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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*