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VOL. I.
_ • ; ‘sM.-,
[From the Model American Courier.]
LOO K , LO O K WITII IN .
BY G. ZEI.OTE3 ADAMS,
Look,look within, thou man immortal.
When like a spectre,gaunt and grim,
Athwart the Future’s opening portal.
Life’s sorrows east their shadows dim !
Look.look within! —The land Hlysian—
The land of song, lies in the breast ;
The lreauteous world of Love's sweet Vision,
By holy hopes and memories blest!
Look, look within I —There ire the treasures,
That take no iinretumingwing—
The mind’s bright thoughts its golden pleasures,
That bide through Heav n’s eternal spring !
Look, look within! —Themcld of glory
Is centred in the death Us soul;
Thy conquests there shal weave a story,
To live while endless iges roll!
Look, look within, wliei faint and weary !
In worldly thing- it patters not,
Though bright the wold may ho. or dreary,
If hut thy heart uphaideth not.
Look, look within! nd gird thy spirit,
Nor languish on lie’s thorny road ;
’Tis such who nohlydo inherit
The praise of iflK, the smiles of God !
Mississippi, IS3O. ■
(From Graham's yagazine for January, 1351.]
CHRISTIAN LACY.
a tali; or the salkm witchcraft.
EYG. T. R. JAMES.
CHAPTER I.
Close to tlie Vend of a small cove running
| from tin* waters of the Merrimac about a
quaiter of a tniV uj> into tlie country, and on
the right hank of that fitse river, sat a party
of three men r. i an early autumn night in the
year 1(501. The cove lies at the distance of
somrtwsavcn o” eight miles from Haverhill,
and ahotre it. on the course of the stream;
anti as gently tint intt> the broader
waters oßuc rivi/r, it forms a sort of allev
| for the heYwem hanks still thicklv
| wooded, hyjwliij-ii tin broad sheet of the
| larger stream can he i-ached.
On the ‘light of v, licli I spetik, no moon
was in tire si v ; hut he stars were shining
overhead with that peculiar look of lustre
and mat: itnd< so sold,ln soon on tlie eastern
side of the Alanlic; ;pid their light was
quite sufficient o aflbrd.'a sparkle here and
there trjthc ripfies of the Merrimac, while
the cove itself lav darkllikc a black abyss,
under /he thick v covered branches that
Tie cliirpl.of the tree-cricket
ml the ••res of all the many
u: 3|| I'll’!:: -ml
.11 •. had :
Ik K
‘VV-'-W BfeuS
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1 elder of the three, “ they tell me there is dis
cord in your village; the minister at war
with his people—the pastor with his Hock,
l How is this? It should not he. Amongst
a God-fearing and testifying people, there
should he nothing hut harmony. But the
fathers have departed to their rest, and the
| children will not walk after their way, I fear,
it is sad to think that not one of those
who led ns forth from bondage in the evil
| times, is left to guide and admonish us now.”
“ Ah, this will all pass away,” replied the ;
younger man. “ Master Harris is a godly
and a powerful man, though somewhat over
fond, mayhap, of this world’s goods; hut he
will be taught that love will do more than
law with the people of Salem village, and j
then all will he quiet again. Nothing will
i come of it, he you sure.”
Little did that young man know what aw
: fill results would folk w the incidents of
which lie spoke, or how deeply they would
affect him and his.
The third man, however, then took up the
conversation, catching at one word which
one of the preceding speakers had used.
“ Evil times you say, Father Giles, ’ he ex
claimed. “I am*stire these are evil times
enough. Are we not troubled with wars, op
pressed with taxes, inf sted by heathen
savages, a prey to wild beasts ? and is;
not the Prince of the power of the air ,
strong amongst us, seeking whom he may on- :
snare? Nav, has he not ensnared many to
become his mere bond-servants and subjects?” j
“ -Nay, 1 know not that he has been more ;
successful in that than he ever was,” replied
the elder man; “there have been witches
and wizards in till times who hound them
selves to the enemy, foreswore their alle
giance to God, and gave themselves over to
Satan. But hitting the case which appeared
in the good city of Boston, in the year of
grace sixteen hundred and eighty-eight, just
; three years ago, come the fourteenth of this
month, l have not heard of such infernal do
ings in these parts for a long while.”
