent iD the enjoyment of heaven's blessings. Mr. Benson, when your trust and confidence was in God; when your constant aim and endeavor was to discharge faithfully, every known duty, and to glorify your Maker in every word, thought and deed?you must admit that then, at least, your conscience was at peace and your life comparatively happy.' 'It was just then, sir, that my misfortunes began.' 'But,' persisted Wilkinson, 'do you not know that the truly good man can, even in trouble and misfortune, discern the bright fka on/1 tKof pcpn when all is darkness, he can rejoice and be] glad because of the hope which religion in- j spires within his bosom ? Ah ! there are I men, Mr. Benson, whose lives are all storm i and tempest; all disappointment and trial; but who, nevertheless, manage to shout the j victor's song even in the valley of tears,, and, as Willie Lightheart says, "Rush, hero like, through Night Covered with scars, into the blaze of Day," ! 'It may be so,' Mr. Wilkinson, said | Benson, moodily; 'but those days and st^ch experiences are gone?for ever gone, to me.' j 'Mr. Benson, you are mistaken?would j to God that I could persuade you to make,' once more, an effort to reform.' 'I cannot be persuaded,' said Benson. [ 'Joe,' said Charles, who at that moment' entered the room, 'Nellie wishes to see you.' . r ?:u l !.i I - j* I i win ue whu uer iu oue moment, saia Benson; then suddenly starting up, and! laying his hand heavily upon Charles'' shoulder, he said: 'She will not die!?' will she ?' 'Alas! there is no hope of her recovery,' said Charles. 'And bow dare you tell iue that!' said Benson. 'Had you remained at Cedarville | nothing of this kind would have occurred. \ If she dies, remember who caused her i death.' Charles grew pale as death as the half crazed man whispered this last sentence in his ears; and, with quivering lips and '< trembling frame, he said: 'Benson, why in: heaven's name do you thus charge me?: Did I know, when I took the bottle from | your hand and threw it upon the hearth,! that Nellie was so near the fire ? or, even if I did, do you suppose that it was my! purpose to set fire to her dress and cause1 her so much agony ! Why, I ask, do you persist in charging me with her death ?', I 'It would not have occurred had you not j | come here,' said Benson, sullenly. 'It is madness, sir, thus to speak,' said j [Charles, much excited. 'Had you not] brought liquor into the house the accident ever would have taken plaoe.' 'Well, well, 'said Benson, ?if Nellie dies, I shall die too. She?poor thing!?will go to her reward in heaven j but I shall be driven into hell for my folly.' 'Mr. Benson, God is merciful to those who come penitently to him. You may meet your wife in heaven?indeed you may,' said Wilkinson with much feeling. 'Never!?but I must go and see poor Nellie.' Thus saving, the wretohed man left the room, followed by Mr. Wilkinson and Charles. * ***** 'Where are you, Joe?' 'Just beside you, my poor Nellie,' said Benson. 'Is it getting dark so soon V 'It is noon-day, dear. Look here ! don't you see me now, and little Lily ?' 'No?I am getting blind, Joe, or ebe I am dying,' said Nellie, endeavoring to rub her eyes. The old physioian turned away and shook his head significantly. 'Are you in much pain, Nellie ?' asked Benson, seatinghimself beside the bed, and burying his face in the pillow. 'Yes, Joe; but my Father in heaven gives me patience to bear it. Sometimes I feel very sad, and sinful thoughts come across my mind when I think about leaving you so soon, and poor little Lily too; but when I lift up my heart in prayer, such a sweet peace comes, that 1 feel quite willing to live?quite willing to die.' L? J ninllr f AA mtinK m TT * JL UU UUU UCllCi UUII bUIa LVA/ Uiuvuj j child,' said the venerable physioian, kindly. 'I will soon be gone, doctor; but while I am here I have so much to talk about? that?that?0 my !' 'Whatis the matter?' usked her mother, approaching the bedside, weeping. 'Pain?oh ! such a pain, mamma !' And the warm tears gushed from the sunken eyes of the smitten, suffering one, and the poor distracted head tossed wildly to and fro upon the pillow. 'Grod help you, my daughter!' said her mother, weeping bitterly. Amen!' responded old 31r. Vincent, who, for the last half hour had been silently paoing the room, with his head bowed and his hands hrmly clasped over his brow. 'It is gone now, mamma, said Nellie, and now, Joe, letrae talk a little while with you.' 