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- ,' . -, *~ ", ! i1 i4J~ ? -' l I DEVOTED TO SOUTHERN RIGHTS, DEMOCRACY, NEWS, LITERATURE SCIENCE AND THE ATS. , . *.**l , ft4 WVO. 3. FRANCIS, Proprietor. *. TEEBR.TWR YIar e A26, VOL. v.SM IILS.C.FBRUIARIY 26, 1851. Ne 0 Woo Dollars in advance, Two Dollars %nd Pilly-cents at the exairation of six anonth-, or Three Dollars at die end of the year. No paper discontinued until all arreara a are paid, unless at the option of the Proprietor. e-TAdvertisements inserted at 75 ets. per square, (12 lines or less,) for the first and half that sum for each subsequent insertion. E'TThe number of insertions to be mark ed on all Advertisements or they will be iublished until ordered to be discontinued, and charged accordingly. TOne Dollar per square for a single insertion. Quarterly and Monthly Adver tisements will be charged the same as a single nsertion, and semi-nionthly the same as new ones. All Obituary, Notices exceeding six lines, and Connmunications recornmending Candidates for public offices or trust--or pufflig Exhibitions, will be charged as Advertisements. 'r llev. FItoitarcx Rusu, is a travelling Agent for this paper, and is authorized to raceive subscriptions and receipt for the wame. The heart of John ]Middleton. From Dickens's Household Words. I was born at Sawley, where the shadow of Pendle Hill falls at sun rise. 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 again are built of the abbey i iezgbo ig' gUtile-hale from may see many a quaint bit of carving worked into the walls, or forming the lintels of the doors. Ther e is a row of houses, built still more recently, where one Mr. Peel came to live .there for the sake of the water-power, and gave the place a fillip into some. thn lik jfc; though a different kind 'take it from the grand ks had when th monks Ye; and even at night. when work was done, ire hardly knew bow to walk slowly, we hail been so bustled all day long. I can't recollect the time when I did not go to the factory. My father used to drag me there when I was quite a little fellow, in order to wind reels for him. I never remember my mother. I should have been a better man than I have been, if I had only had a notion of the sound of her voice, or the look of her face. M7 , fthor and I lodged in the bous ,t a man, who also worked in the factory. We were saily throng ed in Sawley, so many people came fro-n different parts of the country to earn a livelihood at the new work; and it was some time before the row of cottages I have spoken of could be built. While they were building my father was turned out of his lodgings for drinking and being disorderly, and he and I slept in the brick-kiln; that is to say, when we did sleep o' nights; but, often and often, we went poaching; and many a hare and pheasant have I rolled up in clay, a~nd roasted in the embers of the kiln. Then, as followed to reason, I was drowsy next day, over my work; but father had no mercy on me for sleeping, for all he knew the cause of' it, but kied me where I lay, a lhen. 'ty lump on the factory-floor, and cursed and swore at me till I got up for very fear, and to my winding again. But when his back was turn ed p paid him off with heavier curses thaR he had given me, and longed to be a man that I might be revenged on him. The words I then spoke I *yrould not now dare to repeat; and worse thtan hating words, a hating boart went with them. I forgot the time when I did not know how to hate. When I first came to read and learnt about Ishtmaol, I thought I must bo of his doomed race, for my hand was against every man, and every mati's against me. But I was seventoen or more before I cared for my book enough to learn to read. After the row of works was finished, father took one, ad sot up for himisolfI, Iln Ipttltug lodlgings. .1 can't say much f'or the furmishmng; but there was plenty of straw, anid we kept up good nr ios; and chore is a sot of pople whIo vanlue warmtht abovo everything. Tho wotrst lot about the plauo lodgod with) us. We used to have a supper hi the middle of' tho ni ght; there wats gam .enetgh, or If there was not gaum, thered was poultry to be htad for th o atonling. Bly da~y we all mando a ghna of wvorking jIn the fa~'ctor'y. fly ililt we