Newspaper Page Text
volume ii. |
by c, r. hanleiter.
POETRY.
SONNET TO SLEEP.
Thou child of Night and Silence, balmy Sleep,
Shed thy soft poppies on my aching brow !
And charm to rest the thoughts of whence or how
Vanish'd that prized Affection, wont to keep
Each grief of mine front rankling into woe.
Then stern misfortune from her bended how
Loosed the dire strings, and Cure and anxious Dread
Front my cheer’d heart on sullen pinion fled.
But now, the spell dissolved, the enchantress gone,
Ceaseless those cruel fiends infest my day.
And sunny hours but light them to their prey.
Then welcome, midnight shades, when thy wish’d boon
May in oblivious dews my eyelids strep,
Thou child of Night and Silence, balmy Sleep I
————
g[EL[E©Y[E® TALES.
THE TWO SISTERS.
A Sketch.
BY KOT7.F.BUF.
In a large city in Germany dwelt two sis
ters Jeannette and Pauline. Jeannette
l ad the* good forfjne to be very handsome,
and the bad fortune to find it out very soon.
She soon accustomed herself to look in the
glass —tlial was natural ; she soon took
pains in dressing—that was paidonable ;
sho en leavored to acquire accomplishments
that was prudent ; hut she thought noth
ing more was necessary—that was foolish.
True, she played well upon the harpsichord,
and sung bravura airs with taste ; she tlrcw
landscape after Hackert. and embroidered
flowers from Nature. But she only played
the harpsichord in great companies, and on
ly sung airs at concerts; she only drew
landscape for exhibition, and embroidered
flowers for sofas and screens. At home,
time passed tediously, although her old
weak mother was continually praising her
lieauty. This oh! truth could only give
Sleasure by coming from new lips; hence
eannette was continually seeking new so
ciety. Ladies blways practice a certain
economy in the praise of other ladies ; but
gentlemen, on the contrary, are generally
very lavish of praise; and therefore Jean
nette was fond of the society of gentle
men.
Her sister Pauline would probably have
thought and acted in the same manner;
hut no one praised the poor girl simply be
cause she was not as beautiful as her sister.
.She was also far behind Jeannette in showy
accomplishments. She played the guitar,
and sung agreeably, but merely simple lit
tle songs. She was not behind Jeannette
in the “art of drawing; hilt except a few
landscapes which hung in her mother s
chamber, which no one hut her mother saw,
no one knew of her talent ; for the homely
Panline was as diffident as the fascinating
Jeannette was unembarrassed ; and it only
required a second look from any one to
cause her to blush deeply. I'ortunalely
this did not often happen, for no one looked
at her twice. She embroidered as well as
her sister, but only upon wolfe-bags for
aunts anti grandmothers. She appeared
best at home —in company the conscious
ness of her homeliness gave her an air of
constraint ; but affairs could not go on with
out her.
When the girls grew up, their mother
thought proper that they should take charge
of the house each one by turns, week about.
Pauline soon became accustomed to it, and
in her week all things went on tight. W hen
Jeannette’s turn came, she hurried about
busily the whole forenoon, hut when lioon
came the dinner was spoiled. She grieved,
also at the time she lost from her singing
and harpsichord, and the little time which
was left her to ariange her head-dress for
her evening parties. The good-hearted
Pauline often took her task oft - her hands,
until finally the practice was neglected of
relieving each other weekly, and Jeannette
troubled herself no more about domestic af
fairs. The weak mother did not interfere,
fgt she could not be displeased with the
lovely face which pleases everybody.—
There could be no huge party unless Jean
nette Westreu graced it; her name served
the poets for a subject, and was the univer
sal toast. Few only knew that she had a
* l *T wo young officers, Edward and Maurice,
saw Jeanette, and both became ext.emely
enamored. Both were of good fam.ly,
brave, noble, and both very rich. Jean
nette was delighted with her conquest, and
her mother, who was in moderate circum
stances. indulged herself in sweet dreams
of the future.
