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SINGULAR CHARACTER. FANNY MOORE, THE FEMALE HUNTER OF THE WEST. The father of the singular heroine we are about to sketch, was a Kentucky backwoods man. Her mother died while she was yet an Infant, and when she arrived at the age of fifteen, her father also died, leaving her a poor friend loss orphan. It is not surprising, then, at this tender age, she married a Missouri hunter, (an acquaintance of her deceased father,) double bur years as to age, but just her equal in pover ty. Her whole fortune was composed of one cerw, an old feather bed, a rusty frying pan, a i Woken aet of teacups and saucers, ditto of knives j and forks, with horn handles, two large pewter ptotea, and a wooden bowl of Indian manuf&c- j lure. Such wa9 the legacy bequeathed by her surriviug parent. Iler husband’s wealth might mate well enough with such a portion brought j Into the matrimonial partnership by his wife. A black bob-tailed pony, a large wolf dog, and a long, heavy rifle, constituted tho sum total of his {poods and chattels. So far, the nuptial contract might seem fair, without extravagant odds on aitner side. There were other considerations, however, which made the bargain, one might say, fraudulently unequal. She was a pretty, rosy-cheeked, ruby.lipped, healthy lass, with &ky-bhie eyes, golden ringlets, and a cheery laugh ; slender in frame, but of wiry elasticity, and a constitution of the most tenacious vitality. He, on the contrary, was a pale, lean, hungry* looking hyjmchondriac, who might be supposed, from the wry faces he displayed when forced to any eiertion of his limbs in profitable labor, to regard work as an unpardonable sin. The en treaties and example of his young wife, it is true,did, for a while, stimulate him to just suffi cient effort, in the way of deer-hunting, to keep them from starving. The couple then lived in Western Missouri. Fanny, with her own deli oat white hands, cleared out and cultivated a small field, and managed her domestic economy with o much thrift, that, notwithstanding the la ziness of Tom, they began to accumulate slowly. But an event occurred, in the sixth year of their wedlock, that changed the present current of af fairs, and startled her in her wild schemes. A ‘'great revival,” under the guidance of the “Cumberland Presbyterians,” swept like a hur ricane over the West. Missouri became the heart of the storm, and “'Pom Moore” was one of tho first who embraced this system of excite ment. Perhaps the logic which led him on may have been something like this—“that being unfit to inhabit the earth, he certainly was a good to prepare for heaven !” Tom Moore, vrho had always harbored an inveterate aversion against every other conceivable species of lo comotion, all at once felt a strange passion for this, and contracted the daily habit of “jerk ing” which adhered to him during the remain der of his life. The circumstance would not have mattered much, (unless a “jerking fit” bad chanced to seize him on some occasion when ta king aim at a buck in the woods,) had not a fan. tastic opinion got into his head about the same ftme. It seems that one Sunday the Cumber b*rl*nder discussed the passage of Scripture, ‘‘Take no thought for the morrow,” &c. Tom swallowed the text, but rejected the comment, and misinterpreting the sentence, literally came to the doliberato conclusion, “that it was sinful fc) provide foT the wants of the wicked body,” and resolved to act accordingly. It was in vain that the industrious wife deba ted the theological question with her slothful, Infatuated spouse. Her tears, arguments and remonstrances all ended alike in his usual spasm of jerking; but as to any other sort of exer tion, be would not move a peg. Fanny’s case was now critical in the extreme, fbr, strange to say, she still loved her husband with a lore that, in spite of every imaginable damper, continued to burn on ardently in her affectionate heart till death. Hence she could no* make up her mind to leave him. Besides, they had now five children, and it was absolute ly impossible to support such a family on the pro due* of their paltry, stony farm. In this emer gency, that weak woman suddenly developed an energy and invincibility of lofty purpose which (fca anuals of the world cannot surpass. With indefatigable patience, she practiced and learned to shoot, till no marksman in all Missouri was her match, and then, as a solitary huntress, look to the forest, and soon supplied her husband and babies with a choice abundance of meat. It Is not recorded of Moore that he manifested any aversion to the venison feasts which his bet ter half provided with so much labor, however urach he had been opposed to the use of such ißOrltHj moans himself, as the expenditure of one needful thought for the morrow. The wild region of Missouri at last settled op. Sunny fields, waving with golden grain, stood in tire place of the old green woods which bad furnished shelter and sustenance for the co pious game. The buffalo fled farther oft', deep er into the grand prairies, nearer to the Rocky Mountains. The moonbeams fell broad and bright on the open bottoms where the brown bears used to nestle among the matted canes.