t'unaled ip df) gel k, 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 dress was I 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 neebd'yo L a" i &jnforined of facts gentle words of request or entreaty were afore time unknown to me, and now their tones fell on my car soft and sweet as a distant peal of bells. I wished that I knew low to speak properly in reply; but though we were of the same standing as regarded worldly circumstances, there was somcpighty difference between us a i eaty. There i as nothing tfr me 1 but take up the pitcher in a kind of I grutT, shy silence, and carry it over l the bridge as she had asked me. I When I gave it her back again, she , thanked me and tripped away, leaving me, word-less, gazing at her like au I awkward lout as I was. I knew t well enough who she was.-She was f grandchild to Eleanor Hadfield, an aged woman, who was reputed as a witch by my father and his set, for no other reason, that 1 can make out, than her scorn, dignity, and fearless. ness of rancor. It was true we often met her in the gray dawn of the morning when we returned from poaching, and my father used to curse her, under his breath, for a ,witch, such as were burnt, long ago, on Pendle lill top; but I had heard that Eleanor was a skilful sick nurse, and ever ready to give to those who were ill; and I believe that she had been sitting up through the night (the night that we had been spending under the wild heavens, in deeds as t wild,) with those who were appointed to die. Nelly was her orphan grand daughter; her little hand maiden: her treasure; her one ewe lamb. Many and many a day have I watched b' the brook-side, hoping that some happy gust of windl, coming with opportune bluster dlown the hollow of the dale, might make me necessary once more to hecr. I longed to hear her speak to me again. I said thet words she had used to myself, trying to catch her tone; but the chanice never came againt, I (10 not know that she ever knew how I avatched for herE there. I found out that she went to I school, and nothing would serve me< but that I must go too. My faither< scoffed at me; Idid not care. 1 knew nought of what reading was, nor that, it was likely that I should be laughed at; I, a great hulking lad of seventeen or upward, for going to learn my A, 13, 0, in the midst of a crowd otf little i ones. It stood just this way in my mind. Nolly was at school; it was the best place for seeing her, and bocarinig 1 her voce again. Therefore I woul go too. My father talked, and swore, and threatened, but latood to it. lie said 1Jshould leave school, weary of' It in a month. 1 swore a deeper oath than I lko to romombebr, that.1 would stay a year, andr come out a writsr. My f'at ier hattod the notion of folks learning to road, arid said it took tall the apirit out of thoem; besides, lhe thoughit he had a righti to every penny3 of' tny~ wages, and though, wheni lie was in good humnor, lie might have given me many a jug of ale, he grudgoid my two-penco a week for sdcolin -...Honure to nchlI ri Went. It was a different place to what Ihad thought it before I went I nsido. The girls sat one side and I the boys on the other; so I was not ] tcar Nclly. She too was in the first i lass; I was put with the little I :oddling things that could hardly run ilone. The master sat in the middle, 4 md kept pretty strict watch over us. i lut I could see Nelly, and hear her 4 -cad her chapter; and even when it sas one with a long list of hard i tames, such as the master was very 'ond of giving her, to show how well ihe could hit them off without s ipelling, I thought I had never heard t prettier music. Now and then she -cad other things. I did not know I vhat they were, true or false; but I t istened because she read; and, by t md by, I began to wonder, I ,ven spoke to her to ask her (as t we were coming out of school) who s was the Father of whom she had been eading, for when she said the words J 'Our Father," her voice dropped nto a soft, holy kind of low sound, a which struck me more than any loud reading, it seemed so loving and :ender. When I asked her this, she ooked at me wi:h her great blue I vondering eyes, at first shocked; and f then, as it were, melted down into 1 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." 