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THE
fivanroaniaff ffaumraiSj,
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IN THE CITE OF MACON, CA.
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political.
From the Cherokee Advocate.
Admission of California.
The Witmot Proviso is not now urged
up iti Congress. Its friends are too cunning
for that. The weight of authority is now
becoming too strong against them. They
saw that the opinion was gaining ground,
that Congress has no Constitutional pow
er to enact it. Besides, the whole South
was committed against it, and pledged to
resist it. What was then to be done/
Were they to abandon their object? By
no means. They were not contending
for names. Their object was to restrict
and limit what they are pleased to call the
slave power. The South was if possib'e,
to beexcluded from the common territory, j
This CQuld not be done directly, by the j
enactment of the Wi'rnot Proviso, there
fore Congress was to he urged to accom
plish the object indirectly, by admission
of California as a State. For it is not only
capable of clear and conclusive demon
stration, but we cannot, if we would, shut
our eyes to the fa t, that the exclusion of
the South from the new territories, would
he made as complete and effectual by the
admission of California, ns if the Wilmot
Proviso had been enacted by Congress.'
The enactment of the Proviso, it is ad- |
luiiisd, would bo an exorcise of power at
war with the spirit of the Constitution,
and violative of the compact of the U
nion among the States. The same end
precisely would be attained by the ad mis- !
sion of California as a State. But it is
urged that the inhabitants of a territory
iiave the right to determine for themselves,
what and whom they shall exclude. If
this proposition had been announced with
out any limitation whatever, as it now
seems is held by some,the doctrine would
have been repudiated by all parties at the j
South. At what stage in the progress of
the settlement and peopling of a territo
ry was this doctrine to he conceded? If
true absolutely, and without auy restric- ]
tion, it was not necessary that the appli
cation of California should he delayed un
til its population reached twelve thousand.
But twelve hundred had the same right to
adopt a Constitution; and exclude slavery,
and apply for admission as a Slate, that
can be claimed for twelve thousand. And
if the doctrine is adopted absolutely and
without limitation, that the inhabitan's of
a Territory have a right to adopt of their
own motion, or at the suggestion of others
a provision excluding slavery, then there 1
is no inhibition upon the first Jicndrcd
squatters or gold diggers, who may enter
a territory, that prevents tiicir passing in
judgment upon the rights of sovereign
States. But the doctrine has never been
so understood. And it is matter of aston
ishment, that some who have opposed the
AVilmot Proviso as an open violation of
the Compromises of the Constitution,
should advocate such an absurd patched
up contrivance as the California applica
tion, for securing precisely the same end
that was aimed at in the Proviso.
Division at this South. —Wo could
'veep over the divisions at the South, if it
Would do any good. Whigs repel Demo
crats by harsh epithets, and Democrats re
pel Whigs in the same way.
Cod forgive ns for the mimic piety of our
professions, when wo should he in dead
earnest, with hearts open to brotherly sym
pathy, and heating ns with the same pulse.
We could fill our paper with extracts to
p ho\v how Northern papers rejoice at am
THE SOUTHERN TRIBUNE.
NE \V SEIiIES —VOLUWE 11.
pisseniions, and make them the rallying
cry for their union and firmness.
Extracts are made from Southern pa
pers, and the resolutions ofSouthern meet
ings, to portray us as a house divided
against itself, which cannot stand, or built
upon the sands which the storm will un
dermine and destroy. The South has
truth upon her side, but Heaven help us!
how can we pierce the fanaticism of the
North with its rays, when they are obscur
ed by clouds which we foolishly create
and spread in huge black masses over our
own heads. Wo scarcely know what to
say or how to proceed. We wish to unite
the people of the South to prevent the tri
umphs of discord at home, to hold up some
resplendent light which will attract atten
tion and unite us all, Whigs und Demo
crats, as if woke up by the roll of the trum
pet sound and the patriotic call to resis
tance to wrongs involving independence
and honor. That tongue which tells you
all is right, no danger lingers around our
homes, is a tongue of guilt which moves at
the bidding of a heai t of gall, unless It is
controlled by illusive hope or betrayin'*
ignorance.
Let us unite as a people unless we are
prepared to submit to the scorn of the op
pressor, and to be pursued by self reproach
when unable to rise from the weight of
his relentless power.— Augusta Republic.
The Day’s Three Utiles.
Tiik Duty, The Burden And The
Lesson.—An old man called to him his son
and pupil one morning, and said to him :
“Theodore, have you prepared your mind
for the three things ?”