“And who discovered it in eighty-eight ?”
asked the other ; “ who but. that pious and
learned man, Cotton Mather? Well, read
what he says about w itchcraft, and how pre
valent it is. Does he not tell us that we are
surrounded on every side with evil beings,
that we see not nor can discern ? Does
he not say that, ii all the spectral appearances
and molestations o! evil angels, and tricks of
necromancy, and bodily apparitions of Satan
and his imps, could he collected and re
counted, that are daily'and nightlv going on,
all righteous and godly men’s hair would
stand on end with horror ?”
“ Nay, Heaven forbid that such things
should he so common,” replied the elder of
the three. “ I cannot think God would per
j mit the enemy to have such power. That
there are, and have been, and always will he,
unhappy wretches who give themselves over,
body and soul, to God’s enemy and man’s,
there can he no doubt; but they are always
of the wicked, who seek to do evil to others,
to inflict pain, or bring misfortune. By
their fruits ye shall know them ; and I can
: not think there are many such amongst a
! God-fearing and righteous community like
ours. A pious life cannot conduct to such
an end, and when I look about and think of
all the people that I know, [ do not believe I
could put my finger upon one who has tyit
the truth of God at heart, and is not armored
against all the power of the enemy.”
“ Aon cannot tell, Giles—you cannot tell,”
replied the other; “it is not given you to see
into people’s hearts. Can not Satan himself
appear as an angel of light? Many whom
you think pure and holy, babes of Grace, may
he all foul w ithin, whited walls, children of
perdition.”
“ 1 say, Roger, it would take a great deal j
to sanctity your vessel — of the scent ofi
whale-oil, I mean,” replied the youngest of
.the three with a laugh. “When I went on j
hoard of her last week, I am sure there must
have been blubber still in the hold.”
“Notan ounce,” cried the other indignant
ly, “ she is as clean and sweet as a rose-hud.” ;
“ Well, I was obliged to hold my nose,”
answered the young man, “ and if all rose- I
buds smell like that, let me lie quit of a flow
er-garden. But tell ns something more of
these witches—how shall one know them ?”
“ Ay, that is difficult to say without trial,
for which you and I have no commissions,
John. They are for the most part, I have
heard, old women, withered up and wrinkled
with—”
“ ‘The devil must have a queer taste, then,”
replied John Proctor,
“ Hush! thou art profane, hoy,” said Giles,
sternly, and the other, whom they called Ro
gor, went on, saying—
“ Fools speak before they hear. I was
about to toll you that they are generally i
withered and wrinkled up with their own
malice and evil designs, long before age
would have so touched them. Satan chooses
his temptations well, lad, and suits them to
those ho has to deal with. To youths he
may present women and strong drink. To
girls gauds and fine clothes, and other vani
ties—to others gold, or power, or the pamper
ing of the belly—and to the old and canker
ed, the disappointed and the spiteful, he may
(offer means of tormenting and disquieting
lothers. By every one whom he can lead
lover to his accursed flock, he gains more and
■nore power over the rest of mankind. So
Reware, lad, for be you sure this great ene- ,
ny is even now abroad, and more active and
Howerful than ever. Hark! was not that a
■top ?”
B All instantly started upon their feet and j
their guns, looking in the direction
which the speaker had turned himself,
however, was apparent, and no
sound was heard for a minute or two.
man, “ or else it was a witch who lias
herself away.”
might he either.” replied the other
; “ hut 1 would have sworn that 1
|HI a light step fall upon some withered
K.”
pine cone falling from the trees,” said
Proctor.
|B^H r almost at the same moment the other
raSßok. look ! There it goes like a shadow.