••If both should he in earnest,” said she
to her daughter, “which would you pefer 1
•• I don’t know myself,” answered Jean
nette, “ they both please me, hut I like the
richest one best. Then I would take care
of you, mother, in your old age, and 1 would
have my sister to manage my house for
“"the doating parent wept for joy at the
filial sentiments of her daughter and Pau
line was grateful for such a mark ofsisterly
affection.
In the meantime both of the young men
wooed earnestly for the beauty s favor and
both were equally kind to the homely Pan
line, because she gave them the p.easure of
being alone with her sister.
really in embarrassment, which of hei ador
ers i prefer. Edward gare a ball, at which
JL W®®My H®wsjpajp®if § ID©w4@dl 4® IP®MM@©i 3La4®m4niiir® a MoA&ima© S©i©isi©®4> <§fe© o
she was queen, end she thought on that
evening she was in a fair way to love Ed
ward. Maurice gave a sleigh-tide, and she
flew along the street in a splendid equipage,
ar.d on that day she thought Maurice more
amiable than his rival. So shedi laved her
decision fr<m one to another, attributing
her hesitation to her heart.
“ If 1 were in your place,” said Pauline,
one day, “ 1 should take Edward.”
“ Why ? Maurice is as rich, and you
will acknowledge he is handsomer.”
“ He is generous, too,” said the mother.
“ But he is fickle,” said Pauline.
“Our aunt has told me a good many
things about him.”
“ Our aunt,” answered Jeanette, snap
pishly, “ is an old aunt.”
” Edward, ori the other hand,” continued
Pauline, “is more steady; and 1 think I
have often remarked, that he feels more
deeply and more sincerely than Maurice.”
“Pshaw!” said Jeatmetie, tossing her
head, while she stuck a flower in her hair
before the glass ; “ they both feel so deeply
that I hardly know how to manage them.—
Meanwhile, what harm will thete he in de
laying my choice awhile 1 Their rivalry
makes my time pass very pleasantly, and
finally accident will deside.”
Pauline was silent. Both suitors contin
ued their attentions without remission.
One day as Edward entered the room, he
found Pauline in tears, and Jeannette laugh
ing loudly. He asked modestly the cause
of the tears and laughter.
“lam a child,” said Pauline, blushing,
and left the chamber.
“ A child indeed,” said Jeannette, laugh
ing after her; “you would never guess
what she was crying for.”
“If it is not improper to ask—”
“Oh not at ail. You have probably
sometimes seen the old blind dog that used
to lie on the sofa? He was mine, and in
his young days used to make a good deal of
sport. This morning he broke a handsome
dish. At first I fretted a little : at last 1
thought the old blind animal was good for
nothing and only did mischief; so I sent
him to a huntsman and had him shot.”
“ And was that the cause of your sister’s
weeping ?”
“ That wns it. One would think we
were living in times of old Romance.”
Edward was silent, and soon changed the
conversation. But after that time he never
overlooked Pauline as he had formerly done.
He conversed with her, became acquainted
her unpretending worth, admired her mod
esty, and began to think her less homely.
Yet when the fascinating Jeannette appear
ed, her charms made him forget Pauline.
Jeannette had prepared a splendid mas
querade dress for the character of sultana,
for the carnival that was approaching, when
her mother was taken sick. Pauline was
to have accompanied her as her slave, and
had prepared a becoming dress for the oc
casion. The day arrived; the illness of
her mother increased ; the looks of the phy
sician, although he said nothing, made Pau
line determine not to go to the masquerade.
Jeannette gave herself hut little trouble to
persuade her to go, and went without her.
“ Where is your sister?” asked Edward.
“ My mother is not well, anil Pauline has
remained at home for company.” He was
pleased at that; hut he had little time to
think of it, for Jeannette appeared more
beautiful than ever, and neither he nor Mau
rice left her side. She enjoyed the triumph
of being admired in the highest degree.—
Whenever she danced, a crowd was form
ed around her; wherever she went, she
heard the voice of flattery.
Toward midnight, just as she had prom
ised to dance a quadrille with Edward, a
domino came up and took off his mask ; it
was her mother’s physician. “ Miss,” said
he, “ I'have just come from your house, ami
1 dare not conceal from you that your moth
er is very ill.”
“ Good Heaven ?” she exclaimed, terrifi
ed and perplexed, “ I must go home this
moment.”