— The red deer had been scared away by the sharp sound of Collins’s axes. It became necessary that Fanny should move. She sold their slen der “improvement” on the banks of the silver Osf&ge, for & cart, a yoke of oxen, and a small ram of ready money ; and loading the crazy ve hicle with six children and her “jerker” believ ing Tom, she started for Arkansas, In this new country, then a territory, she selected a lo cality fifty miles from any settlement. Here wild animals roamed in the greatest plenty, and her rode broad table groaned beneath (to them) heaps of savory luxuries. This wonder of a wife now added rapidly to their humble proper ty. Her care-worn, wasted figure grew rounder ; her step, as she saddled the black pony, more elastic; and the whistle blither by which she summoned her wolf-dog to the daily hunting foray. Even the laugh sometimes rang out as in the early thoughtless hours of her early youth, lend, song and sweet as the clear tones of bell metal. One thought of a most gloomy character alone disturbed the calm flow of her joyous reflections. HeT children were growing up with the rapidi ty of hasty summer weeds, and utterly without education, or even the prospect of any opportu nity to obtain it. The idea haunted her day and night. She turned it over in her mind in every conceivable way, but still could find no solution for the torturing problem. She had learned to spell, when a child, at an old field school — that is to say, she had gone as far in Dillworth as three syllables, which, by the way, was nearly the extent of her lame teacher’s ac curate information in the pedagogical art. But her memory had lost the inverse ratio of its ac- I quisitions, till she could scarcely be said to know her letters. Often did she bitterly regret her idleness in the early school-house, and exclaim, as she fondly kissed her children on returning at night from the toilsome hunt—“lf I had only learned to read then, I could now teach you, my dear*.” And her tears would drop like rain. j At length an incident occurred, that brought with it a suggestion shaping itself into a fixed plan, which enabled her finally to vanquish the perplexing difficulty. The author cannot do better than give the anecdote in her own artless words, as related to him, in Texas, some twelve months ago : “I used to cry about it every night,” she saiJ, “before going to sleep, and then l would dream it all over again ; for indeed it was sad to think of. I knew that by hard work we would, after a while, be well enough off to move into the set tlements, where decent people live; and then I thought how shocking it would seem for my young ones to have no more learning than the wild Indians. The boys were getting more than half as tall as their father, and Peggy’s pretty head was even as high as my shoulders. It was enough to make a fond mother cry. 1 was then in the habit of going every two or three months to Little Rock, with a pack of peltries, to buy sail and other things that we could not get along without. One time I brought back some bunches of raisins for the baby. They were wrapped in a large newspaper, which contained a number of curious pictures. The sheet was gazed at with wonder by the poor creatures, who had never seen such an object in their lives. Little Tommy asked ine with spaikling eyes, if it were not a bird. 1 tried to explain the matter to him ; told him what it was , that it contained a tale about the whole world ; and that when persons learn to read it, they could know all atfairs which were going on across the blue mountains, and the big riv. ers, and away over .the sea, as well as the sights they saw every day before their own doors. “ ‘Oh ! ma, won’t you teach us how to read, ; so we can hear from our old play.places in Mis souri V said Peggy, who was then almost a ! woman. “The question like to have broke my heart. I remember how lazy I had been when a girl : and the idea was a sharp shooting pain, split ting my side into my very soul. I wept like a child, till even my own children strove to com fort me. However, my tears did me good. — Tears always relieve the heart; they com ! monly clear the head also. A sudden thought struck me—a great pain—l might say a holy | purpose. It seemed impossible, but I resolved I to try it. That night 1 hurried the young folks ! off to bed, and having kindled a good pine-knot j light, picked up the newspaper and sat down to I see if I could make out any thing in it. I | smiled with unspeakable delight on discover ing that I still knew all the letters, except tho capitals. But I soon had cause to weep again, for, after doing my best, and sitting up till day light, every line remained a riddle—l could not ! spell out the meaning of a single sentence.— ! About sunrise anew notion entered my head. 1 determined to go again shortly to Little Rock I and purchase some primers and spelling-books, which I afterwards did. I then began to learn in earnest. It was very hard for a while ; but I sat up late, after Tom and the children were all asleep, and took my primer along with me | when I went to hunt. 1 could study it as 1 rode, ! especially where the woods were open, and be j fore I got within range of game ; and then, when 1 was resting, after lifting a heavy deer upon my pony, or walking up a steep hill, I would pull it out of a pocket which 1 had pre pared on purpose in the side of my dress, and ran over the pages till I at last could almost repeat the whole from memory. 