1 ''GAd?"t 'Yes the God that Grandmother I "Tell me what she says, will you?-' J So we sat down on the hedge-bank, t the a little above me, while I looked ip in her face, and she told me all i he holy texts her grandmother had < aught her, as explaining all that 1 ould be explained of the Almighty. 1 istene d in silenc , for, indeed, I i >db t :i owledge; she was too young for nach more; but we, in Lancashire, peak a r. igh kind of Bible language, c nd the tt..t seemed very clear to me. . rose up, dazed and overpowered. I was going away in silence, when I >ethougiht me of my manners, and I urned back, and said, "Thank you," 61- the first time I ever remember s aying it in my life. That was a e ;reat day for me, in more ways than d ne. h I was always one who could keep t -erv steady to all object when once p had set it before Inc. My object s ras to knio.w Nellyv. I was consci- u aus of nothing more. But it made e ne regardless of all things. The I naster might scold, the little ones r night laugh; I bore it without giving r t a second thought. I kept to my b car, and came out a reader and writ. u r; more, however, to stand well in tl elly's good opinion, than because of a ny oath. About this time, my father q omomitted some cruel deed, and had fi o fly the country. I was glad he v 1e nt; for I had never loved or cared or him. and wanted to shake myself 1 lear of his set. lint it wvas nio easy 1 nlatter. lionest folk stood1 aloof; on.-i y bad inen held out their arms to me a withi a welcomie. Even Nelly seem-e d to have a mixture of fear now with I er kind ways toward me. I was the r, oni of Middleton, w'ho, if lie were e au ght, woul bo hung at Lancas er- Castle. I1 thought she looked at 2 ne somletimies with a sortI of sor-row-. all ho'rrori. Others were not for-u ~enming enough to keep their expr-es. ~ ~on of feeling confinled to looks. The fi on of the overlooker at the mnill ney- r r cease-d t witting mel with my fath!- h r's cime; lie now brought uip his oachinlg against him, though I know t ecry well how ma~ny a good supper t eC himself hadl matde on0 game which b ad beeni giv~en him to make him andv ue faither wink at hate hours ini the i norning. A nud how weio such as tny r outhuer to comnu huonestly by game?v This lad, Dic-k Jackson, was thep utne oh imy life. 11I0 was a year ort wo obler than! I was, andu hadl mnuch c tower- tver the imien who wor-ked at i Ihe u mi. as h c oulId report to his fatth ir what ho chuo('se. I could not alwaysy nsh d u1 ' pece whe hI "l 10'threupod i lie wit I' may father :'s sins, but gave itr ime-k some1 times ini a storm of p assion. Lt did mnuo 11 ood :; ontly throew mo0e arther frm the cr 'llpanuy of better non!, wvho looked aghast an~d shiookedr it thu oaithi I poutrod ouit----blas~plo. I nlouis wor-ds learnt in moy chilldhoodh, I shich I could not forgot now that I would fain hunvq puillod myself of 1hem ; while aill thme limo Dick Jackson Ia toodhv., wmid a mocnt miln of itel.. I ;ence; and when I had ended, breath ess and weary with spent passion, ie would turn to those whose respect longed to earn, and asked if.I were ot a worthy son of my father, and ikely to tread in his steps. But this wiling indifference of his to my mis irable vehemence was iot all, though t was the worst part. of his con. luct, for it made the rankling hatred row up in my heart, and oversbadow t like the great gourd-tree of the )rophet Jonah. ButL his was a mer :iful shade, keeping out the burning an; mine blighted what it fell upon. What Dick Jackson' did besides, ras this, His father vs a skilful over ooker, and a good man; Mr.,Peel val. ied him so much, that he was kept on, Lthough his henkth was, failing; and vhen he was unable' thirough illness, o come to the roill,}he deputed his on to watch o'ere andreport the men. t was too mui poyer.' for one so oung. I speak it cali.ly now. What ,ver Dick Jackson acrne, he had trong temptations Wub'en, he was noung, which will be hllowe4 for here ifter. But at tie time of which I am elling, my hate raged llke k fire. I yelioved that he 'vas the one sole ob tacle to my being rdceived as fit to nix with good and ..oneat men. I eras sick of crime and :dsorder, and mould fain have .co over to a ifferont kind of _'? nd have