“ By all means,” said Edward, “ let us
go.”
Just then the music commenced, Jean
nette looked round embarrassed ; Edward
offered his services to look for her servant.
She was just on the point of requesting him
to do so, when one of the dancers in the
set took her hand and commenced the fig- ‘
tire. She obeyed mechanically, hut said to
a lady standing next to her, “ l cannot
dance any longer; my mother’s sick.” “O,
do not rob us of the ornament of our qua
drille,” said a young rich Englishman, “ a
few minutes can make no difference.” She
looked at Edward as if she wished him to
decide for her, but he was silent. It was
now his turn to dunce. The person next
him jogged him—lie cast an enquiring look
at Jeannette; his neighbor reminded him
again—Jeannette did not refuse, and so he
danced the figure with her, and the quar
drille was finished without anything more
being said. She would have gone, but she
was so heated that she would have taken
cold, by going into the air. After walking
up and down an adjoining room for some
time, she went home and Edward accom
panied her. As they went up the steps
they saw a fire in the kitchen, where Pau
line was preparing something for her moth
er. Her countenance, reddened by the
glow of fire, appeared handsome this time,
u> Edward.
“ It is well you have come,” said Pauline
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, JANUARY 26, 1814.
to her sister, “Mother has been very sick,
and I have frequently had to leave her
alone.”
Edward felt himself in a singular frame
of mind. On this very evening Jeannette
had dropt some hints, which gave him hopes
of gaining the victory over his rival. His
delight on that account, however, had been
very much moderated since the last quad
rille. A film fell from his eyes. He was
able for the first time to look upon her beau
ty without a violent wish to possess her.—
He would ptnbably have renounced her im
mediately, if vanity had not w hispered that
she loved him; ‘.hat she would have imme
diately left the hall, if she had not been
dencing with him ; and that it was he who
made her forget her duty for a moment.—
His feelings could not Withstand the flatter
ing though: of being beloved by so beauti
ful a girl, and all that reason could wdn
from him was a determination to put her
supposed affection to the proof.
He wailed until her mother recovered
and then went one clay with an air of trou
ble in his countenance, to Jeannette, and in
formed her that his estate in Suhia had been
ravaged by the enemy, and that it would
take at least a year’s rent to put it in its for
mer condition. “ But,” added he, tenderly,
“if Jeannette only loves, me, my incomes
will be sufficient to protect us from want.”
She was visibly si ocked, and changed color
as he began his relation, and her endeavors
to conceal her confusion did not escape
him. An anxious pause ensued. She soon
recovered her composure laid her hand up
on his in a friendly way, and said, “my
good friend, I will not deceive you. I ini
a spoilt child, and cannot do without a great
many things. We are neither of us ro
mancers. We know that the warmest love
will grow cold in a cottage. That I am
well inclined toward you, I will not deny,
but we must act reasonably—remain my
friend.” This declaration was a thrust in
the heart to Edward ; but it was a benefi
cial operation. He soon after repeated the
story in presence of Pauline. She did not
look up from her embroidery, but lie re
marked that her eyes were moist. “ What
gives me the most pain for the misfortune,
is the poverty of my mother—my good mo
ther. If 1 should devote the whole of my
income to her, it will not be sufficient to
provide her tbe luxuries to which she has
been accustomed ; and you know that pov
erty always depends upon tbe different
wants of mankind.” Pauline raised her
head and looked at him kindly. She said
nothing, but her countenance spoke. The
needle trembled in her hand. She be
thought herself and continued her etnbtoi
dery. After a pause she asked, as if mere
ly to renew the conversation, “ Where does
your mother reside ?” Edward answered,
at Stutgard, where, in reality, she was in
the highest circle of society. Pauline then
spoke of the pleasant situation ami advan
tages of Stutgard, and nothing more was
said of Edwaul’s misfortune.