1 then com menced on my large spelling book, and master ed it in the same way. All the while I wanted to be teaching the children, but was afraid of teaching them wrong, intending at first to make myself perfect, because I thought that it was not of any use to know any thing at all unless one could know it right. “While thus engaged, a lost hunter stopped a few days at our cabin, and discovering my studies, kindly offered to assist me. I then i found that I had done well in not beginning to ; instruct the boys and Peggy sooner. I had to j unlearn the pronunciation of a great many of my words that sounded frightfully when compar jed with the correct mode. After I got it ! straight, I bought a primer for each one of the children, and collecting them all together one Sunday morning, told them that I was going to j teach them how to read. It would have done : your heart good to see them ! They appeared to be running mad with joy, for they still re ! membered what 1 had said about the newspa j per, and had teased me much on the subject.— ; Night after night they would sit up till twelve, ; studying their primers and spelling-books ; ! and all day on the Sabbath they tried more in dustriously than ever I had done in the school room, until at lust they were through both books. But I was still ahead of them—for long before then I had obtained a Testament and the Life of Marion, and had gone over both several times. In this way l taught my dear j young ones to read, having first of all taught myself.” For the literal historical accuracy of the foregoing extraordinary facts, we refer to Mrs. Holley’s Book on Texas, where she refers to Mrs. Moore, although in her narrative she on ly sets down the initials of her name. And may we not well be permitted to doubt whether the annals of the globe, and all the ages of time, present a parallel to this almost miraculous case ? The biographies of the self, educated teem, to be sure, with noble examples among the softer as among the stronger sex.— But did any one ever before, either man or woman, go through the patient, painful process j of voluntary self-culture, with the same definite ! and settled object? Others have struggled j with the terrible problem of unaided mental development, from the desire of gain or hope j of glory ; but she, that poor huntress of the j backwoods, from purer, loftier, more angelic j motive of an infinitive tender, holy maternal j love, and with the sole, view of fitting herself i to be the teacher of her innocent offspring, cut j off as they were by insuperable circumstances ! from every other means of instruction. It I makes one better to read of such instance or ex- j alted devotion to conscious duty, and thus to i know and feel that although the race of moral heroes appears to be neatly or quite extinct, that of domestic heroines never can wholly per ish, while one mother shall be left to linger on earth with a bright-eyed babe nestling °about her bosom. But the tide of emigration found out Fanny’s humble home in the mountains of Arkansas. Its waves rolled in and scared away the timid deer and shyer wild turkeys. She was there fore forced to move once, and this time took her course for Texas, where she settled on a re maikable “rnound” beyond the Braaos, already the hunting-ground of another singular female, §(DOO¥ GO § M § I Effl ¥ ] SOIII „ known as Mrs. Polly Dust, grand-daughter ot Daniel Boone, the mighty hunter. Their cab ins stood half a mile apart, and the two became very intimate friends. It must be confessed that occasional quarrels occurred which were owing to causes—tho impetuous and tyrannic character of the female Boone, and the jeal ousy excited by the superior education of Fan ny, and more •particularly her children. The latter could read, their mother had even taught them to write after a fashion, and the young Moores were vainly fond of showing off their accomplishments and learning by way of tri umph over the juvenile Dusts. This always provoked the passionate irascibility of the Amazon. But possessing, notwithstanding the surplus of fire in her nature, a great deal of milk of human kindness also, and (he other be ing patient and forgiving almost to a fault, their dissensions always terminated soon, and each reconciliation was the renewal of a closer in timacy than ever. Mammon-Worship. There is one pitfall of temptation, into which the young man ofour day is in danger of falling, and into which the mercantile young man is in especial danger of falling. The gods of this world, the polytheism which has so long coex isted with Christianity, is fast dying out. Men are rapidlv coming to the worship of one deity; the only misfortune is, that it is neither the living nor the true one. They deify wealth; and while they most falsely transfer their worship to an idol divinity, they most faithfully fulfill the letter of the commandment, and love it with ail their heart and soul and mind and strength. Were it cur rently reported and believed that the river of Jor dan rolled over golden sands, or that the pool of Bethesda was surrounded by “Placers,” the Christian would vie with the Jew for the rebuild ing of Jerusalem ; all