'Say on, Nellie.' ?I want you to make me one promise, Joe.' . 'A promise, Nellie ?' ' i CO) a vw. 'Name it.' 'Well?ask everybody to leave the room.' 'Nellie wishes a private conversation with me,' said Benson, addressing the company. The company immediately withdrew; and Nellie, after being propped up upon pillows, said : 'Joe I want you to let Lily go home with mother , when I die.' 'But you will not die, Nellie.' Soon?very soon, Joe.' 'No, no, Nellie; only live, even though it be but a few years longer, and I promise you to be a better husband.' 'You have been a? dear, kind husband, Joe,'said Nellie. fNo, Nellie; I have rendered your life miserable; have caused you many hours of nnhappiness and sorrow; and the sufferings which you now endure are all caused because of my madness aud folly in drinking.' 'You have been unfortunate, Joe; and your misfortunes, instead of leading you to the Saviour, have driven you to drink; but, oh Joe ! you have ever been kind and loving to me; ever manifested the deepest interest and anxiety in my welfare and happiness. You have been unkind and cruel only to yourself.' 'What is the promise which you wish me to make ?' asked Benson, brushing a tear from his eyes. 'When I die, Joe, I want you to let JjiJy1 go home with mother, and remain there until Bhe has completed her education.' 'And must I part with her, too?' asked Benson, much affectid. 'She would be so much comfort to me, Nellie.' 'Yes, Joe; but you cannot afford to hire a nurse for her, you know; and what in the world would the poor child do, when you are attending to your business ?' 'I did not think of that,' said Benson, thoughtfully. ' 'Won't you promise to let her go home with mother ?' Benson looked npon the face of his still beautiful wife, a few moments, in silent eloquence; then said: 'You will not die Nellie?I cannot bear even to think of it! You are already feeling better; are you not?' 'So, you will not grant me this last request ! said Nellie, sadly. 'Well, if you do die?Oh God! forbid it! ?your mother shall have Lily, and I shall ?oh ! what will become of me !' You will stop drinking Joe?won't you?' 'I cannot!' Not for my sake ?' 'Oh, Nellie ! when you are gone, and I find myself all alone in the world I shall go mad, mad, mad !?I know it < No, Joe; do not say so. Prepare here after to meet me in heaven. Let the past experience serve as a lesson ; and endeavor, duringthe remainiug portion of your life to do the will of God, aud to glorify him by a lowly walk aud a pious conversation. WoDt you V 'But I cannot slop drinking, Nellie. If I could only do that, all would go along much better?I know it, I feel it.' 'Dont you think that if you could be persuaded to make me such a promise, that you would faithfully fulfill it V asked Nellie. 'If I promised never to drink again, nothing, my poor dear Nellie, could drive me to the accursed bowl.' 'Then promise, Joe,' said Nellie, pleadingly. 'I-I pro?oh ! I cannot!?indeed I cannot !' 'Do you love liquor better than you do me ?' asked Nellie, with tears in her eyes. 'More than you 1* said Benson, <1 love liquor more than you ? 'Promise me, then, never to use it again?now, please, Joe P 'Nellie!' 1 'I shall never ask it again, Joe.' Benson looked long into the eloquent face of his pleading wife; started suddenly to bis feet and walked rapidly to and fro; then, returning to his seat beside the bed and burying his face in the pillow, he said, in half smothered tones, while his whole frame trembled beneath the terrible influence of the almost superhuman effort: (7 nrnm rsp 1 T PRrkMTfir. 1' 'Blessed be Grod!' exclaimed Nellie, aa she sack exhaustedly back upon her pillow. * * * # ,* . t n 'My daughter!' <1 do not think that she knows you, Mrs. Vinoent,' said the pastor, endeavoring gently to lead the broken hearted mother away. 'Nellie,' said Charles, putting his lips close to her ears, as he observed her mouth moving, as if desiring to speak, 'do you want any thing, darling?' 'H-e-a-v-e-n !' As she thus said, a beautiful smile flitted over the oalm features, like unto a ray of light from the gloryland. 'You will soon be there,' said the pastor. 'Is the valley dark ? are the waters too deep for you ?' ^. 'There's a light in the valley?a deep?a strong arm beneath the waters,'said Nellie. 'And do you feel willing to go V 'Quite?wil-ling !' replied Nellie, scarcely able to articulate. 