For the purpose of confirming what he
had said of his losses, he limited his expen
ditures and sold his fine horses. He con
tinued to visit the sisters, and the calmness
of his feelings permitted him to see a thou
sand little things, that had formerly escap
ed him. None of his observations were of
a kind to rekindle his former love ; on the
other hand, Pauline daily appeared more
amiable to him, and her homeliness less
striking. As lie now conversed more with
her than Jeannette, she felt more confidence
toward him, her bashfulness was conquered,
anil she unfolded her heart. What conduc
ed very much to this, was the modest sup
position, that Edwatd could have nqthouglit
or marriage with her; that removed her
embarrassment, and she s’ owed her pure
unrestrained sisterly affection.
Jeannette, on the other hand, did not re
ceive much pleasure from his visits, which
were especially disagreeable when Maurice
was present. To him she now confined Iter
whole coquetry, and smn drew the net so
tightly over him, that he hi sought her press
ingly every day to make him the most en
viable of mortals, at the altar. She still
took airs upon herself and teased him
awhile, and at last jestingly gave her con
sent. The lover was delighted excessively,
and the most expensive preparations were
commenced for the nuptials.
Meanwhile Edwatd remained very calm.
He was no longer in love, but it appeared
to him at times as if he loved Pauline. His
wish to see her, if he had not seen her fi>r
a day or two; the quickness with which
time passed in her company ; the unwilling
ness w ith which he separated from her—all
these things often made him think, “ what
if 1 should offer Pauline my hand ?” A sur
prising occurrence suddenly decided for
him.
He received a letter from his mother con
taining a hill of exchange upon Stutgard
for one hundred dollars, signed by one of
the principal bankers of the place in which
Edward resided. “ I cannot comprehend,”
she wrote itt her letter, “ why it should have
been sent to me. It was sent to me in an
anonymous letter, in which I am besought,
in a few lines, not to dispise the gift of o
good heart.” A flame blazed in Edwatd’s
breast. He trembled—his eyes spaikled.
He hurried to the banker. “ Did you draw
this bill of exchange 1” “ Yes.” “ For
whom 1” “ 1 have been paid the value.”—
“By whom 1” “ l cant say.” “ But the
bill of exchange was sent to my mother.”
“ 1 know nothing of that; it is no business of
mine.” “ I beg of you to tell me the per
son.” “I cannot.” “You will probably
cause the happiness of my life.” The han
ker looked at him with surprise. “Will
you tell me the truth,” said Edward, “ if I
name the person ?” “Yes.” “Miss Pau
line Western.” “Yon have guessed it.”
Edward hurried out. In two minutes he
was at Pauline’s feet, and asked her hand.
She was confused—she could tint answer
she sighed. He put his arm around her—
“ Ami disagreeable to you ?’* “Oh no.—
I have long loved you ; hut how could 1
hope?” The first raptures of love flowed
through two noble hearts. Pauline could
not comprehend how Edward had taken
such a sudden, violent resolution. She of
ten asked the teason —he smiled hut did
not answer.
Her nuptials with the poor Edward were
fixed for the same day, on which Jeannette
was to marry the rich Maurice. Pauline
made disposition for strict frugality in her
future domestic affairs; iter white, plain
luiilal dress contrasted powei fitl y with the
silver lace of her sister. Edwatd pressed
her to his heart and smiled.
“ To-morrow,” said he, “ I will inform
my mother of the choice 1 have made, you
must also add a letter.”
Pauline promised it, not without some
embarrassment, and Edward smiled again.
On the next day she handed him the letter,
hut showed him at the same time her finger
hound up, which had compelled her to get
bet sister to write the letter. Edward kiss
ed her finger, cast a look of love upon her,
and a tear stood in his spatkl ng eye. Nlte
blushed and thought something was not
t ight: hut he said “ vety well,” anil smiled.
The marriage day appealed. Edward
came early in the morning and laid a valua
ble necklace in his bride’s lap. Pauline
was astonished, hut Jeannette was more o.
for the necklace was mote valuable than her
own.
“ 1 have been practising usury,” said Ed
ward, jestingly. “A little sum advanced
by a noble lady, a fiiend of mine, has dou
bled itself a thousand fold.”
“ By a noble lady ?” said Pauline.
“ The necklace is very fine,” continued
Edward, “ but what adoitis it most, ond
will make me the happiest of men, is con
cealed in this paper.”
