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A -- DEVOTED TO SOTHERN RIGITS, DEMOCRACY, NEWS, LITERATURE SCIENCE AND TIE A1TS L I T E R A J-R W i t ! . J. F R A NC I S , P r o p r i e t o r . I I W O t t V E8 ' . VOL. V. SUIMTERIVILLE, S. C. VE BR JA1IY 26, 1~1 12 1von Dollars in advance, Two Dollars and Fifty-cents at the ex.)iration of six anonths, or Three Dollars at the end of the year. No paper discontinued until all arreara gs are paid, unless at the option of the prietor. t-rAdvertisoments inserted at 75 cts. per square, (12 lines or less,) for the first and half that sum for each subsequent insertion. E TrTho number of insertions to be mark edon all Advertisements or they will be Oublished until ordered to be discontinued, and charged accordingly. ' One Dollar per square for a single insertion. Quarterly and Monthly Adver tIsements 'will be charged the same as a single nserLion, and semi-monthly the same as new ones. . All Obituary Notices exceeding six linos, and Communications recommending Candidates for public offices or trust-or juflting Exhibitions, will be charged as Advertisements. O.TlRev. Fiitroarc Rusn, is a travelling Agent for this paper, and is authorized to raceive subscriptions and receipt for tne same. The heart of John MTiddleton. From Dickena's Household Word,. I was born at Sawley, where the ahadow of Pendle Hill falls at sun rse. I suppose Sawley sprang up into a village in the time of the monks. who had an abbey there. Many of the cottages are strange old places; others amain are built of the abbey flie~ btieiingq~uane'hai f rum may see many a quaint bit of carvig" worked into the walls. or forming the Jintels of the doors. Then e is a row of houses, built still more recently, where one Mr. Peel came to live there for the sake of the wator-power, and gave the place a fillip into some. S lik fo; though a different kind ae it from the gran4 elks had when tb monka e ,a o aj ve; and even at night. 1 when work was done, we hardly knew how to walk slowly, we had been so bustled all day long. I can't recollect the time when I did not go to the factory. My father used to i drag me there when I was quite a -ittle fellow, in order to wind reels for i him. I never remember my mother. I should have been a better man than i I have been, if I had only had a i .potion of the sound of her voice, or the look of her face. M ther and I lodged in the i hoe V a man, who also worked in the factory. We were sadly throng- i ed in Sawley, so many people came from different parts of the country < to earn a livelihood at the new work; and it was some time before the row of cottagee I have spoken of could be I built. While they were building my father was turned out of his lodgings for drinking and being disorderly, t and he and I slept in the brick-kiln; that is to say, when we did sleep o' t nights; but, often and often, we went poaching; and many a hare andt pheasant have I rolled up in clay,i andl roasted in the embers of thet kiln. Tihen, as followed to reason, Ie was drowsy next day, over my wor-k;t but father had no morecy on me for I sleeping, for all he knew the cause of< it, but kicked ma where I lay, a liea-t Yy lump on the factory-floor, andc cursed and swore at me till I got up I f'or very fear, and to mv winding i again. B~ut when his back was turn- t edI p aid him off with heavier curesr thn he had given me, and longed to s he a man that I might be revenged t on him. The words I than spoke I e *would not now dare to repeat; and I worse thtan hating words, a hanting a heart wont with thoem. I forgot the r time when I did not know how to i hate. When I first came to read a and learnt about Ishmael, I thought c I muet be of his doomed race, for my] hand was against every man, arid c evory man's against me. But I was seventeen or more before I cared for 1 my book enough to learn to read. After the row of works was finished, father took ono, and sot up for himself, a In lotting lodgings. I can't say much a for the furnishing; but ther-a was i plenty of straw, and we kept up good firos; anid thioro is a sot of peoplea whoa value warmth above everything. Th'o worst lot about the