'And is there anything you wish us to do for you ?' 'Sing?about?heaven.' The pastor, and as many of the company as could restrain their tears, and keep down their low sobs and sighs, sang that beautiful hymn, which has stirred the hearts of thousands, now beyond the flood, begin- j ning with; "Jerusalem my happy home Name ever dear to me." During the singing of the hymn Nellie's face became as beautiful with the smile of triumph, as heaven itself could make it. The glory seemed already revealed; the rest, that remaineth. already experienced ; and, when she joined in the last two lines, and clasped her hands so meekly over her; bosom, there was such an unspeakable ex-' pression of happiness upon her countenance ; such an exquisite manifestation of ecstacy, that the venerable pastor cotrfd ntjfbtrt "exclaim : 'Ob, Death 1 where is thy sting!' | 'Lily!' 'Come here, Lily,' said the pastor. The child looked up in the face of the; old man, with a puzz led expression of countenance, then around the room upon the sad: and weeping ones. 'Does mamma want me V she asked. 'Yes, dear,' said the pastor, taking her up in his arms and holding her over Nellie. 'No, no;' said Lily, 'please dont put me in bed!' 'Why not, dear ?' 'Cause me dont want the bad doctor to give me physio, like poor mamma.' 'No, no, darliDg; the doctor shan't give Lily anything at all; so don't be afraid.' 'Where's bad doctor gone?' asked the child, glancing uneasily over her shoulder. 'You must not call the doctor bad, myi dear,'said the pastor, stroking the child's | hair. 'He gives physic to sick people, like mamma, to make them get quite well again. Ele is a good old man.' 'Why don't mamma get well, then ?' 'Because God intends to take her home to the 'happy land,' that you sometimes hear about in Sunday-School.' 'Heaven ?' 'Yes, dear.' 'Does sick people go to heaven ?' 'No, darling,' said the pastor, 'every body is well and happy there.' The child looked puzzled for a few moments ; then, her beautiful face brightened ^ ? - i . .r\ t _:_i. 1 up as soe saia : '\j yea : hiuk peupieo gin well when they go there.' 'Yes, my darliDg,' said the pastor. Then turning to the weeping ones around him, he said : 'There is much comfort in what the innocent prattler says.' 'Lily,' eaid Nellie. 'Mamma?poor, nick mamma !' said the child, putting her little hand gently upon her head. 'Kiss me, Lily.' Lily kissed her. 'So !' said Nellie, with a long, deep sigh, ' while the tears rolled down her cheeks.? 'Take?her?away?now.' The pastor, brushed a tear from his eyes as he placed the child upon the floor; while Lily ran merrily out of the room 'to play in the clover' as the poor, innocent child said. 'Joe !' said Nellie, in a faint voice. Benson, who, for the last half hour, had been sitting in u corner of the room, with ( his head resting upon his hands, absorbed ( in grief, aroso from his seat and walked ( slowly toward the Bed. ( 'It is hard?very hard, Joe?to part with j you said iNellie, speaking with painful ef-j; fort; 'but we shall meet again soon.' 'Aye, very soon !' said Benson, much af-1, fected. 'Take my hand, Joe. So!?now?kiss ] me?I am sleepy.' j 'Nellie !' said Benson, as she sank heavily back upon the pillow, from which he had raised her, 'Nellie, speak once again to me ?Say that you forgive me!' 1 <1 f-o-r?g-i-v-e !' Then suddenly start- 1 ing up into a sitting posture, with an almost 1 superhuman effort, she threw her arms;' around Benson's neck. The effort was tool1 much for her; the deathlike embrace grad- 1 ually relaxed; the weary head fell helpess- ' ly upon his shoulder?the liberated spirit 1 fled from its fallen tenement of clay to the ' realization of a long, unbroken rest in the 1 glory land. Nellie was dead. ' Gently?ever so gently?Benson laid her 1 head upon the pillow; folded her hands meekly apoa her bosom; kissed the clear, cold brow again and again;- then, after a long, earnest, lingering look upon the calm features of her whom he so much loved, he turned and rushed from the room. Mr. Wilkinson, much affeoted, followed him into an adjoining room, where, upon entering he found the bereaved husband holding the decanter-stand in both hands and muttering some wild and unintelligible remarks to himself. 'For heaven's sake, Mr. Benson,' said Wilkinson, 'put down that accursed thing.' tAcflursed, indeed 1' said Benson. 'Fear not,'si?