■IBB by the creek side. There, there!
mg the little gh aut upon the w;.T.
BpgHire the eyes of his two companions
■SHBatch ffif object he beheld, it had dis-
amongst the tree-, so suddenly. o
’ ~ ’ 1 ’ ”* •'•'•••’ :
whether it V.title corpufeal
- ere ectre from tie
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 20, 1850.
shadows. All calm conversation, however,
now ceased. The men remained standing
round the fire, alternately listening, gazing !
round them, and exchanging a few words of
inquiry and observation, for nearly an hour
and a half, looking anxiously for the light of
the first morning ray, which they knew could
not he very far distant.
\t length the youngest of the three said
in a low tone—“l wonder Christian Lacy
has not returned. He said lie would be hack
by three.”
“Perhaps he has thought it better to wait
for dawn,” replied Giles; “and if I mistake
not, by God’s blessing the air is growing
lighter. Think you not so, Roger?”
“Ay, ay!” answered the other, “day is
breaking, and glad enough I am of it.”
Two minutes more had not passed, when
from a considerable distance was heard the
report of a gun, and John Proctor exclaim
ed—
“ That’s Lacy’s shot. He has brought
down something, I will warrant. He never
misses his aim, good lad. He will soon he
here.”
They waited for near an hour, but the
young man they expected did not appear. It
had then become broad daylight, and thinking
he might have missed his wav, they shouted
loud to guide him, their apprehensions of the
Indians having vanished with the darkness.
No answering shout was returned, and, af
ter a short conversation, they shouldered
their weapons and set out in the direction
from which the sound seemed to come.
The morning sunlight was gleaming bright
and beautiful through the many-tinted trees,
and every color that dyes autumn’s holy day
robe was upon the leaves ; from the yellow
of the golden streaks of dawn to the crim
son of the sun’s last rays upon the Western
clouds. The gleaming river, too, was all
gorgeous in the pageantry of light, reflecting
skies, and trees, and mottled hanks from its
liquid mirror, and still the sky changed its hues ■
like a dove’s breast as the sun rose, and the
deep blue shadows of hill and forest wander
ed along from the West to the North
west, becoming shorter as they went.
The three men searched long and shouted
loud, hut for a considerable time they heard
no reply ; and they began to entertain se
rious tears for their young companion’s
safety.
At length, however, John Proctor ex
claimed—“ Hark ! there is a moaning sound
comes from the bank—down there beyond
the trees. Listen, listen!”
They all paused as he spoke, and the next
moment, with a pale cheek and eager eye, he
bounded across the little open spot on which
they stood, pushed his way through some
trees that fringed the hank of the Merrimac,
and swung himself down to a spot where a
little hare point jutted out into the water,
giving a view of a neat, if not splendid
country house, and some cultivated grounds,
in a bend of tlie river about a mile and a half
distant. A low shrub or two and a single
group of graceful hemlocks were the otdv
vegetable things that covered the point. All
the rest was sand or stone.
But what was there upon it besides? All
lying close together were what seemed the
corpses of three persons. The fivst, over
which John Proctor had nearly stumbled, as
he sprang down the hank, was that of an In
dian, painted and dressed for battle. He was
dead enough, for a musket ball had gone right
through his heart. A gun, discharged, had
dropped from his left hand, apparently as lie
fell ; hut in his right he held a long, peculiar
sort of knife.
A step beyond this grim sight were the
other two persons —one, a young man, per
haps twenty years of age —he could not he
more—lay partly on his side, partly on his
back, with a gun still tightly grasped in his
hand, and a stream of blood flowing from his
right side. He was a handsome youth, tall,
powerful, and well made, with a fair and
somewhat boyish face. His hat had fallen
off, and rolled a little distance, and his long,
fair, curly hair was dabbled with his own blood.
Cast upon his bosom, with her face press
ed upon his neck and shoulder, was a beauti
ful young girl of sixteen or seventeen years
of age, and her white garments were also all
stained with gore; but it was not her own.