ships would be “up” for Palestine instead of San Francisco ; and the lloly Land would be again inundated, —not by a host of God-worshipping, but of gold-worshipping, Crusaders. Now, I wage no war against wealth. I faint it with no vilifying breath. Wealth, so far as it consists in comforiabie shelter and food and rai ment for all mankind ; in competence for every bodily want, and in abundance for every mental and spiritual need, is so valuable, so precious, that if any earthly object could be worthy of idol atry, this might best be tho idol. * * * To the young man without patrimony, there are few I higher earthly duties than to obtain a competen | cy. For this, diligence in business, abstinence j in pleasures, privation even, of every thing that does not endanger health, are to be joyfully wel comed and borne. When we look around us, and see how much of the wickedness of the world springs from poverty, it seems to sanctify all j honest efforts for ilie acquisition of an independ ence. But when an independence is acquired, then conies the moral crisis—then comes an Ithuriel test—which shows whether a man is higher than a common man, or lower than a common reptile. In tho duty of accumulation, (and I cail it a duty, in the most strict and literal signification of that word,) all below a compe tence is most valuable, and its acquisition most laudable. BJt all above a fortune is a misfortune. It is a misfortune to him who amasses it; fur it is a voluntary continuance in the harness of a beast ot burden, when the soul should enfranchise and lift itself up into a higher region of pursuits and pleasures. It is a persistence in the work of providing goods for the body, after the body has already been provided for ; and it is a denial of the higher demands of the soul, after the time has arrived and the mqans are possessed of ful filling those demands. Great wealth is a misfortune, because it makes generosity impossible. There can be no gen erosity where there is no sacrifice ; and a man who is worth a million of dollars, though he gives half of it away, no more makes a sacrifice, than, (if I may make such a supposition,)a drop sical man, whose skin holds a hogshead of water, makes a sacrifice when he is tapped for a barrel. ’ He is in a healthier condition after the operation than before it. If a donkey would be considered a fool among donkeys, for desiring to double the burden of gold that is already break ing his back, I see not why the shorter-eared variety should be judged by a different rule. The j literal declaration that ft is easier for a catncl j to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich | man to enter into the kingdom of heaven, not j only stands upon sacred authority, but is confirm- ! ed by all human reasoning. For, what kingdom of heaven can there possibly be, from which love and sympathy, and the tenderness of a common brotherhood, are excluded ? and the man who hoards superfluous wealth while there is famish ing in the next street; the man who revels in luxuries while the houseless and breadless are driven from his door; the man who, through an ostentation of literature, walls himself in with libraries which he cannot read, while thousands of children around him are destitute even of school-books—the very seed-wheal of knowl : edge; such a man has no love, nor sj’mpathy,* | nor feeling of brotherhood, for his race ; and, | therefore, go where he will, the kingdom ofheav. ien must be his antipode. One point in the cir | cumference of a revolving wheel may as well j attempt to overtake the opposite point, as he to reach that kingdom. The casting off of his loved | burdens will alone give him the agility to attain it. All above a fortune is usually the greatest of; j misfortunes to children. By taking away the ! stimulus to effort, and, especially, by taking away | the restraints from indulgence, it takes the mus- I cles out of the limbs, the brain out of the head, ; and virtue out of the heart. The same young man, who, with a moderate fortune, might retain : the full vigor of his system till sixty, and be a | blessing to the world all his life long, under the j depraving influence ofa vast patrimony, is likely to die a sol or a debauchee at forty-five, if he ! does not shoot himself as a non-compos at thirty. I The father may feel proud ofhis twenty per cent, or thirty per cent, stock ; but when the devil ; clutches the son for guiltily spending what he clutches the father for guiltily amassing, he surely proves himself the better financier; for he doubles his capital by a single speculation. Uni versal experience shows that the inheritor of a penny has a better chance for success in life than the inheritor of a “plum.” But better far than | either is the golden mean of Agur’s perfect pray- I er. The following anecdote, which I believe to be authentic, is related of the late Stephen Girard. Meetinga wealthy and active business man, he accosted him thus : “Mr. A., I am sur prised that a man having so much property as yourself should be so anxious to increase it.” “You cannot be so much surprised at my course,” retorted his friend, “as I am at your remark, coming as it does from a man who has a much greater fortune than I have, and seems much more desirous to enlarge it.” “Oh, yes,” said Mr. Girard, ‘•'but you forget that I have no chil dren to be spoiled by it.” —[H orace Maxn. CO“ Sin is like a bee, with honey in its mouth, but a sting in its tail, Ylicr Orphan Boy. “He faded, yet so calm and meek, So gently wan, so sweetly weak.