pIawo led ged *withj us. We used to havo a supper Ia the mid-dle of' the ni ght; there was jama opiongh, or if there was not < goneil, thoere was poultry to be hadu f'or II to stealing. By day wo nll made a how~i of working In the fatctory. B3y ilglit We l'unstel I y 'ir ak, Now this web of my life was black enough and coarse enough; but by and by, a little golden filmy thread began to be woven in; the dawn of God's mercy was at hand. One blowy October morning, as I sauntered lazily along to the mill, I came to the little wooden bridge over a brook that falls into the Bribble. On the plank there stood a child, balancing the pitcher on her head, with which she had been to fetch water. She was so light on her feet that, had it not been for the weight of the pitcher, I almost believe the wind would have taken her up, and wafted her away as it carries off a blow-ball in seed- time, her blue cotton dross was blown before her, as if she were spreading her wings for a flight; she turned her face round, as if to ask me for something, but when she saw who it was she hesitated, for I had a bad name in the village and I doubt not she had been warned against me. But her heart was too innocent to be distrustful; as she said to me timidly. "Please, John Middleton, will you carry me this heavy jug just over the bridge?" It was the very first time I had ever been spoken to gently. I was ordered here and there by my father and his rough companions; I was abused and cursed by them if I failed in doing what they wished; if I succeeded, there came no expression of thanks or net 49'tdir soI pjWofrtned of facts gentle words of request or entreaty were afore time unknown to me, and now their tones fell on my ear soft and sweet as a distant peal of bells. L wished that I knew how to speak properly in reply; but though we were )f the same standing as regarded vorldly circumstances, there was om. mighty difference between us, n.. eaty. 'There t as nothing tr me )ut take up the pitcher in a kind of ruff. shy silence, and carry it over he bridge as she had asked me. When I gave it her back again, she banked me and tripped away, leaving no, word-less, gazing at her like an Lwkward lout as I was. I knew veil enough who she was.-She was ;randchild to Eleanor Hadfield, an ged woman, who was reputed as a vitch by my father and his set, for no ether reason, that I can make out, han her scorn, dignity, and fearless tess of rancor. It was true we often net her in the gray dawn of the corning when we returned from oaching, and my father used to urse her, under his breath, for a witch, Such as were burnt, long ago, in Pendle Iill top; but I had heard hat Eleanor was a skilful sick nurse, md ever ready to give to those who vere ill; and 1 believe that she had icon sitting up through the night ;the night that we had been spending mnder the wild heavens, in deeds as rild,) with those who were appointed o die. Nolly was her orphan grand. laughter; her little hand maiden: her reasuro; her one ewe lamb. Many ndi many a dlay have I watched b'y he brook-side, hoping that some happy gust of wind, coming with ipportunie bluster dlown the hollowv of lie dale, might make me necessary nee more to her. I longed to hear er speak to me again. I said the rords she had used to myself, trying o catch her tone; but the chance ever came again, I do not know that lie ever know how I avatchecd for her here. I found out that she wen to chool, and nothing would serve me ut that Imlust go too. My fat her coffedl at me; Idid not cure. ikncw ought of what reading was, nor that was likely that I shoul he laughed t; I, a great hulking lad of seventeen r upward, for going to learn my A, 3, 0, in the midst of a crowd of little noB. It stood just this way in my rnind. Nelly was at school; it was the test place for seeing her, and heoarinug ecr voioe again. Thelirefore I woul o too, My father talked, and swore, mnd threatened, but Istood to it. lie aid Ishould leave school, weary of' tin a month. 