~never again shall I touch a drop of this accursed liquor. Oh! how I hate thee!?how I lothe thy very sight?thou fatal, fatal gift! What demon sent thee here ?' Then turning to Wilkinson, he Baid: (T rwAmlofl^ r\r\r\r* Voltia nonnr fft r^rinlr Q. "A ^IMUIUCU XVWA1V UUIU iv Ultua ? gain; and yet, sir, do you know that these accursed bottles tempt me ?' 'Put them out of your sight, my poor friend,' said Wilkinson, entreatingly. 'Would to God that I had taken your advice long ago, my true and generous friend!' said Benson, putting the decanter-stand upon the table, and grasping the hand of Wilkinson. 'Thank God ! it is not yet too late.' he replied. 'No ! not too late !' said Benson ; and seizing the bottles from the stand, he hurled them botb out of window. A sharp cry from without?a heart-chilling scream ! Wilkinson rushed to the open window and looked out in the garden; then starting back, he exclaimed, with blanohed cheeks and uplifted hands: 'Unfortunate man! you have killed your child!' Benson staggered to his seat?clapped his hands quickly to his forehead?uttered a loud, long, agonizing wail and fell heavily forward upon the floor. CHAPTER XII. The bottles, which Benson threw from the window, struck Lily directly upon ftio ni-nmri nf Vicr hnflrl rohilfl shfi Wll<! nlflV MJV VIW,,M w* ? "? I?J ing in the garden, and almost instantly killed her. She lingered but a few minutes and then followed Nellie to the 'happy land,' where' 'sick people go to get well.' It was a blessed release for the innocent child; and He who knoweth the end of everything even from the beginning, manifested his tender mercy and love, in saving her from, the evils to come. Benson was finally aroused ; but strong men bore him away from his desolate home, away from the pale, silent corpses in the parlor?a raving maniac. Contrary to the expectations of his friends; contrary to the conclusions which my readers have formed in their minds as to his ultimate fate, and contrary to the false idea that novelists generally put forth?that virtue is rewarded, and vice punished, invariably, in this world ?Benson's mind was finally restored. Nellie and Lily were followed to their erraves the next dav after their sad death by a ? v a large coocourse of friends, all of whom were true mourners. Charles accompanied his father and mother to Cedarviile, where the aged couple lived for many years after, until Lucille and Charles were both married ; when the weary-footed pilgrims joined the great Caravan that is moving ever to the far-away unknown. Benson became, in the course of years, a truly good man ; illustrating his life by pious aud benevolent deeds. The memory of the past, however, hung like a shadow over his heart, and he was ever known and named 'the silent man/ A few words to the reader, and my story will have been ended: During the composition of this simple tale several persons have entertained the hope and expressed the wish that the author would, in some way or other, save Nellie from an untimely end, upon the grounds that her character and disDosition was so eminently pure, gen r _ ? ? ' w tie aDd good. This is a false argument; and any close observer of haman nature must come to the conclusion, that, 'In this vain world, the fondest and the best Are the most tried, most troubled and distrest.' Both the teachings of Scripture and the evidences of common observation influences us to conclude that the really viscious are often happier, and blessed above the pure in heart the lowly and the good, in this world. Why this is so, I am not able to state ; but, that it is really the case, no reasonable man will for a moment deny. The moral, inculcated by the tale, is so evident, that I will not insult the reader by attempting to point it out. Every line of the story bears upon its very face the lesson which the author intended to teach. There is one truth, however, which may be overlooked by the reader, and that is, there are some men so constituted by nature that they cannot drink moderately, and that moral sausion is utterly inefficacious to lead them to the abandonment of the damning bowl. That all men, who drink, are bad men is fthsolntAlr sihsnrd in the highest ? ? , ?""ww. *" v o [ degree; nor does the author wish to launch out such an idea among sensible people; but as it is possible for any man to become, by I constant habit, addicted to the pernicious practice, so, it is also possible that the habit may result in disastrous consequences. With these reflections, I close my first temperance story. The subject is a hackneyed and thread-bare one, and leaves but little originality to the author; but such as it is, you are welcome to it. I am done. tiie end. Macaulay and his ballads.?It is stated that Macaulay, passing one day through the Seven Dials, bought a handful of ballads from some street folk who were bawling out their contents to a gaping audionce. Proceeding on his way home, he was astonished, on suddenly stopping, to find himself surrounded by half-a-score of urchins, their faces beaming with expectation. 