*’ The bustle of the fight was over; the prison ers had been secured, and the decks washed down; the hands piped and the schooner had, once more relapsed into midnight quiet and re- j pose, I sought my hammock and soon fell asleep. But my slumbers were disturbed by wild dreams, which, like the visions of a fever, agitated and unnerved me; the late strife, the hardships of my early life, and a thousand other things mingled together as figures on a phantas magoria. Suddenly a hand was laid on my shoulder, and starting up I beheld the surgeon’s mate. “Little Dick, sir, is dying,” he said. At once 1 sprang from my hammock. Little Dick was a sort of protege of mine, lie was a pale, delicate child, said to be an orphan, and used to nature; and Irom the first hour l joined the schooner, my heart yearned for him, for I, too, had once been friendless and alone in the world. He had often talked to me in confidence, of his mother, whose memory he regarded with a | holy reverence,while to the other boys of the ship | he had little to say ; for they were rude and j coarse, he delicate and sensitive. Often when | they jeered him for his melancholy,he would go I apart by himselfand weep. He never complain : edofhis lot, though his companions imposed on [ him continually, Poor lad ! liis heart was in j the grave with his lost parents. 1 took a strange interest in him, and had light j cned his task as much as possible. During the | late fight 1 had owed my life to him, for he rush i ed in just as a sabre stroke was levelled at me : j and by interposing his feeble cutlass had averted the deadly blow. In the burry and confusion since, I had quite forgotten to inquire if he was hint; though, at the time, 1 inwardly resolved to use all my little influence to procure him a mid shipman’s warrant in requital for his service. It w as with a pang of reproachful agony, therefore, that 1 leaped to my feet— “My God !” 1 exclaimed, “you don’t mean it? He is not dying ?” “I fear, sir,” said the messenger, shaking his head sadly, “that he cannot live till morning,” “And 1 have been lying idle here !” I exclaim ed w'ilh remorse. “Lead me to him ?” “He is delirious, Hut in the intervals of lunacy he asks for you, sir,” and as the man spoke, we stood beside the bedside of the dying boy. The sufferer did not lie in his usual hammock for i! was hung in the very midst of the crew, and the close air around was too stifling; but had been carried under the open hatchway, and laid there in a little open space of about four feet square. From the sound of the ripples, I judged the schooner w as in motion, while the clear, calm blue sky seen through the opening over head, and doited with myriads of stars, betokened that the fog had broken way. How calm it smiled down on the face of the dying boy. Occasional ly a light current of wind—oh ! how delicious ly cool and refreshing in that pent-up hold—ed died down the hatchway, and lifted the dark chestnut locks of the sufferer, as, with his head reposing iu the lap of an old veteran, lie lay in an unquiet slumber, His shirt collar was un bottoned. and his childish bosom, as white as that of a girl, was open and exposed. He breath ed quick and heavily. The wound of which he was dying had been intensely painful, but within the last half hour, had somewhat lulled, though even now his thin lingers tightly grasped the bed clothes, as if he suffered the greatest agony. A battle-stained and gray-haired seaman stood beside him, holding a dull lantern in his hand, gazing sorrowfully down upon the sufferer. The surgeon felt with his finger on the boy’s pulse. As I approached they all looked up. The vet eran who held him shook his head and would have spoken, but the tears gathered too choking ly in his eyes. The surgeon caiTlyV, “He is going little fellow'—do you see this?” as lifted up a rich gold locket, Which he haiftlaifuupon the boy’s breast. “He has seen better days.” I could not answer, for my heart was full—here was the being to- whom, but a few hours before, l had owed my life—a poor, slight, unprotected child—lying before me, with death already writ, ten on his brow—and yet 1 had never sought him out after the conflict. How 7 bitterly my heart reproached me in that hour. They noticed my agitation, and his old friend—the seaman that held up his head—said sadly, “Poor little Dick—you’ll never see the shore you have wished for so long. But there’ll be more than one—when your log’s out,” —he spoke with emotion—“to mourn over you. ’ Suddenly the little fellow 7 opened his eyes, and looked vacantly around. “Has he come yet ?” he asked, in a low voice. “Why don’t he come?” “I am here,” said I, taking the little fellow’s hand, “Don’t you know me, Dick ?” He smiled faintly in my face. He then said, “You have been kind to me, sir—kinder than most people lo a poor orphan boy. I have no way to show my gratitude ; unless you will take the Bible you will find in my trunk. It’s a small offering, I know, but it’s all I have.” I burst into tears. He resumed : “Doctor, lam dying, ain’t