1 swore a deeperm oath hian 1 liko to romnomber, that .1 would tay a year, ard come out a writ. ir. ly fat1her hiated the nuotion of folks earninmg to road, and said it took all lie sp irit out of thorm; besides, ho houghit ie h ad a righit to overy penny' if iuy wae and~t though, wvheni to was in good humor, ho rmiight hiavo I pivoun me many a jug of alo, lhe rud gpd my two-pouco a week forI h..oolina.--Heovor. to arehnal 11 went. It was a different place to what Iliad thought it before I went inside. The girls sat one side and the boys on the other; so I was not near Nclly. She too was in the first class; I was put with the little toddling things that could hardly run alone. The master sat in the middle, and kept pretty strict watch over us. But I could see Nelly, and hear her read her chapter;.and even when it was one with a long list of hard names, such as the master was very fond of giving her, to show how well she could hit them off without spelling, I thought I had never heard a prettier music. Now and then she read other things. I did not know what they were, true or false; but I listened because she read; and, by and by, I began to wonder, I even spoke to her to ask her (as we were coming out of school) who was the Father of whom she had been reading, for when she said the words "Our Father," her voice dropped into a soft, holy kind of low sound, which struck me more than any loud reading, it seemed so loving and tender. When I asked her this, she looked at me with her great blue wondering eyes, at first shocked; and then, as it werc, melted down into pity and sorrow, she said in the same way, below her breath, in which she read the words "Our Father," "Don't you know? It is God." "'God?" ' 'es-the God that Grandmother "Tell me what she says, will you? So we sat down on the hedge-bank, she a little above me, while I looked up in her face, and she told me all the holy texts her grandmother had taught Ier, as explaining all that could be explained of the Almighty. I listened in silene. or ideed knowledge; she was too young for' much more; but we, in Lancashire, speak a rough kind of Bible language, and the text seemed very clear to me. I rose up, dazed and overpowered. I was going away in silence, when I bethought me of my manners, and turned back, and said, "Thank you," for the first time I ever remember saving it in my life. That was a great day fur me, in more ways than one. I was always one who could keep very s:endy to an object when once I had set it before me. My object was to kn':w Nelly. I was consci aus of nothing more. But it made no regardle'ss of all things. The master might scold, the little ones might laugh; I bore it without giving t a second thought. 1 kept to my year, and came out a reader and writ. er; more, however, to stand well in Nelly's good opinion, than because of my oath. A bout this time, my father :ommitted some cruel deed, and had to fly the country. I was glad he went; for I had never loved or cared for him. and wanted to shake myself ,lear of his set, lint it was no easy mat tei. lionest folk stood aloof; oln iy bad men held out their arms to me with a welcomte. Even Nelly seem ed to have a mixture of fear now with ier kind ways toward me. I was the son of Middletonz, whlo, if he were anughzt, woul be hung at Lancas er Ca~stle. I thought she looked at ne sometimzes with a sort of sorrow uil hzorror. Others were not for eazing enzough to keep their expres. ion of feeling conflined to looks. The on of the overlooke-r at the mill nev. r ensed twitting me with my fath ~r's crime(; lie now brought up his ic'achiing against him, though I know b'ery well how manzy a good supper ze himself had miado on game which mnd been given lhin to make him and iis father wink at lato hours ini the morning. And how wero such us my athmer to como hzonesdly by game? Thzis hlad, Dick Jackson, was the >aine of my life. li was a year oi woh oler t han [ was, an d hadl inuch oiwer < ver tho meon wvho worked at be m ~ill.? as lie could report to his fazith rz what ho chiose. I coul not always ol ofi peae whei n ho " 'threnpod'" no withi imy father's sins, bzut gave it fliek somtizmes~ ini a storm of passin, It did meo no goodl; only throw mo artheor ft om the canplanly of botter non, whlo looked aghast arnd shooked mt thu oaths I pouired out----blar'le mons