She opened it confusedly. It wns the
wedding ring folded in the bill of exchange;
Pauline recognized it at the first glance, and
cast down Iter eyes, blushing. Edwatd fell
at her feet. She sank down.
“ To deceive me so 1” whispered she.
When all was explained, Pauline’s moth
er embraced her, while Jeannette tossed
her pretty head. She endeavored to con
ceal her vexation ; hut her mariiuge day
was :lie commencement of her matrimoni
al ill-humor.
I Several years passed : Edward found to
j his astonisrnetit that he had been blind, that
i his wife was really hutidsome ; and his do
mestic happiness increased every day. Do
mestic happiness never made its home with
Jeannette. Pauline was sutronsded with
blooming children. The sisters seldom
j saw each other ; for Pauline lived only for
( her husband and children—Jeannette only
| for the great world. Here she found suffi
cient amends for the only true happiness of
i tnartiage, as long as her beauty daily at
tracted new admirers, and as long as her
husband’s riches affbided the means of ex
pensive luxuries. But alas 1 her charms
began to vanish, she grew sickly, the affec
tions of her husband became deadened, his
coffers were emptied, poverty introduced
discord. They avoided one another. Mad
am run in debt. Monsieur gambled away
I her jewels. They began with complaining,
I and ended with reproaches. At length one
i morning Maurice rode away without taking
leave, and was never heard of afterward.
I Poor and helpless, Jeannette was forced
!to seek an asylum with her sister. She was
I kindly received and tieated with the most
j tender forbearance.; but her conscience
j was not at ease ; a violent cough enfeebled
j her frame, and in her twenty-eighth year,
’ no trace of tier former beauty remained.—
! Her mind was soured and embittered, so
that she was tendered unfit for any domes
tic joys. The servants of the family trem
bled before her. If the nurse wished to
hush the infant she had only to say “ Aunt
is coining.” The latger children, when at
play, if they heard her cough at a distance,
slipped into one corner, and vvhispeted to
otto another “ aut is coming.”— Rover.
A Puzzle. —A correspondent of the New*
York Commercial says:
“On Christmasday there met at my house,
at dinner, two husbands, two wives, two
fathers, two mothers, one grandfather, one
grandmother, two daughters, two sisters,
four brothers, three brothers in-law, tlnee
sisters-in-law, two uncles, one aunt, one
son, one son-in law, two nieces, one nephew,
one grand-uncle, one grand niece, and one
grand daughtei, and yet there were but
eight pertains present. Can any of your
readers unravel this 1”
“I can’t imagine,” said an alderman, “why
my whiskers should grow grey so muqh fas
ter than the hair ou my head.” “ Because,”
observed a wag in reply. “ you have work
ed so much hauler with your jaws than
your brains.”
M 0 ® © !£ IUL A H Y J
A VISIT TO AN ENGLISH COT
TAGE.
I entered a third cabin. Hetelhe gtcen
earth smiled again, as did the modest futze
and glossy holiy, that felt not the approach
of winter. The floor was much like the
first. Near the middle sat the mother peel
ing potatoes, which she threw’ into a pot at
her side half filled with water. J introduc
ed myself on every such occasion by saying,
that 1 came fmm beyond the seas, and
wished to inform my countrymen how the
laborers lived in England. Sixpence brought
forth willing answers to interrogatories
which I put without stint.
“How many children have you?”—
“ Eight.” “ What did they feed upon this
morning?” “Potatoes.” “ What w II yon
give them for dinner?” “ These potatoes
you see me peeling.” “ Nothing else ?’’
“ No: nothing else.” “ Have you tin meat,
no milk, no butter for them?'’ She mode
no reply, fixed her eyes upon them and
sobbed aloud. But her countenance sud
denly hiightened into a smile, and she said
with a clear voice, “ Thank God, salt is
cheap.” But her joy was e transient beam,
for her eyes again ovci fl<•*>< <1 osuhe
me her eldest daughter, fourteen years of
age. whom sljemade rise on Iter feet Her
tattered garments scarcely concealed her
sex; it left hare to the knees behind, while
it dangled to the ground in front. She blush
ed deeply, for want had not extinguished
the modesty of nature, as her motliet drew
aside the tags that covered her snowy skin.