'Now,then,' said the historian, 'what is it V?'Oh, that is a good un,' replied the boys, 'after we've come all this way.' 'But what are you waiting for V said Macaulay, astonished at tne lad's familiarity. Watt* ing for! Why, to hear you sing, to be sure. poplar Heading. HISTORY OP COTTON. The following are some historical details relative to cotton. The word cotton, which is adopted in all the modern langues of Europe, is derived from an Arab word.? The origin of the use of fabrics made from this article dates very far back. In the time of Herodotus, all the Indians wore them; in the first centuries before Christ, there were manufactories of cotton tissues in A roKio Knf ffio Hraal/a ttntl iflO ug.jryu uuu vuv v?w Romans do Dot appear to have used.them much. The Chinese did not commence cultivating the cotton plant until after the conquest of the Tartars in the thirteenth century, and at the same period cotton tissues formed an important article of commerce in the Crimea and Southern Russia, whither they were brought from Turkistan. From the tenth ceDtury, the Arabs had naturalized the cotton plant in Spain; and in the fourteenth, the cottonades of Granada surpassed in reputation those of the East. The manufacture of cotton goods in Italy dates as far back as the commencement of the fourteenth century, the first establishments being at Milan and Venice. It is presumed that there were at that period manufactories for cotton goods in England, as Deland, who lived in the time of Henry VIII, speaks of some being at Bolton-on-theMoor; and an Act of Parliament of 1552, under Edward VI, mentions the cotton tissues of Manchester, Lancashire and Cheshire. The cotton manufacture did not acquire aDy importance in France until 1787, when tbe French Government established spinning machines at Rouen; but it was not, however, uDtil under the empire that, thanks to the efforts of Richard Lenoir, this branch of industry became flourishing. Rules for Home Education.?The following are worthy of being printed in letters of gold, and being placed in a conspicious position in every bousebold : 1. From your children's earliest infancy, inculcate the necessity of instant obedience. 2. Unite firmness with gentleness. Let your children always understand that you mean exactly what you say. 3. Never promise them anything unless you are sure you can'give them what you promise. 4. If you tell a child to do any thing show him how to do it, and see that it is done. 5. Always punish your children for wilfully disobeying you, but never punish in anger. 6. Never let them perceive that they can vex you or make you lose your self-command. 7. If they give way to petulance and temper, wait till they are calm and then gently reason with them on the impropriety of their conduct. 8. Remember that a little present pun isbment when the occasion arises, is much more effectual than the threatening of a greater punishment should the fault be renewed. 9. Never give your children anything because they cry for it. 10. On no account allow them to do at one time what you have forbidden, under the like circumstances at another. 11. Teach them'that the only sure and easy way to appear good is to be good. 12. Accustom them to make their little recitals with perfect truth. 