I?” said the little ! fellow, “for my sight grows dim. God bless I you, Mr. Danforth.” “Can I do nothing for you, Dick?” said I; | “you saved my life. I would coin my blood to ; buy yours.” “I have nothing to ask—l don’t want to live, only, il it is possible, let mo be buried by my mother—you will findjthe. name of the place, and all of it in my tfcmk. v ’ w “Anything— giy lad,” I answered, chokingly. - 4 The little fellow smilpd faintly—it was like an angel’s smile—but he did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the stars flickering in that patch of blue sky over head. His mind wan dered. i “It’s a long, long ways up there—but there ’ are bright angels among them. Mother used to I say that I would meet her there. How near they come ! and I can see sweet faces smiling lon me from among them. Hark ! is that mu sic?” and lifting his finger, he seemed listening for a moment. He fell back, and the old vete ran burst into tears. The child was dead. Did he indeed hear angels’ voices ? God grant it! Conjugation and Agreement. —In a lesson in parsing, the sentence, “Man courting in ca pacity of bliss,” &c. the word “courting” comes to a pert young miss of fourteen to parse. She commenced hesitatingly, but got well enough until she was asked to tell what it agreed with. Here she stopped short, but the teacher said ‘\ ery well, what does courtin' 7 agree with ?” ° j Ellen blushed and held down her head. “Ellen, don’t you know what that agrees with ?” j Blushing still more and stammering, Ellen ! says: ‘*lt— a —grees with all the girls, sir!” An Irishman’s Letter from California.—As: every thing from California is “important,” we offer ! no apology for publishing the following letter, kindly furnished by our washer-woman, whose sweetheart went out, some fourteen months ago, to dig up a “forten” for h+fflself and Biddy.— Wilson's Dispatch. S’aN Fransisky, Dec. Ist, 5849. Birdy Dar*’— l’ve been to the mines, bad luck to ’em. For siven weeks, Biddy, acushla, I studied the bowels of terry firmer lor goold, and all 1 got was the disseß-terry, by rason of working on an emply stomick. The divil a thing so ate for breckfist, die 1 same for dinner, and ditto repated for supper. an all the time throwin up mud and water, *# mighty wa kening for the insides. Pitaytees was a dollar a pound, and no mate to he had but gristly hares, which is tuf customers, in cow Id wether the crayturs—l mane the gristiey hares—comes down from die momi i tains, with dieir arms extended, as if they wanted to : hid ye welkirn ; hut the moment they’re lornenst ye, they grab ye, the traytors, an squaze the breath o’lile out of ye. Some ov the hoys that wint out in the i same ship wid me, found goold galore, but the divil as much as the vally ova weddin ring, Biddy, did 7 ferry git for his torubhle. The black lurk was on i me, darlin, for lavin ve, a dacent, modest colleen, as Ive are, lo come to a kunlliry where the wimmin are j the culler ova dirty copper kett'c, and have no more dry goods on their hacks, savin your presence, Biddy, than mother Eve had, before she turned manty-inaker and introduced the fashion of vegetable apruns. I got back from the mines in a fortnit ago, and a most unfortunit go it was for me that 1 iver wint there. Here lam in tSan Fransisky, knockin about without a rap. What’s to become ov me, Biddy, mavonrneen, the saints only know. Only to think that 1 should lave the comfortable berth 1 had swa ping the strafes of New York, to come to this hsiytli en kunthry, where the strate clauiiig is done by hurds, and drinking, speckelation, and slicaicide is the only fashionable amusement. Ye’ll see it stated in the papers, Biddy, that the diggers are findin goold in quarts. Biddy, it's a lie ! !—a base, dissatefnl, onchristian lie ! 1 niver seen a lump of goold yit that would fill a gill measme. I Couldn’t ye raise a subscription, Biddy, among the strate swapers, to pay me passidge back ? Iff was only back in New York, dead or alive, I’d niver lave j it while the grass grows and wather runs. Your loving, Terence McVerdant. ! Philosophy of Farming. —Here is the se- I cret of good farming. You cannot take from the S land more than you restore to it in some shape or other, without ruining it, and so destroying your capital. Different soils may require differ ent modes oftreatment and cropping, but in every i variety of soil there are golden rules to attend to. Drain until you find that the water that falls from 1 the heavens does not stagnate the soil, but runs through it and off it freely. Turn up and till the land until your foot sinks into a loose, powdery loam, that the sun and air readily pass through. Let no weeds occupy a place where a useful plant could grow. Collect every particle of manure that you can, whether liquid or solid. Let noth ing on tlie farm go to waste. Put in your crops in that course which experience has shown to lead to success in their growth, and to an enrich ment, not impoverishment, of the land. Give ! every plant room to spread its roots in the soil j ! and its leaves in the air. Napoleon at Sea. —Bourienne. in his Me moirs, gives some interesting particulars of the i habits and occupations of Napoleon when at sea. In the following passage, the good natural feel ing manifested appears in strange