een industrious nest, and ight-spoken, (I -idea of iigher virtue then Yery turn Dick Jackson met om,,i sneers. E have walked theti r l h, in ho old abbey.Q - I ould out-him, : ec n spite of him~z wver prayed t t f ent stars, kn valls, t og Go, j'A' I had hit prayed earnest. y, God wob4 ttve me what I asked or, and I looked upon it as a kind of hance for the fulfilment of my wish. s. If earnestness would have won ho boon for me, never were wicked ords so earnestly spoken. And oh, ter on, my prayer was heard, and oy wish granted! All the time I aw little of Nelly. Her grandmoth r was failing, and she had much to o in doors. Besides, I believe I ad read her looks aright, when I took hem to speak of aversion; and I lanned to hide myself from her ight, as it were, until I could stand pright before men, with forless yes, dreading no face of accusation. t was possible to acquire a good cha. acter; I would do it--I did it; but o one brought up among respcctn le, untempted people can tell the aspeakable hardness of the task. in be evening I would not go forth mong the village throng; for the ac. uaintances that claimed me were my ather's old associates, & those who could have shunned me & kept aloof, rere the steady & orderly. So I staid i doors, and practiced myself in rend. g. You will say I should have found e asier to earn a good character way from Sawley, at some place there neither I nor my father was nowr.. So I should; but it would ot have been the same thing to my aind. Beside, representing all good men, all goodness te me, in Sawley f'elly lived. In her sight I would pork out my life, and fight my way *pward to men's respect. Two years assedl on. Every day I strove ercoly; every dlay my struggles were lade fruitless by the son ot the over >oker; aiid I seemed but where I las; but where I must ever be es Domed by all who knew me, but as he son of the criminal; wild, reck ass, ripe for crime myself. Where ras tihe use of m~y reading and writ. Fig? Theso acqmirements wetre dis egarded and scoutedl by those among thomn I was thrust back to take my ortion. I could havo read any chop er in the Bible now; and Nelly seom-. d as though Hho would never know t. I was driven ini upon miy boo0ks; nd few enough of them I had. Tfhe edlars brought them round ini their acks, and 1 bought what I coul. I ad the "Soeven Champions," and1( time Pilgrim's Progress;'' and both seemn d to mue equally wonderful, aind qually founidedl on fact. I got By on's "Narrative,'" and~ "Mlton''s 'aradiso Lost;" but I lacked the :owlodgo which would give a cluo to .11. Still they afforded meo leasure, recauso they took me oult of' myself, n~d made me uinconscious (for the imo at least,) of' my onme groai [nn.L 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. 'Tlhe words seemed so peaceful and hol 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 servo 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 1 be re ceived among the ranks of good men. .at-meanwhile; what was to become e reckoned lip. as; one of th'o most' ' tie ' e 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 Jknow I had pow er over myself to have kept to my word; and besides, I would not for worlds have had Nelly put under any obligation to me, which should speck the purity of her love, or dim it by a mixture of gratitude-the love that I craved to earn, not for my money, not for my kindness, but for mysolf. I heard that Nelly had met with a place in Rolland; 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 friendly tell ing her of my sympathy in her sor row. I felt Icould command myself. So, on the Sunday before she was to leave Sawlev, I waited near the wood path, by which I knew that she would return from afternoon church. The birds made such a melodious whrble such a busy scund among tho leaves, that I did not hear apiproachuing' foot steps, till they were close at hand; and there were sounds of two persons voices. Tfhe wood was near that part of Sawley where Nelly was staving with friends; the path through it led to their house, and their's only), so I kne w it must be she, for 1 hadl 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 wvas Dick Jackson. W~as this the end of it all ? In the steps of sin which my father had trode, I would rush