“Merciful father!” cried old Giles, as he
came down the bank, and saw this sad spec
tacle, with his younger companion, John
Proctor, gazing at it sternly.
“Why, this is poor young Lacy, and, as I
live, Mistress Alice Wainwright,”
“To he sure it is,” replied J ohn; “what did
he volunteer to come here for, hut to guard
her father’s plantation and house ? because he
knew that the savages have a spite at the
bluff old captain, and had heard, as we all did,
that they were prowling about. But how she
came here, poor thing, I cannot tell. Help me
to take her up, Roger; she is living, as you
may hear her moaning.”
M hen they raised her, they found that she
was not only living, hut uninjured, except by
the wound that rarely slays at once—sorrow.
That, however, had nearly driven her’dis
tracted.
They then tried to take the gun from the
hand of young Lacy ; but in doing so, with
a sensation of jov and hope indescribable, his
friend, John Proctor, felt the fingers of the
still warm hand clasp more tightly upon the
gun-stock, and he exclaimed:
“He is alive yet! he is alive! Help mo
here, Roger, to stop this blood. We mav
save him yet.”
A strange wild scream hurst from the lips
of Alice Wainwright, and she fell back, faint
ing again, on the bosom of the old man who
wits supporting her.
John Proctor gave no heed to her. Busy
with his friend, he stripped off his neckcloth,
and, with a certain degree of rude skill, con
trived to stop the stream of blood which was
welling slowly but fatally from the young
man’s side. He heard the steps of other persons
besides his own party come upon the ground, :
and eager voices, and many and sad inquiries
in anxious tones ; hut he took, or seemed to |
take no notice till his task was done.
Then, suddenly raising himself, and turn
ing round, he said, somewhat sharply :
“Ay, Captain Wainwright, this is young
Lacy, and that your daughter. If it had not
been for him, depend upon it, your house
would have been full of Indians, and your
self scalped in the gray of the morning; for
he came here expressly to watch for you,
while we guarded the passage and tlie cove
above. Why the young lady came hither, or
how, I cannot tell; but for tto harm, lam j
sure; for lie is an honest man, and she a
good young lady. You can ask her, by and :
by, for she is opening her eyes again ; hut
just now, if you have anv gratitude or kind
ness, let your people carry this poor lad to
your house, and send for the doctor over
from the fort.”
The old officer at once gave the orders re
quired ; but, still unsatisfied, he turned to
his daughter, while the rest were raising (he
young man from (he ground, and said, in a
sad and somewhat reproachful tone ;
“Alice, why did you come hither?”
The poor girl raised her eyes faintly but \
fully to her father’s face, and answered, in a
low voice;
“Because, I heard his gun, and knew that
he was watching over us here all last night. Old
Jane brought me word that he would do so,
at sundown yesterday.”
The father clasped her hand, and kissed
her brow, saying:
“Good, true girl!”
And the sad procession moved away to
ward his house.
CHAPTER If.
It may seem a contradiction of terms;
nevertheless, there is such a thing as being a
rigid and yet a tender-hearted man.
Nothing could he kinder than Captain
Wainwright’s conduct to young Christian
Lacy, during a long and tedious convales
cence from the terrible wound he had re
ceived. For many a day the lad hung be
tween life and death. Ali questions were for
bidden—all conversation—all excitement;
and (lie okl officer keeping strict watch that
no one should disturb the sick young man,
walked up and down the long hall that ran
through the middle ot his dwelling, giving
iiis orders to the sentries, who now surround
ed the house, in a very low and subdued
tone, and stopping the surgeon every time he
cani” Vo trout the sick room, to inquire
“What hope?”
But toward his daughter—toward his own
child—he showed no such great forbearance.
The first intelligence—the first assurance that
Christian was not dead—that there was ti
chance of his recovery—had re-lighted the
lamp ot the heart, for Alice \\ ainweight.