” These,” said she, ate all the clothes my
child has; site can’t go to school in them ;
besides, she is obliged to stay at home to
take care of the children.” This was pal
pably true, for her wasted form .tottered
under a burden that would soon add another
inmate tq this abode of misery.
The other children were grouped near
the elder sister, sittingon the naked hearth.
Their little hands and feet were red with
cold ; their features were set in melancholy;
they were not playful, as became their ittno
cent years; no, it has been Duly said, that
tbe childten of tho English poor know no
childhood! Sorrow begins with life ; they
are disciplined to privation from the cradle ;
front the cradle, did Isay? I saw no cra
dle, and 1 vctily believe that such a luxury
was nevet known by the child of an English
laborer.
In the corner ot the chimney was an old
matt, sitting on his haunches, pulling fag
gots to the fire, intended to boil the pota
toes. “ Who is that ?” “It is old Mr. ,
he has no home, and we let him slay with
us.” He was eighty years of age, and par
took with the children his portion of pota?
toes and salt.
I asked one of the little gills, where was
the cat? The mother atiswefedj they Had
none, “ for a cat must eat.” “ Have you a
dog?” “ No, we cannot keep a dog; be
sides lie disturbs the game.” “But you
have a cock to ciow for day ?” “ No, we
have none.”
1 felt a sort of horror come over me at
the absence of these animals, sacred to eve
ry household—the cat, the companion and
pastime of little childten; the dog, the
well tried, trusty friend of ntan; the cock,
whose joyous song hails the coming day——
yet poverty, that hitter, blighting ciuse,
has expelled even these from the cottage of
tho English peasant.
“Can your husband read ?” “Yes, he
can read the easy pails of the Bible.” “ Can
you read?” “ No, I never went to school. ’’
“ HotV many apartments are there in
your house?” “ Two, one below and another
above.”
“ May |go up stairs ?” She was evi
dently unwilling : my guide gave nte a dis
couraging look ; 1 persevered, and ascen
ded a dirty, rickety flight of steps to a
chamber, where the whole family slept;
near a narrow Inoken window, stood a
wooden frame on four legs, on which were
laid tinnsverse laths that supported a bed of
out-Chaff, sewed up in a dirty tattered seek,
over which was spread a cqan-e woolen
sheet almost black ; upon this lay two pit
lowa of straw, and n thick strippd coverlet
worn into holes. Another sack of chaff’ lay
on the floor in n corner, over which was
stretched h sort of blanket torn to- rags.—
Here slept all the children, except the two
youngest, who lay with their parents. —
The fate of the old ‘man was not made
known to tnC, nor did 1 inquire.
The furniture of the apartment below
consisted of a stool, on which the thdther
‘sat; a box occupied ns a seat by the eldesf
daughtei ; two hroken choirs, unsafe for
either my guide or myself; fourteen or fif
teen articles of crockery of fractured [dates,
saucers and cups ; a tea-pot; two or three
small iron ve-si ls for cooking, and a hijiad
table, sustained by diagonal hats fastened
with nails. On the wall, under a broken
piece of plate glass, hung a white napkin,
fringed at bottom, tho otdy testimonial of
neatness that poverty could aftbid. The
whole chattel estate, including the apparel
of man, wife and children, could not lie sold
fm ten dollais.
The English Tenant and the American
Slave. AH communication* from lord to
tenant are received with the most degrading
servility. The poor man is half annihila
ted; with cap in hand, body bent, and
downcast eyes, he articulates unceasingly,
| NUMBER 44.
¥. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR.
my lord ; yes, my lord ; no. my lord ; yonr
lordship—with an awe due to divinity rath
er than man.
The slave in the Carolina* is not so hum
ble in the presence of his master. He simp
ly replies, yes, sir; no, sir; often indulges
in the free expression of opinion; and in
many families, his communications are on
terms of equality. He is indeed the proper
ty of a master, but is well fed ; and even
his dogs, Joler and Towser, often devour
more flesh in a day than ati English laborer
eats in a week.