contrast with the recklessness induced by u military conquer , or’s usual pursuits : ! “In a long voyage it is impossible to prevent ; accidents from men falling overboard. Thisoc -1 currence happened several times with us, from ; the crowded state of our vessel. On these oc i casions it was strange to witness the instinctive | force of humanity in the bosom of that man, so j lavish of the ldood of his fellow creatures on the 1 field of battle, and who was about to shod torrents | of it in that very Egypt whither we were going. Whenever a man fell into the water, the Com j mander-in-Chief had no rest till he was saved. He instantly ordered the ship to lay to, showed the most lively uneasiness till the unfortunate was recovered, and ordered me to recompense liber ally those most active in the rescue. Sailors ! who had thus distinguished themselves, when guilty of some breach o! discipline, were always j exempted from punishment. 1 remember, during i one dark night, a noise was heard as of a man I overboard. Bonaparte instantly gave the word |to put the shin about, till the presumed victim 1 should be rescued from inevitable death. The crew hastened from all quarters ; exertions were redoubled; and at length we fished up—what? The victim was—a quarter of beef, which had slipped from a noose over the side. He ordered j me to reward the sailors who had exposed them- i selves more than usual. ‘lt might,’ said lie, 1 ‘have been a man : brave fellows have I shown neither nor less courage.’” i The Pakkman •Wc'udlYr—More of the Texas Letter.— Argentinian from Boston, j who has lately been on a visit to the Western part of Texas, called at our office yesterday to j examine the letter of “Oronoka” published ! sometime ago, in the Della, in which the wri ter declares that he was the murderer of Dr. Park man. This gentleman informs us that he made diligent inquiries, during his visit to Tex as, lo discover some clue to the authorship of! this letter, and the result of his researches con- j tributes greatly to heighten the mystery which j hangs ovpr this aflair. The letter signed “Oronoka,” is dated Washington, 28th of Do- i cember, 1849. Our informant has ascertained, j beyond all doubt, that an unknown and suspi. cious looking individual arrived in Washington about that time, who came from Boston, via Galveston and Houston. He remained al j W ashington hut During that time | he conversed with'se'eraPpersons, to whom he j stated that he had Bmnlß blacksmith by trade, Lthat he had lost having saved a few hundred dollars, vi'he& to invest it in Tex as lands. After remaining here a few days he | departed for Austin, where he entered his i name ’ n ’he register of the Orleans House as ! “John Weeks, Boston.” The appearance of the stranger was calculated to excite suspicion. He was reserved and nervous. He did not re- ■ main long in Austin. Our informant, whilst in Austin, having read the letter of “Oronoka,” in the Delta, made inquiries into all the move, ments of this individual. He also cut out of the registry the entry of his name, which was j compared, yesterday, with the handwriting of : • tllC letter “Ornnnkt* onr) t_ I the letter of “Oronoka,” and although tho en. try in the registry is written hurriedly and ner vously, yet it contains points of resernbiance to that of “Oronoka, which are very palpable and striking. M e give these facts as they are detailed to us, by our informant, who is a re. spectablc citizen of Boston, They are certain ly deserving of consideration and investiga tion.—Daily Delta. Dr. Franklin, in endeavoring to kill a turkey by an electric shock, received the whole battery himself, when he good naturedly observ ed, that instead of killing a turkey he had nearly ‘ put an end to the existence of a goose. From Scott’s Philadelphia Weekly Paper. Old DISCOURSE. Wiiat should be practiced to mark kh emies, and wiiat avoided to sbcurb esteem. It was well said by Lord Bacon —“that dig cretion of speech is more than eloquence ; and to speak agreeably to him with whom we deal, is more than to speak in good words, or in good order,” for eloquence commands our admira tion and applause, but discreet speech secures a victory over prejudice and etror, and lays & strong hold on the heart. That that which is given to be a good to j ourselves, and a benefit to others, should bo j used to our own injury, and to discomfit others, j is o entirely opposite to the common nature t I things, that we must consider the cause of thn strange reverse, and observe- what connection i with society is the means of producing it. In every class of society wo find those wl'm* | are ambitious to excel, some in an affection of ’ knowledge, and others in humor and- wit. i Those of the first class observe too little the right and title of others, to bo- heard ; and ! those of the second class take too rigid notice of what is said, and make too severe comments, on things uttered thoughtlessly, in casual con vernation. If every thing which is said is to bo measured by the strictest grammatic propriety, i and by the inflections of time, there will be an end to speaking, and we will hare lo invent some systematic rule, with which we can com municate by signs. To speak too much is un* : graceful, to speak too little is rude, to speak net iat