Anxious, fearful, she could not help being;
hut siill there was an undercurrent of happy
confidence—oh, blessed security of youth—
which buoyed her up wonderfully. Her
father, however, seldom mentioned the
youth's name to her—spoke naught when
she expected him to speak—shut up his
thoughts and intentions in his own bosom,
and seemed to have forgotten altogether that
she had gone out to seek Christian Lacy,
in the early gray of the morning, and that
such an act bespoke no common interest in
him.
It is a sad disappointment, when we have
done that which we think must force expla
nation and decision—when we have made up
our minds to encounter remonstrance, op
position, anger, for a great end—to do battle,
as it were, for love, or friendship, or convic
tion, or enthusiasm —it is a sad disappoint
ment, 1 say, to find all our preparation thrown
away—no opponent ready to accept the com
bat, hut still a dark, adverse cloud hanging
upon the horizon, and threatening to fall up
on us when we least expect it.
Nevertheless, tlie days that followed were ;
happy days for Alice Wainwright. Hour I
after hour hope grew up and blossomed. — j
From the cold, doubtful, warning shake of
the head, and the dull, “It is possible,” of j
the surgeon, to the warm sound of “A good :
deal better,” and the still more cheering
“Good hope, good hope, Miss Alice,” and ul- \
timately, “Out of danger, I think,” her poor
little heart mounted up a ladder of sweet j
sensations, thinking ever that she was near ;
the top round of joy.
For Christian Lacy, it was enough that he
was in the same house as Alice Wainwright.
That very feeling did him more good than
the surgeon, except in the extraction of the
ball. But still, there were matters which
made him anxious and apprehensive, as soon
as he was strong enough to think clearly of
aught hut his own perilous state.
lie sent for Captain Wainwright; he
begged to speak with him; hut the Captain
did not come. He persisted, however; he j
sent again and again, so urgently that the
old officer at length presented himself, with a
very grave, stern face, and told him, in
rough tones, to he quiet, and keep himself
stili.
“The doctor says you must not talk, on
any account,” said the master of the house; i
“and so, if you have a mind to kill yourself,
talk away, young man.”
“I must say a few words, Captain Wain- ;
wright,” replied Lacy; “for you do not
know all.”
“I don’t want to know all, or any thing,” i
growled the old officer.
“But you must hear me for a moment,” !
said the lad, “for your own sake, for Alice’s, ;
for mine. The savages have sworn to have i
revenge on you and yours, for what you did
two years ago, at Nashua.”
“Ay, I taught them,” said the old officer,
with a grim smile. But the young man con
tinued :
“I heard of it,” lie said, “from an old wo
man, a slave of my mother’s, and was glad
to come with the scouts, on that account. —
The savages sent out one man to spy whether
you were over here or not, and, depend up- j
on it, t'l'itgli lie is dead enough, 1 am sure
they v. . have tidings, and attack you. Now,
your house here is a beautiful place ; hut tlie
walls of Haverhill will be safer for both you
and Mistress Alice.”
“And what is to become of you, if we
go?” asked the old officer, abruptly; “the
doctor says it would he your death, to carry
you a stone’s throw.”
“Oh, never mind me,” replied tlie youth, “I
shall do well, do not fear. The savages will
not come nigh the place when they hear you
are gone hack, and you can send someone :
over in tlie day, from time to time, to see I
have all I want.” |
“Pooh, pooh!” said Captain Wainwright,
turning away and walking toward the door. :
But before he reached it, he stopped and said, j
“You are a good lad, Christian, but don’t he
afraid; I have had news of the swine as well I
as you, and have made all safe. If the red
skins come here, they shall have worse than
they had at Nashua; for I have men in the
house and round the house, enough to pepper
their jackets, if tliex- had any to pepper ;”
and with a laugh at his own jest he walked
away.