to may (denth and my (loom. Even where I stood I longe~d for a weapen to slay him. llow dared he come near my Nelly 7 She too-i thought her faithless, and forgot how little I had ever been in outward action; how few words, and those how ncouth. I had ever spoken to hecr; and I hated her as a traitress. These feelings passced through me be fore I could sco, my eyes and head were so di;ZZy and blind. When I looked Isatw D)ickc Jackson holding her hand, and speaking quick and low, and thick, as a mnitt speaks. in great vehemnce. She seemed white and' dismayed; but all at onice, at some w~ord of his, (anud what it was she never would tell me,) sho lookod as thoughi she0 dleed a tiend, wrench ed herself out of his grasp. lie caught hoid of her again, and began onco more the thiek whisper that I loathed. Icould hear it no longer, nor did I see why I1 should,.1 ten. ped out from behind the tree where I had been lying. When she saiv me she lost her look of one strung up to desperation, and came and etung to me; and I felt like a giant in strength and might. lheld 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 tme; I drew her out of the pathway. By in stinct she wrapped her garments round her, as it to avoid hisaccidental 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 cahonmtehs, 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 shiel, making her sweet body into a defense for mine. It hit her, and shc spoke no word, kept back her cry of pain, but fell at my feet in a swoon. Ile, the coward, ran off as soon an 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 explbin, but ran madly for the doctor. Well! I cannot bear to recur to that agaiu. Five weeks I lived in the agony of suspense, from which my only religf was in laying savage plans for revenge. If hasted -himbefore,..-what .thinksye tdicketw ip dygmps s~nh aulerot very waltt ; h ! he sic.nin'oTmjgy heart; Nelly grow better; as well as aim was ever to grow. The bright color had left her cheek; the mouth quivered with repsessed pain; the eves were dim with tears that agony had ibrced 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 bystand. urs can take effect; she loved me as I was a strange mixture at bad and good, all unworthy of her. We spoke together now as those do whose lives are bound up in each other. I told her I would marry her as soon as she had reoover. edl her health. Heor friends shook their heads, but they saw she would be unfit for farm-service or heavy work, and they pet Iaps thought, as many a one does, that a had husband was better than none at all. Any how, we were marri. ed; and I learned to bless God for my hnppiness, so far beyond my deserts. 'I kept her like a lady. I was a skillful workman, and ea rued good wages; and every want she had I triedu to grattifv. bier wishes were few and simple enoug'h, poor Nelly! I fthey hat been ever so fdanci ful, I shuoiu tiave had my re wiard in the new feeling of the hiolinetss cf htomi. She could head me na a little child, with the charm of liar gentle. voice and her ever kinds. She would plead for all w hen I was full of tinger and passion; only [ick Jackson's name passed never between our lips during mall that tie. lIn the evenning she lay back in tier hee hive chiir, antd readt :o me. I t hink I see her now, pate nnd wrok, with her sweet, y'oung faee, l ighte'd by h er holy, earnist ey'.s, tell. inug mceof the Navior's life and d.'nth, tilt they wern filled1 with tears. I long. ed to have been tncre, to have a vengedl tun on the wicked Jews. I liked Po te r thle best of allt the dlisci ples. But I uot the Bibtle m'ysel f, ant rendt t he'act of (Gid's vengeance in the Ohl Tlestamnent, with a kind of triumphant faith that, sooner or later, I Ie would tatko iv cause in handru, and revenge me on iiio one. m'v. In a year or .so, Nelly hind a bb little girl, with eves just hiko hers, thai lo~oke d with ti grove openness right lint yours. Nelly recovered but slowly. It was .inst befo winter-; the cotton. orop had fatiled, und mast.'r liad to turn, ott mnaiy hiands. I tthought I was aure of being kept on, for I had eaurned a stondy character, and didt my work welt; buiit onee nig ain it wa's permit ted t hat Dick Jackson should do mue w ron'g. lie ind!uced his hithter