13. Never allow tales-bearing. A T . nnwwow l^r?rr m A + 1\ tf AiTii^l LOTj Uh 1JEJ.' " icvcuu . ijaob India traveler thus sketches her : I saw a young girl standing, fan in hand, at an open door, reading. She was simply clad in a lose crape half-petticoat half-dressinggown sort of dress, reaching as far down as the ankles, aud bound by a sash of yellow silk around the waist. Her feet, which were small and beautifully formed, rested on the common high straw sandals of the country. Over this dress, which left the bosom partly uncovered, she wore a light cream-colored open jacket, of muslin texture, with wide sleeves extonded a little below the efbow; her soft black hair was beautifully drawn back off the forehead, and bound in a peculiar cluster at the back of the head, where it was held by two gold pins, one of great length, and with a scoripion-like device attached to it, and which moved to and fro with every motion of its fair wearer. Her complexion was bright and pale, much more so than the Chinese; her features animated and expressive, and her teeth white, and as finely formed as her figure. Ky the latter, I saw she was unmarried?the invariable Japenese custom being, that on the marriage of every female, the teeth are dyed 1 black and in some cases the eye-brows shaven off. I halted nearly in front of where she stood ; she did not look "piqued," and turn away, as the fair damsels of my own coun- , try would have likely done; butshe favored me with a steady gaze, and smiled, though 1 I could scarcely detect the movement of a feuture, while her eyes, like souls of eio-1] quence, glowed in fascinating beauty. Shej | was reading a book; I saluted her with a, low bow ; she returned the compliment by; a somewhat similar movement. Observing,( my curiosity to see the book wiiich she held, ] she handed it to me. It was thick, and of!, nearly the quarto size ; aud letter press was mixed with numerous wood-cuts?a common circumstance in Japan, as I subsequently ascertained, where nearly every book pub- , lished abounds with numerors illustrations. In weight the book was exceedingly light, and the cover was of very thick colored pa- ( per, highly ornamented, the external picture being that of a crucifixion; the paper was printed on one side only, and left uncut, so that the printed sides were alone presented to the eye. The work, one of an ordinary kind, was of excellent typography. Of its ordinary merits the young lady might have formed an opinion; bat, being I anything bat a Japenese, I could do no such 1 pleasant thing. Person and Habits or Calvin.? t Calvin was not of large stature; his com- ( plexion was pale, and rather brown ; even j to his last moments his eyes were peculiar- | ly bright, and indicative of bis penetrating | genius. He knew nothing of luxury in bis ( outward life, but was fond of tbe greatest ( neatness as became his thorough simplicity. His manner of living was so arranged, that he showed himself equally averse to ex- | travagance and parsimony; he took little ] nourishment, such being the weakness of ( his stomaoh that, for many yeare, he .contented himself with one meal a day. Of sleep he had almost none. His memory was incredible; he immediately recognized, after many years, those whom he had once seen; and when he bad been interrupted for several hoars in some work aboat which he was employed, he could immediately resume and continue it, without reading again what he had before written. Of the numerous details connected with the business of his office he never forgot even the moBt trifling; and this, notwithstanding the incredible multitude of his affairs. His < judgment was so acute aod correct in re- { gard to the most opposite concerns about , which bis advice was asked, that he often , seemed to possess the gift of looking into ] the future. I never remember to have ] heard that any one who followed his coun- , sel went wrong. He despised fine speak* ing, and was rather abrupt in his language, but he wrote admirably, and no theologian of his time expressed himself so clearly, so impressively, and accurately as he, and yes be labored as* much as any one of his contemporaries or of the fathers. For bis fluency he was indebted to the several studies of his youth, and to the natural acuteness of his genius, which had been still further increased by the habit of dictation; so that proper and dignified expressions never failed him, whether he was writing or speakiDg' _ - , _ SQp Needle-work is thus gracefully eulogized by Nathaniel Hnwthrone, in 'The Marble Faun "There is something extremely pleasant, and even touohing?at least, of very sweet, soft, and winning effect?in this peculiarity of needle-work, distinguishing men from women Our own sex is incapable of any such by-play sside from the main business of life; but women?be they of what earthly rank they may, however gifted with intellect or genius, or endowed with awful beauty?have always some little handiwork ready to fill up the tiny gap of every vacant moment. A needle is familiar