words learnt in my chIldhood , wvhich 1 could not forget now that I would fin havQ puritiod myself of thiem ; while all the time Dick Jackson toodhv.' whh a incmi m imle t~at gence; and when I had ended, breath less and weary with spent passion, he would turn to those hose respect I longed to earn, and asked if.I were not a worthy son of my father, and likely to tread in his steps. But this smiling indifference of his to my mis erable vehemence ws8i ot all, though it was the worst part of his con duct, for it made the rankling hatred grow up in my heart, and overabadow it like the g-eat gourd-tree of the prophet Jonah. Butihis was a mer ciful shade, keeping out the burning sun; mine blighted wtat it fell upon. What Dick Jackso ' did -besides, was this, His father Ivas a skilful over looker, and a good man; Mr..Poel val ued him so much, that he was kept on, although hie health Was, failing; and when he was unaible thiiogh illness, to come to the mill,!he deputed his son to watch o ce andrpport-the men. It was too much poger, forone so young. I speak it calbly tnow. What ever Dick Jackson slpame, he bad strong temptations llent he was young, which will be kilowed for here after. But at ti e time-of which I am telling, my hate raged like a fire. I believed that he .as the one sole ob stacle to my being rhceivpd as fit to mix with good and lionest -men. I was sick of crime and sorder, and would fain base ovr to a different kind of, J d have been industrious; en.st, and right-spoken, =idea -of higher virtue the. I very turn Dick Jackson met n b$&sneers. I have walked thei' in the old abbey- -> I could out-him : in spite of hii ever prayed lent stars, k walls t ing $o had bR ~ prayed earnest ly, God wo ve me what I asked for, and I lodk upon it as a kind of chance for the fulfilment of my wish es. If earnestness would have won the boon for me, never were wicked words so earnestly spoken. And oh, later on, my prayer was heard, and my wish granted! All the time I saw little of Nelly. Her grandmoth er was failing, and she had much to do in doors. Besides, I believe I had read her looks aright, when I took them to speak of aversion; and I planned to hide myself from her sight, as it were, until I could stand upright before men, with fea:rless eyes, dreading no face of accusation. It was possible to acquire a good cha racter; I would do it--I did it; but no one brought up among respecta ble, untempted people can tell the unspeakable hardness of the task. In the evening I would not go forth among the village throng; for the ac quaintances that claimed me were my father's old associates, & those who would have shunned me & kept aloof, were the steady & orderly. So I staid iu doors, and practiced myself in read iYowill say I should have found eairto earn a good character away from Sawley, at some place where neither I nor my father was knowr.. So I should; but it would not have been the same thing to my mind. Beside, representing all good meni, all goodness to me, in Sawley Nelly lived. In her sight I would work out my life, and fight my way upward to men's respect. Two v'ear s passedl on. Every day I strove fiercoly; every dlay my stru glos wvere made fruitless by the son ot the over looker; and I seemed but where I was; but where I must ever be es toomed b~y all who knew me, but as die son of the criminal; wild, reck less, ripe for crime mnyself. Where was the use or my reading and writ ring? These acquirements were dis regarded and scouted by those among whom I was thrust banck to take my p~ortioni. I could have read any chap ter in the Bible now; and Nelly seem ed as though she would never know it. I was dIriven ini upon my hooks; aind few enough of them I had. The pedlars brought them round in their acks, and 1 bought what I could. I ind die "'Seven Champions,'' and the "Pilgrim's Progress;" amnd both scoem dto me equally woudorf~ul, and1( equally founded on fact. I got Iy' ron's ''Narrative,'' and "Miilton''s Paradise Lost;" but I lacked the knowledge which would give a clue to all. Still they afforded moe pleasure, boenuso they took me out of myself, rind made me unconscious (for the timo at least,) of' my ono groat posi tion of hatred against Dick Jackson. When Nelly was about seventeen her grandmother died. I stood aloof in the churchyard, behind the great yew tree, and watched the funeral. It was the first religious service that ever I heard; and, to my shame as I thought, it affected me to tears. The words seemed so peaceful and holh that I longed to go to church, but I durst not, because I had never been. 