all is to exhibit contempt. To speak too j little is worse than to speak too much, and to speak none at all, is worse than to speak too little. There is another class who take no notice of what is said ; they are pure nothing, and will not be the subjects of comment, as they are perfectly incompetent to converse on any subject. Those who speak too much havo mos’ly a great opinion of their colloquial pow ers, and they make up with quantity what they tail to produce ofqimlitv. If two opinions con flict they will never examine them, or pro duce any argument to show the truth of one, and the falsity of the other. They will repeat them ovei, and readily come to a conclusion, by declamation, which has no reference to ei. ihcr opinion. This is too great a folly to l excused, especially as it is usually supported by pretension*, and tinctured with arrogance and presumption. The satirical speaker will have friends, but sin h as have always enemies ; he will be sure to involve himself jn their quarrels, as no tal ent is more indiscriminately used than satire. It is the most terrible weapon that is known, and nothing can stand against its edge unhurt. To be useful, it should be guided by judgment, ! and applied to persons or cases where reform j may be effected to compensate for the wound iit has made. But in common cases it is only used to disturb she rest of some victim, to re. venge some fancied injury or apparent neglect, to assail gome topic or principle repugnant to universal opinion, and to sting into anger and ! madness someone who has given perhaps an i unintentional offence. It is always ready to assail, and generally leaves a lone and bitter memory behind. It has indiscretion as it* companion, and with its assistance niakcth per petual enemies, which creates continued in quietudes. If it is ever used, it should be used for the purpose of defence, to assist in unmack ing falsehood, to vindicate honor fiom assault, and to defeat the vain pretensions of folly and ignorance. Beyond these marks its shafts pro. (luce the effects of the arrows of the worst pas sions, and of folly. Personalities in familiar discourse exhibit a contentious disposition in the person who uses them, and betrays paucity of intellect, and bar barity of manners. “I know a certain person, not a mile from this,” such a person is wont to say, followed by some vulgar insinuation and abuse, which although not really worthy of re gard, produces its effect, by always lessening j the speaker iu the estimation of all his sensiblo hearers. We should speak little of others, leas of ourselves. When we do speak of otb. ers we should not censure them too much ; w# i should tint speak too much in our own praise. | k*n*h a course shows a vain and a vindictive disposition. i here is a humanity of speech which never fails to take hold on the affections, and to cou | filiate the good opinion of those to whom it i used. It L a careful avoidance of expression that will wound the feeling# of him with whom we converse. The employment of that cream of speech, which speak* of distress without ex hibiting remorseless indifference ; and tells a tale of sorrow in such manner, that the feeling relation almost compensates foi the suffering which someone has gone through. That pleas os she person who is already plqased ; that re moxos. the inquietude of those who are distress ed ; that stimulates virtuous endeavors, and re bnkes foolish and inconsiderate conduct; that censures only in wisdom, and praises only to i bind man to man ; and makes hint tee! that there is a high principle in his nature, which j bind him with that eternal spirit, who gave him reason, to he his support and guide. He who will not indulge in the promotion of the happi. ness and welfare of his fellow beings, by the adaptation of language that is within his reach, can never be respected nor loved by his fel lows ; he may shine in the radiancy of talent, and the foppishness and gaudiness of wealth, but he will want that which procures esteem, and proves a security against contempt and ob. loquy, in the hour of failure ; lie will he listen, ed to with coldness, regarded with bitterness, and treated with scorn ; and lie will thus be hurried from one excess to another, until hit whole life, will be a life of change, of bitter ness, and hostility, and he will sink to the grave, literally writing in his character the remark of the wise man, “the fool regardeth not ruin, and persisleth iu his folly.” Socrates. How to Preserve Health.— Medicine will nev jer remedy bad habits. It is utterly futile to think of living in gluttony, intempera nee and every excess, \ad keeping the uody in health by medicine. Indulg ence of the appetite, and indiscriminate dosing and drugging, have ruined the health, and destroyed the life, of more persons than famine, sword and pesti lence. If you will take advice, you will become reg ular in your habits, eat and drink wholesome things, sleep on matresses, and retire and rise very regular ly. Make a free use of water to purify the skin, and when sick, take counsel of the best physician you know and follow nature. OO” A late San Francisco letter says that the men at that place are neatly dressed, and wear, generally, boots coming up to tho hips, the price, of which, t!jere : is $96,