to the fingers of them all. A queen, no doubt, plies it on occasions; the woman-poet oan use it as adroitly as her pen; the woman's eye that has discovered a new star, turns from its glory to send the polished little instrument gleaming along the hem of her kerchief, or to darn a casual fray in her dress. And they have the advantage of us in this respect. The slender thread of silk or cot- < ton keeps them united with the small, fa- i miliar, gentle interests of life, the continu- i ally operating influences of which do so much for the health of the character, and carry off what would otherwise be a dangerous accumulation of morbid sensibility. A vast deal of human sympathy runs along i this electric hoe, stretohmg from the throne to the wicker obair of the humblest seam- ' stress, and keeping high and low in a spe- < cies of communion with their kindred be- < ings. Methinks it is a token of healthy 1 and gentle characteristics, when women of < accomplishments and high thoughts lore to 1 sew, especially as they are never more at < home with their own hearts than when so 1 occupied. * :. i Farewell Dinners.?On the 3d of , March, 1797, Washington gave a farewell , dinner, to which many of the leading per- , sons at the seat of Government were invited. These werrchiefly fhe officers of Government and members of the diplomatic f corps, with their wives. Bishop White, whose sister was the wife of Robert Morris, was present, and described some of the 1 events of the banquet. "Daring the din- 1 ner," wrote the Bishop, "much hilarity i prevailed; bat on the removal of the cloth, t it was pat an end to by the President?cer- i tainly without design. Having filled his f glass, he addressed the company, with a ^ smile on bis countenance, saying, 'Ladies r and gentlemen, this is the last time I shall i drink your health as a public man. I do it I with sincerity, and wishing you all possible fc happiness.' There was an eod to all hilarity; and the cheeks of Mrs. Liston, wife of the British Minister, were wet with tears." c ?Mount Vernon and its Associations. "Yankee."?Origin of the Term.? n There is a difference of opinion regarding e the origin of the word 'Yankee.' Accord- ii ing to Thatcher, a farmer of Cambridge, b Mass., named Jonathan Hastings, who lived ti about the year 1713, used it as a favorite a cant word to express excellence?as 'a yan- b kee good horse,' or 'yankee good cider.'? I The students of the college, hearing him o use it a great deal, adopted it, and called p him 'Yankee Jonathan;' and as he was rather a weak man, the students, when they wished to denote a character of that kind. I would call bim 'Yankee Jonathan.' Like ti other cant words, it spread, and came final- 1< ly to be applied to the New Englanders, as u a term of reproach. r Some suppose the term to be a corrupt o Indian pronunciation of the word English, f whom they called 'Yengeese,' 'Yenglees/ a and finally ?Yankee.' Anticipated EvrL.?Enjoy the pres- 1 ent, whatever it may be, and not be so- ^ licitous for the future; for if you take your j foot from the present standing, and thrust 1 it forward toward to-morrow's event, you t are in a restless condition. It is like re- ? fusing to quench your present thirst by fearing you will want drink the next day. If it be well to-day, it is madness to make i the present miserable by fearing that ft may be ill to-morrow. He, therefore, is wis*. .. * who enjoys as maofa as possible j and A v-. ly that day's trouble leans apob him, it /r singular and finite. "Sufficient to' jay is the evil thereofj" sufficient, hut not intolerable. But if we look abroad, and bring into one day's thoughts the evil of v * many, certain and nnoertain, what wifl be, ind will never be, onr load will be as Intolsrable as it is reasonable. ; v.. RBYOLUTHWABY LONGEVITY.