'The parish church was at Bolton, far enough away to serve as an excuse for all who did not care to go. I heard Nelly's sobs filling up every pause in the clergyman's voice; and every sob of hers went to my heart. She passed me on her way out of the churchyard; she was so near I might have touched her; but her head was hanging down, and I durst not speak to her. Then the question arose, what was to become of her? She must earn her living; was it to be as a farm servant, or by working at the mill ? I knew en ough of both kinds of life to make me tremble for her. My wages were such as to enable me to marry, if I chose; and I never thought of woman for my wife, but Nelly. Still I would not have married her now, if I could; for, as yet, I had not risen up to the character which I determ. ined it was fit that Nelly's husband should have. When I was rich in good report, I would come forwards, and take my chance; but until then, I would hold my peace. I had faith in the power of my long-continued dogged breasting of opinion. Soon or later, it should triumph, & I be re coived among the ranks of good men. umeauwbile, what was to become I. koasdu rnyWA one ofthonost-. s place; she looked at me suspiciously. I kept down my temper, and told her I would never come near-the place; that I would keep away from that end of the village; and that the girl for whom I made the inquiry should never know but what the parish paid for her keep. It would not do; she suspected me; but Iknow I had pow er over myself to have kept to my word; and besides, I would not for worlds hp -"' ul Nelly put under any obligatic which should speck the pur l. 'ove, or diin it by a mixture of gr. ..,.c--the love that Tcraved to earn, not for my money, not for my kindness, but for myself. I heard that Nelly had met with a place in Bolland; and I could see no reason why I might nt speak to her once before she left our neighborhood. I meant it to be a quiet fricndly tell. ing her of my sympathy in her sor. rcw. I felt Icould command myself. So, on the Sunday before she was to leave Sawley, I waited near the wood path, by which I knew that she would return from afternoon church. 'The birds madec such a melodious whrble such a busy sound among the leaves, that I did not hear approaching foot mteps, till they were close at hand; ad there were sounds of two personis voices. Tfho wood was near that part of Sawvley where Nelty was staving with friends; the path through it led to their house, and their's only, so I knew it must be she, for Ilbad watch. ed her setting out to church alone. But who was the other ? The blood went to my heart and heard, as if I were shot, when I saw that it was Dick Jackson. Was this the end of it all ? In the steps of sin which my father had trnde, I v'ould rush to my dleath and my loom. Eveni where I stood I longed ~or a weapen to slay him. hlow ared lie come near my Nelly F She no-I thought her fauithless, and 'orgot how little I hiad ever been in >utwardl action; how few words, and hose how uncouth, I had ever spoken :o her; andl I ha ted her as a traitress. 1heae feelings passedl through me be. o)ro I could sco, my eyes and head ivere so dlizzy and lhind. When I ooked I sa w D)ickc Jacketn hiig ecr hand, andl speaking quick and ow, nud thick, as a man spenks in rent vehemuence. She seemed white ui' dismiayed; but all at onice, at somie word of his, (and what it w~as aho never would tell me,) she looked ts though she de4flied a fiend, wrench ed herself out of his prasp. lie unaught hol of her again, anti begani once more the thick whisper that I loathed. 1'could hear it no longer, nor did I see wh y .1 should, Jstnn. ped out from behind the tree where I had been lying. When sl' saw me she lost her look of one strung up to desperation, and came and clung to me; and Ifclt like a giant in strength and might. 