to d ismniss mn1 aimong the first in rmy brranch of the butsines4; ami thters wtas I, just before winter st in, with a wvi fo and nowbhorn ohild, uand a small en'ug~h sttore of monny to keep bodly and sotuh togethat tIll I could get to work anenin. All my. avings lii gonn by Christmas Eve, arid ava In the house foodlessa far ihe tmorro fTs.iYul. rlyolly olJ.inchepd worn; the pr leernclarger sau ply of milk than its Kor, sirving mot~ cr could uivo It. . Myrigt hand had not iorgot its- ounninks and .I went -ot once more to my poaching. I knee where the gang ret, and I know whyt a welcome rhnck f bihold hove-.a -Ia ' wuarm.r tajzd m)oreJensity ivelcome thua good men had given me when I trled to enter their rnimlf,. On the road to 1he mee:ing-pouce I fell in with an old mao -one who had been'a companion to my. father in his early days. . " What; l~ii!" saidi "sort thou tuia ing back to the old tradet It's the bet. her businnras, now that cotton ban failed,' "Ay," said I, "c6ltfn Is starving ds nutright. A rnan may hear a deal ilk.. sif, but lie' do aughtlhid and sinful t save his wife and child A "Nay, Iad," said he,"poaching Is not * sinlul; it goes againtLman's laws bus not against God's." I was too weak to a'gue or talk muc., I ha4 not ta.ted. food for two days. But imu rmured.,,At any rate,-Jtrusted ta have been clear of :it Jdr the. rest .of my days. It led my father wrong at frst. I have tried and I have st-riven; Now I-give all up. Right dr '*rong shall be the same to me. Some are fore..dool. ed; and so am 1."' sik as gl sc. some notion of the futurity that would separate Nelly, the pure andholy, from re, -the reckless" and -desperate onea .0 tame over me with -an irrepressible burst of anguish. Just "then the bella of Bolton-in-Bollsnd - struck ups a el peal, which came oveF'the woods, In t* . soleint nidiight ai 1iko the saoti"'t the morning shoutgb for joy---hey seemed so clear s jan .nt. . It ws Christmas.Day, and I. like an outeao . from, the gladness-, and tho salvation. Old'Jonah' sjioke out: 11. harttet 8( leisure for nj h r. ever, of taking 'bettei paupers, they. seek to. take cared( our. negroes; and in doing so, they meddle withy matters which do not concern them at all. They are pet fectly nervous. e tidea of compel.t ling human beings to labor without recompence, while if they would pon. slt their statti lse they. would Cnd !Mtt in many of heir States they force poor whito.men into a state of slavery which. is quite tai, odious as black slavery. Asn- an instance in point, we make htextract froxia-n article in the February No; of Dega ocratic Review, which contains a' re3 ply to a letter of the editor addrfsed to an eminent citizen of Connectioe, asking info/matibn as to the law n relation to "the bidding off of 'pi yors.", The following is the reply: "It is the custom innany towsim Connecticut, to''etu ih6 paupets at auction every year, and knock then off to the lowest bidder.-that is, to the man who wvill take -thorn for-the year, at the lowest palee. This w# the case to my knowledge in sae" - countries. I have always understood it to be a general -thing in Connecti cut WVhen we were in H. they we sold to the i nh~r :fsixty for o~ year to our- next doon neighbor far 15 dollars-a head, and he got all the work out of them that lhe could though most of them weio~infirm and r9t a. ble tb do i,. 'Mhy hoed his cora anid sawved his wod zand. weeded his garden; and beingan ixten'shve Ah. erman, they assisted in dressi~ j fish,. and -"did: chores" geuerafly They are made to work alltsthe made to work all that they are dblq. In TI. the cont ctor,a' 1sald, l a fisherman, and during -the - *ii season, a principal'a-rticle of foodt the paupers was the headd and tailWot shad, which were gt o hen drete~d for salting. :They; were aill odgi ~n a little eone storf housed with en attic not to exceed 25 bh30 feet, and w all stored in togot leinale intg male, with;~ as appeared tQ me, ary little'regardtto dloes ryAdn case of the deah'o t~r.got a nipo~l~ u1' bW wvhole ainonut tweryed Fr year; indeed Pblb h3po~ dgnth of shind z& l gency calula~ 4p mkin bid; s that--the oo~uh ator 1had - recTintereist in str~ them to'deat or in neglegtjo t)e~y~ a~ 'his Isswhite slaioetyswith a d ganaMd~funa nomaan i 0 . n