-rJfo khan thirteen of the fifty-six signers of merican Independence reached the age of7^ " eighty years and upwards, namely: Charles Carroll, of Maryland, 95. William Ellery, of Rhode Island, 98. John Adams, of Massachusetts.91. Rob'tTreate Paine, of Massachusetts, 98. Benjamin Franklin, of Massachusetts, 84s * ,, William Williams, of Connecticut, 91. William Floyd, of Long Island, 87. Thomas McKean, of Pennsylvania, 88. Thomas Jeffetaon, of Virginia, 88. George Wythe, of Virginia, 89. Francis Lewis, of Sooth Wales, 90. Matthew Tornton, of Ireland, 89.,{* Being an average of eighty-six years and two months eaoh, and the aggregate txeess of the <'time-honored thirteen," over fourscore, is just eighty years. No deliberative assembly of eqnal magnitude was ever more remarkable for virfoe, temperance, and longevity of its members than the one which declared the American colonies free and J independent. Huguenot Relics in France.?A Bordeaux journal announces a singular discovery made at Saint Macaire,, near that town. As some men were grubbing up*? tree on the estate of a gentleman, named Levean, one of their picks struck againstjhff' something which prodooed a singular sound. It was fonnd to be a layer of bricks, firmly, cemented together, and on removing theqp, a hollow stone was fonnd below, containing twelve daggers, five small vases, one of which contained models and ooms of tb? year 1570; and lastly, a bronze casket, enclosing some parchments which has not yet koon m t^baah kl tl? wvgu uovij/udivu* i?i jjcicav iivviW Ij *vwarded the men, and added the relioa to his collection of antiqnities. It m j* poeed that these articles were bnried there by some wealthy Huguenot, the siege of Souveterre, by Marshall De Mootlnc, in 1562. Franklin as a courtieb.-4he "n. Hampshire Gazette, of December 22^1778, gives the following anecdote: "A gentleman just returned from Paris, informs on* that Dr. Franklin has shaken off entirely the mechanical rest, and commenced the complete courtier. Being lately in. the gar* Y den at Versailles showing the Queen seme " electrical experiments, she asked him in a* raillery, if he did not dread the fated Promethus, who was so severely sefted,4apr stealing fire from Heaven ? "Yes, please ' your Majesty," replied Franklin^wuh in& nite gallantry, "if I did not behold a pair of eyes this moment which have stolen infinitely more fire from Jove-than jai'er JL did, pass unpunished, though they do more mischief in a week thaq I have done in Mir my experiments." ? >, * Cautious Men.?Some men nse words as nnemen ao nonets. ruey say little.? rhe few words used go right to (he mark.? rhey let you talk, and guide with their sye and face, on and on, till what you aaj> ?n be answered in i word1)p>two, awHjfajr v they lance out a sentence, pierce the matter to the quick, arid ate done. . You never know where you stand with them. Yourjonvereation falls into their mind, "as rivers, Fall into deep chasms, and'are lost from sight by its depth and darkness. They will sometimes surprise yon with a few words,,, that go right to the mark like a gunshot, tod then they are silent again, as if tbty were reloading. >.* The White Man's Fly.?Judge Simpion, of Indiana, 'furnisher tfo Vincennes Gazette with this scrap of history: In the year 1776, Minr&d Sturgeas, grand'fttlipp nf Prnf StnroMA nf IT*iinv?r f!nl. ege, emigrated to this'"country, bringing with him the first hive of bees ever seen in ;he Wabash Valley. The Indians, who had )ever seen any before, after being-stung a 'ew times, oalled them the white man's fly; while the Frenoh settlers became very Duch alarmed for the fear, the bees would ojure the fruit by sucking the blossoms.? t is a fact that the honey bee is never'to 16 found in advance of civilization. ~ a- . ?, > ? ^ A Novelty in Fashion.?Among, the iovelties recently introduced in ladies ap?arel is a new article of suspenders- They tear resemblance to those worn by gentleaen, except that they are of delicate, white, lastic fabric, with frilled edge about one nee wide, and are attached to the skirt by inttons in like manner. We donbt not bis invention will generally be adopted with view to relieve the waist of the unlimited urden which such habiliments produce, leason and experience teach us that the Id and absurb method, while followed, imairs the health and impedes locomotion. " - ' ???? ? fGT Three hundred womfen of the city of Lylesbury England, have forwarded a peition to the House of Lords against the sgalization of marriage with a deceased life's sister, on the ground that such mar* iages are calculated to destroy the freedom f family intercourse. On the other hand, our hundred and twenty-eight have signed petition in favor of the measure. Good Wives.?There is nothing men ike to write about better than good wives. Phis is reasonablejenougb, for there is nothng, certainly, in whioh mankind are more nterested. "A good wife," says one, "is o a man wisdom and courage, and hope and mduraoce." 9Sf The firmest friends ask the fewest avoxa. . . 50 U ', *