1 held her with one arm, but I did not take my eyes off him; I felt as if they blazed down into his soul, and searched him up He never spoke, but tried to look as though he defied me; at last his eves fell bofore mine. I dared not speak; for the old horrid oaths thronged up to my mouth : and dreaded giving them way, and terrifying my. poor trembling Nelly. At last he made to go past me; I drew her out of the pathway. By in stinct she wrapped her garments round her, as it to avoid his accidental touch; and he was stung by this, I believe- . to the mad, miserable revenge he -took. As my back turned to him, in an en. deavor to speak some words to Nelly, that might soothe her into calmness, she, who was looking after him, like one fascinated with terror, saw him take a sharp shaley stone, and aim it at me. Poor darling! she clung round me as a shield, making her sweet body into a defense for mine. It hit her, and she spoke no word, kept hack her cry of pain, hut fell at my feet in a swoon. lie, the coward, ran off as soon as he saw what he had done. I was with Nelly alone in the green gloom of the wood. The quivering and leaf-tinted light made her look as ifshe were dead. I car ried her, not knowing if I bore a corpse or not, to her friend's house. I did not stay to explain, but ran madly for the doctor. * Well! I cannot hear to recur to that agaiu. Five weeks I lived in the agony of suspense, from which my only relief war it laying savage plans for revenge. if h lisfed hirn before, hat. thiqJ ...yp ifit~~caw edgesa ii: ltv vetry wat iti; h ! Ite Rtc i,' heart; Nelly grew better; as well as n was ever to grow. The bright color.hal left her cheek; the mouth quivered with repsessed pain; the eyes were dim with tears that agony had forced into them; and I loved her a thousand times better and more than when she was bright and blooming! What was best of all, I, be gan to perceive that she cared for me. I know her grandmother's friends warn. ed her against me, and told her I came of a bad stock; but she had passed the point where remonstance from hystand. ers can take efTect; she loved me as I was a strange mixture of bad and good, all unworthy of her. We spoke together now as those do whoso lives are bound up in each other. I told her I would marry her as soon as she had reoover ed her health. Hor friends shook their heads, but they saw she would be unfit for farm.service or heavy work, and they pI hops thought, as many a one dot's, that a had husband was better thtan none at all. Any how, we were marri. ed; and I learned to bless God for my happiness, so far beyond my deserts. I kept her like a lady. I was a skillful workaman, andr earned good wattes; end every wanit she laud I tried to grattify. hler wvishes weare few and simnpleLenoug'h, poor Nelly! lfthey habeen ever so fanci fu, I shaould hav'e hiad mny reward in the new f,-elinig ofl the haolina'ss of home. She could lead me as a little child, wvith the charm of her gentle voice and haer ev'er kitnds. She would plead~ for all when I was full of aunger atnd passion; onaly Dick Jackson's namne passed never b't ween rour lips during all t hat timte. In th e evening she lay back int her heehive chntr, andt read to me. I think I see lher now, nale arid wenak, wieh her sweet, youing face, lighted by he'r holy, enroast ey-vs, tell. iag mte of' the Favior's life atnd de'ath, till they were filled with iears. I long. ed to haivn beeni tnero, to have aaventged himr oni the wicked Jews. I liked Pt, tear thIe best ofl aill thle dlisci ples. But 1 got the Blible myselfI, ad renal the nct of Go's vengeanc~e in the Oh!I Testament, with a kind of triumnphant faith that, sooner or later, lie woul take my cautse in hanid, anid revenge me on tmi'te one In a y'ear or so, Nelly had a hahy-.a little girl, withi eyes just hako lhers, thant look rd withi a grtave openness right into y'ours. N elly recovered bait slowvly. I t was juast before winteg' the o otton orop had failed, and maIster htad to turn, otl manay hanitds. I thought I wvas aure of beinag kept on, for I had earned