Before proceeding further, it may be as well
to say a word or two of the situation of the ;
house in which the wounded youth was lodg
ed, and the places adjacent. Haverhill, or
Haverhill Point, as it is frequently called to j
distinguish it from a place similarly named, at !
some distance, is now a growing town of no j
mean importance, containing some thousand 1
inhabitants, and connected with the South i
shore of the Merrimac by two handsome j
: bridges—if not more. There are banks,
manufactories, several churches, and more !
j sects ; and vessels of a hundred tons’ burden
and upward, come and lie peaceably between
: it and Bradford on the opposite bank, also an
| important place. The land, though not the j
j richest in the world, is well and generally j
cultivated, and no one who sees the scene in ;
the present day, could form an idea from its j
aspect ot what it was some centurv and a
half ago.
1 hen Haverhill was a small village—one
; of the extreme outposts of civilization, with
a little rude fort, in which ordinarily dwelt
the commandant of a small body of soldiers,
a single church, and a population united by !
community of danger and exertion. When j
ever the Alloquin or St. Francis Indians
thought fit to make a descent upon the Bay
State, or Province of Massachusetts Bay, as
it was then called, Haverhill was sure to feel
their first fury. Xor were these descents infre
quent, especially during the time when dis
sensions existed between France and Eng
: gland ; for the French were the first, and at
no time tardy, to employ the fierce and reck
less courage of the savages, against their
1 civilized neighbors. As an instance of this,
it may be stated that within ten years, to-
I ward (he close of the seventeenth and be
: ginning of the 18th centuries, Haverhill was
three or four times attacked, anil twice plun
dered and burned by the Indians.
Nevertheless, with the characteristic ener
gy and perseverance of the Anglo-Saxon
i race, the inhabitants left alive, aided by fresh
j settlers, still raised it from its ruins, still
spread cultivation around; and at the time I
I speak ot, several farms, with neat houses
j around them, belonging to Haverhill, ap
peared upon the opposite bank of the river,
and testified their resolution to subdue the
j waste, and make the forest blossom like a
j garden. Amongst these was the farm I have
mentioned, belonging to the commandant of
the place, an enterprising but ill-paid soldier,
who thought he might as well employ the
abundant idleness of his occupation, when
lie was not fighting the French or the Indians,
in cultivating a rather fine tract of land on
the side of the l iver, which he had received
by grant from the crown. The house itself,
built by the money which he had received
| as the marriage portion of his dead wife, was
1 a very good one for the period ; large, roomy,
j and solid; and not without the usual precau
! tions against surprise. The upper stories all
round projected over the lower, so that any
body of savages approaching to drive in or
set fire to the door or windows, could be as
sailed from above with a shower of musket
balls, which not rarely put them to flight be
j fore they cc-uld effect their purpose. The !
I approaches, too, were defended by palisades, 1
and various contrivances for impeding the j
advance of an enemy, and now, ten soldiers !
from the fort, with a sergeant at their head. 1
were collected in the dwelling, so that there
seemed little cause for fear, though the hostile
attitude of the Indians was well known to
the commandant.
Ilis precautions were sufficient, indeed, and
the next month passed peacefully enough.
At the end of that time, however, the in- }
creasing coldness of the weather rendered it j
necessary that the family of Captain Wain
wright should remove to warmer quarters in
the village. But young Christian Lacy was ,
now well enough to be moved, and Alice
had the happiness of sitting beside him in the
boat which ferried them across.
It was little she dared say to him, or ho to
her, in truth ; for in the stern of the boat sat
the Captain himself, with a somewhat gloomy j
aspect, and a keen eye upon them. Love has
ways of expressing itself, however, without !
words, and their little row across was a plea
sant one.
loungLacy thought that he might now!
very well be allowed to sit up the whole day, |
and Captain Wain wright saw he would soon
be so, at all events ; but for that dav at least
lie sent him to his room immediately after
their arrival, and before nightfall, he present- i
ed himself suddenly to the young guest.