He cultivates a patch of sweet potatoes
and other esculent plants for himself; kee| •
fowls in his yard, sells at market, and in the
smoke of his chimney hangs the joint of a
hog, from which he cuts a slice at the calf 9
of appetite. He wears a smile on his
countenance, is fat and saucy among his fel
lows, laughs with n vacant heart, can dance
to the banjo, and freely indulges in his talent
for music.
But there is no redemption for the En
glish peasantry, they lie at the bottom of
the fabric of society whose pressure, like
that of the pyramid, is in proportion to its
height. They have not the strength ttf
throw off the incumbent mass, which, like
the stucture to which I have compared it,
seems destined to outlive many generations
of men.
The nobility are intrenched behind here
ditary wealth and privilege, and are, more
over, the best educated class of men in
Europe. Mote like potentates than sub
jects, they have much to lose and nothing
to gain by change. They ore affable and
condescending without loss of dignity;
study to conciliate, and at the same time to
inspire a respect for themselves which forms
the secret guaiatity of their power. There
are always orators and statesmen among
them welt read and practisi and in the myste
ries of legislation. Wisdom is power ; and
it is the power of parliament that has raised
England to such a pitch of gtcatness and
upheld a constitution which in any other
country, would have long ago fallen into
ruins.
Learning in England is confined to a
few; knowledge is taxed and cannot he
bought by the poor. A single newspaper
costs sixpence, which would give bread
to ‘the humpy. The light of the press,
unlike the lays of the sun, shines not upon
the cottage thatched with straw. There abe
millions of poor laborers, operatives ancf
mechanics, who feel the weight of govern
ment with out comprehending its policy.
Their rulers practise upon the system of
Wandeville, and think it w’ould be unsafe to
instruct sucli formidable numbers who might
become inquisitive, and ask why they were
fed on potatoes and salt in sight of n park
containing tlnee thousand deer to glut the
appetite of a single man. Hence there are
no public schools for the instruction of the
poor, this is the work of charity and the
church, and not of the law. It was not
until six years ago, that parliament appro
priated thirty thousand pounds for this pur
pose — but little more than is given by the
State of Connecticut, with less than 30®**
000 inhabitants.”
It was in Somersetshire, that the author
visited the cottage described in the first of
these extracts. He afterwards made a
journey to Devonshire, in order to ascer
tain the condition of its rmal population.—
The follow ing melancholy pat ograph clo-.
ses his nnrativo :
“During the years 1841-2 3, I entered!
122 cottages in Somt i-etshiro, Devon-,
shire, Lancashire, Warwickshire, Surrey,
Middlesex, and Kent, always with a view
to understand a subject in which I felt a
deep and abiding interest. My first visit to.
Somersetshire discloses the whole truth s
I had nothing further to learn, than that the
same wretchedness, the same round of po
tatoes and salt, the same appalling picture
of destitution and rags, prevailed through
out the Kingdom.”
THE SPIDER.
“And reason raise o’er instinct as you can,
In this ’tis God directs, in ilia) ’tis mad.’’
No one who has studied the habits of the
spider, will doubt t,he jietfection of its in
stincts or its ability to accomplish its pur*
jioses, in the Inst possible manner by tltfi
means God has given it. Some years ago.
I recollect seeing in a Northern paper, a,
statement of a “snake nine inches in length,”
having been lifted up into.a web “occupied,
by three spiders in a wine cellar.’ Thin,
fact was thought so improbable, that it was
pubbslutl under the authority of several, te
sjrectalde names. Having on two occasions;
witnessed u siiuihn feat, by one of these
tiny insects, and being so fortunate as to
have witnessed the perforjnaficc iu one in-,
stance, 1 think a statement of the observa
tions made on it may he acceptable to the
lovi rs of nature.
The two facts I have alluded to happen
ed at the same spot on two successive years,
by the agency of a single s|>ider; hut wheth
er the same individual 1 have uo means of
knowing. In both instances the body rais
ed was a silk wmm which had fallen from
a table on w hich it had been fed till nearly
grown. It would have weighed fifty or six*
ty grains. In the hist instance the silk,
worn, was discovered suspended under the
table in the nest of the spider, hut its being
there looked wholly unaccountable. On the
next year the discovery was madu at luetime
of the operution. At the time it was die*