n steady chanracter, anid didl my work wveil; but one ngutin it wvats permitted that Dick Jacekson should alo me wvrong. He intldued his letther to dlismniss ma omorig thet first in my brnnchl of the business; anal there was I, just beohre winter saut ian, wit h a wif, andta now' hore child, anal a small eanough store of monny to keep body nnd s'ul togethor tIll I could e to wnork again. . All my,. atving hli gone by Christmas Eve,. and,~ w t Ina the hiouse faodioseder~u i'erow s fystia1, T pi inceshd 'A worn; the . ahy crie4 f9a larer A ply of milk than itsriatarvingprm, er could give It. Myiight find !t not lorgot its. Ctaningj and "Iwent ont once more to nty 'poaching. I knee where the gang iet, nyd I know i' n wellgome trhck 1.si puad. J)avO-.a far worrnr gjd morer',w.ty .W*tlcome absp good, men 11n41 g.yee ne, when I.rd to enter their runki, QO the road to he mee:ing-place I fell in with an old mab -one w'ho hat been a companion te0my futher in his early days; "-What; ladd!" saidi ie, "art thou tui. ing uuck to the old 'trade?' It's the bet ter busiesa, now that cotton hag failed.? "Ay," said T, "Cctton is atrvingAmn. outrieshtt. A man mny henr a'deal ble~.. self, but lid'o 'aight'bnd and sinful Ia save his wifr and child. ."Nay, lad,'t said he, "poaching Is not sinful; it goes againtoman's laws, but not against God's." I was too weak toargue or talk much, I had not tasted. f od for two days. Opt I murmgred, 'At any rate,: Itruteddj have been clear of itsfdt the rest :of My rlays, It led my father:wronig at first. I have tried and I h:,e striven; Now [-give all up. - Right:i 4Frongmjall be the same to me. 'Saneie foreodo4 rd; and so anm I." An as -siok. some notion of the fiturity thatjvotI4 separate Nelly, the pure an4.holy, ra :ne, the rcekleas..and desperato n ,' came over me.. with - an irrepressible burst of anguish. Just -then the belha of Bohon-in-Bolipnd ictruck up a peal, which aie-oye Vihe woods, M " o, ' the morning. sho.ain for rjoy-4. seemed so.cigar a IA.lant. t i.rs Christma Dayand I t ike an outewe fro, the gladness. and tho salvatins. Old-Jonah spoke" ouit -':, b e tt o r e I" f o r '4 4 0 losnire fdt -'r rw ever, of taking' bte t ; paupers, they, seek, o take care o our.negroos; and in doing so, they meddle with-'matters which do not concern tberm'a4 alL' They area p'. fectly.nervousat, i1,dea of cope't ling human beings to labor without recompence, whilo'if they would gen. sult their ;taitn li'th1 they would ind tliat'in many of -4ir States te force poor white-men into a state of Slavery whioheis:qui?e an odious as black slavery. Asir an instance it point, we make 'nexfract fre doa' articlein the Febriany No; o g >cratic Review, ,widh containusp. ply to a letter of the editor addressed to an eminent' oitze of Connecticut, asking inforInatbh as to the law relation to "the bidding off of "'-' yors.t' The following is the repl: "It is the custom in many towns Connecticut, to gettijhe paupezahs auction every year, and knock 'thein ff to the lowest bidder-.~that.'is, to :ho man who will- take thetu for the year, at the lowest piide. This ~~ the case to mflknowled'ge in bev~~ sountries. I naealways undersoo it to be a general thing in Cornneoti aut When we *we in HI. they weie sold to the nuimb g sixtg for ii year to ourinext. dooi neighbor. r~ 15 dollars a'headseand'he got all the work out of them that lie could thogi!t most of thorm w'ei-infirm and ret a ble to donm h'A" 'rI f hoed his cora irnd sawed his wood, and weeded his garden; and being an deteni armany, they assisted ins dressit.j ish, and Pfdid;:e hores'. geo ily l'hey are made to work rall tg 'nade t9"work All thattldegay'4bq [n H. the contic'ter. 1 id, . a fisherman, -and. during the fm~~ ;easoni, a principal'artlole of" foodftm the paupers was tidh~ads and teils't shad, which wer tito hen dre4 for salting. iThey were oid a littlo otie story" house~ wih autie ntot to esteed 2o by80eem and ewel aull std~~re a i'ioo t toge, v,'ty male, wt;a potat littlo' raard: to 4oo00" de us of the dleath'9 a tbrgotac puo ai' ' rehole amodutootr sted*r vear; iredbe1 ~ tt~ bb gency calsit9 a bid; 86 that'the cuterto had rcinere-hm ar e