“Now listen to me, lad,” he said, with a
grave face, “you will soon he well enough to j
go about the house like a tame cat, and vet
not well enough to be sent home in this
sharp weather. I dare sav you reckon upon
a pleasant time of it, and look out to make
love to my daughter Alice. But mark me, 1
will have no love-making. I don’t say what
may happen ly and hy—l neither approve
nor disapprove. All 1 say is, you are both
too young to marry; neither I nor your
mother can well afford to set you up ; and in
the meantime, you must give me vour word
there shall be no love-making while you are
staying here.”
It was a hard demand ; but after a mo
ment’s thought, Christian Lacy replied, “Well,
I will promise on one condition, Captain.
.Now don’t look fierce, for the condition is a
small one—only that you will tell dear Alice
the engagement you have laid me under, oth
erwise she will certainly think it strange that
1 do not make love to her.”
Captain Wainwright laughed aloud at the
youth’s simple frankness, hut he answered
good-humoredl v, “That is fair enough—that
is fair enough. I will tell her, and put her
under the same bond, too—for girls can
sometimes make love to lads as well as lads
to them.”
The promise was fulfilled on all parts,
though, to say the truth, Alice and Christian
were sometimes inclined to laugh outright
when left alone together, at the padlock put
upon their lips, when their hearts were as
open to each other as if they had had as .
many tongues as Fame, and as full of liberty
to iis3 them. However, the time passed on,
■ and Christian Lacy each day grew stronger
and stronger, till at length, a sleigh going
| over to Salem, took him on his way to his
mother’s farm, comforting himself with the
thought, “Now I will make love to Alice
whenever I meet her. Mv promise is at an
end.”
[to be coyrixrKD.]
A mother having told her little son
never to say fat, at the table, but gravy , the
: nest day he saw a large man going by, and j
exclaimed, “ Mother, there goes a gravy 1
i man.”
Indian Colton and the Manchester Commis
sion of Inquiry.
We are not amongst those who anticipate
any very important results—so far as regards
an increased and improved supply of cot
ton—from the commission of inquiry which
certain ot our fellow-townsmen propose send
ing out to India; nor do we believe that the
report of .Mr. Mackay will suffice to dispel
existing doubts on many important questions
of Indian government and finance. Many
individuals of very high character and of
first-rate abilities, who have lived hi Ilindos
tan, not throe years merely, but half a life
time, have written and given evidence on the
government of British India, and especially
upon the fiscal system adopted there. But
when we come to compare their testimony on
any point—say on the influence of the land
tax on cultivation—we find them not merely
differing widely from, but diametrically oppos
ed to, each other; some alleging that the
land-t ax operates as a grievous and crushing
burthen on cultivation ; others denying that it
has the slightest influence on the condition of
the cultivator, as it merely diverts into the
public treasury a portion of the rent which
! the latter must pay to the land owner whether
; the tax exists or not. It is not unlikely that
imAdi of this difference of opinion arises
1 from conflicting views on the nature and or
igin of rent, with respect to which political
economists are greatly at variance with each
other. But until they have settled their va
riances. we must be content to put up with
very different conclusions on the part of those
who have made, or shall hereafter make, the
i condition of India a subject of study and in
vestigation ; and we do not see any particu
lar reason for believing that the researches
of Mr. Mackay will make all men of one
accord on the subject. He is not likely to
gather a more copious or more important
body of facts than that which we have alrea
dy before us in the evidence of men who had
far better opportunities of ascertaining the
results of the existing fiscal system of India
than be can possibly hope to enjoy; and with
all die respect for his reasoning powers, we
can scarcely expect him to solve that import
ant theoretical question which has occupied,
in vain, the minds of some of our ablest ccon
j oniirts.
M e are, nevertheless, exceedingly glad that
! his mission has been determined on. He will
j behold India, its people, and its Government,
at all events, from a near point of view; and
if he does not see them more distinctly, and
j comprehend them more thoroughly, than pre
i vions observers, lie is pretty sure to strikeout
something which will tend to throw light upon
| existing informa'ion, and which, by. chfcful
comparison with the statements and opinions
of others, may tend to lead popular opinion
; in the right direction.
But w ill he show us the way to a better
! supply of cotton ? That is the important
j question for the people of Lancashire. In
I sooth, we fear he will not, at least within any
| such period as the querists would consider at
j all satisfactory. If we- are to wait for an in
creased supply of that material until his re
ports have been completed and discussed,
and, by their influence on the British Legisla
• ture, and, through it, upon the Government of
India, have reformed the system of taxation,
! and improved the means of the Indian ryots,
we fear the mills of Manchester will have to
j contend with the evils of uncertain seasons
! in the United States for many years to come,
j The regeneration of a people pressed down
I by bad government and evil social institu
; tions is very slow work, as we see in Ireland;
| and we have no reason for thinking that the
Hindoo ryot is a much more improvable animal
j than the Irish peasant.
There arc some parties, indeed, who allege
that we cannot, under any circumstances of
government or cultivation, expect to receive
any considerable supplies of cotton from In
dia, because there are certain natural and in
defeasible obstacles which must render it
impossible. If so, of course, we may as
well give the matter up at once, and save the
money and the time which are now be
stowed upon it. —Manchester Guardian.
fleonomy is Due to our Employers.
“ Waste not, want not,” is a good old pro
verb. “He that is faithful in little is faithful
also in much.” A person who takes no care
of the materials committed to his hands by
his employer, will never duly husband bis
own property. Economy .and wastefulness
are habits that will influence us in all things,
both when we are engaged about our own
substance or that of another. To waste an
other’s goods is the same as to rob him. The
loss in both cases is equal, and the principles
from which they spring are very much alike.
The man who takes care of his employer’s
goods is sure to look after his own, and thus
is on the road to prosperity. Jt would be dif
ficult to calculate the immense loss of pro
perty that every year occurs from careless
ness and want of economy. Some persons
are worth nearly half their wages more than
others, because they never waste nor injure
anything. The employer being wealthy, or
stock abundant, is no excuse for carelessness.
A loss is a loss, and a robbery is a robbery,
whether taken from the heap of the miser, or
the smaller store of the indigent. “Gather
NO. 52.
up the fragments that nothing may be lost,”
is a divine command. Heaven allows noth
ing to be destroyed. There has not been a
single drop of water wasted from the creation
until now. The decomposed elements of
autumn, are the aliments of the following
spring. Economy, rigid economy, is one of
the laws of nature ; and we shall not realize
“ the good time coming,” until we have a
careful and economical world. Let this
spirit prevail, arid not only will the employer
he saved from loss, but, in many instances,
the employee will preserve for himself a good
situation.
03* A good one is told by an English paper
of an old lady who had received a letter from
her son, a sailor on hoard a merchantman,
which ran thus:
“ Have been driven into the Bay of Fun
day by a pampoosa right in the teeth. It
Mowed great guns, and we carried away the
bowsprit, a heavy sea washed overboard tire
binnacle and companion ; the captain lost
his quadrant, and couldn’t take an observa
tion for fifteen days; at last we arrived safe
at Halifax.”
The old woman, who could not read her
self, trot a neighbor to repeat it to her three
or four times, until she had got it by heart;
she then sallied out to tell the story.
“ (), my poor son !”
“ Why, what’s the matter, mother? I hope
no mischief!”
“ O, thank God, he’s safe—but lie has been
driven into the Hay of Firmament by a bam
boozle right in the teetli—it blowed great guns,
and they carried away the pulpit—a heavy
, sea washed overboard the pinnacle of the tab
i ernacle—the captain lost his conjuration
and couldn’t get any salvation for fifteen
i days—at last they arrived safe at Hallelujah.”
“ La, bless us, what a wonder they wasn’t
beat to atoms! Well, I wouldn’t be a sailor.”
O’ He who will have no judge but him
i self, virtually condemns himself.