“What three things, father ?”
“The three claims of the day, my son,
concerning which I instructed you. We
should enter on no day of life, without
carefully inquiring what is before us, and
what is expected of us.’’
“Now, I remember,” said Tneodore:
i “they are the trlioe rules which you desir
ed me to say once every morning on rising.’
“What are these rules my son ?”
“They are these,” replied Theodore;
“First, Do the duty of the dap; secondly,
Rear the burden of the dap ; thirdly, Learn
the lessen of the dap, “Yes, my son. and
there is no day, to which these do not ap
ply.—Each has its duty, its burden, and
its lesson. Something has to he done,
something to he learned. * *
And lie who neglects no one ofthese three
tilings, spends this day alight. Endea
vor, Theodore, to apply these rules to
someone day, which is fresh in remem
berance, as for example yesterday.”
“ I will do so,” said Theodore. “The
duty of yosterday was that of making a
catalogue of your hooks, and engrossing it
in a volume. This 1 mean, was my grand
business. There were many lesser duties,
arising from my circumstances. The
burden of the day was a heavy one, hull
am afraid to name it lest you laugh at me.”
“Out with it.”
“It was a mortification of my vanity at
the rejection of my verses sent to the
newspaper.”
“Ah ! I can believe it mortification of
paide and vanity are among our heaviest
burdens”
“The lesson of the day,” continued
Theodore, “was taught me by a lamb in
the meadow, which suffered itself to be
rudely pushed by my dog, without the j
least sign of resentment and hereby soon
forgot the injury and healed the wound.”
“I perceive,” said the old man, “that
you have observed rny precept, in recall
ing to your memory these three things, on
closing your eyes for sleep. But suppose i
you go further, and endeavor to apply
them to the future. We have hut just be
gun anew day, how do these rules apply
to what it is likely to bring you ?”
Theodore paused a little, and then re
plied, “The duty of the day is to goon
in my studies, especially to perfect myself
in what remains of geometry; audit is
well you have called it to my mind, for 1
have to row myself across the river to get
tny book. The burden of the day, is in
great part unknown to me. I can how
ever, foresee samething of it in these se
vere studies, added to the knowledge that
my companions will he keeping it as a
holiday. The lesson of the day, so far
as not included in the geometry lesson
aforesaid, cannot he foreseen. But 1 shall
he more on the watch for it, in conse
quence of your reminding.”
“My son,” said the old man, “it is im
possible for me to tel! you the advantage
I have derived from the habits of looking
forward every morning and backwards
every evening, upon the passing day,
with these three little words in my mind :
the Duty—the Burden—the Lesson.”
W OMAN.
RY 'VII.LIAM LEGGETT.
No star in yonder sky that shines
Can light like woman’s eye imparl ;
The earth holds not in all its mines
A gem so rich as woman's heart;
Her voice is like the music sweet
Poured out from airy harp alone ;
Like that when storms more loudly beat,
It yields a clearer, richer tone.
And woman’s love’s holy light,
That brighter burns for aye ;
Years cannot dim its radiance bright,
Nor even falsehood quench its ray :
But like the star of Bethlehem,
Os old to Israel’s shepherds given^
It marshals with its steady flame
The erring soul of man to Heaven
MACON, (GA.,) SATURDAY AFTERNOON, MARCH 30, 1850.
From the New Monthly Magazine.
PIKST LOVE;
OR
Constancy in the Nineteenth Century.
The assertion that ‘ What is every
body’s business is nobody’s,’ is true en
ough ; but the assertion that ‘ What is
nobody’s business is everybody’s,’ is still
tiucr. Now, a love afluir, for example,
is, of all others, a tiling apart—an enchan
ted dream, where ‘common griefs and
cares come not.’ It is like a matrimonial
quarrel—never to bo benefited by the in
terference of others ; it is a sweet and sub
tle language, ‘that none understand but
the speakers,’ and yqt this fine and delicate
spirit is most especially the object of cu
riosity. It is often supposed before it ex
ists ; it is taken for granted, commented
upon, continued and ended, without the
consent of the parties themselves ; though
a casual observer might suppose that they
were the most interested in the business.
All love aflairs excite the greatest pos
sible attention ; but never was so much
attention bestowed as in the little town of
Allertion, upon that progressing between
Mr. Edward Rainsforth and Miss Emily
Worthington. They had been a charming
couple from their birth—were called the
little lovers from their cradle ; and even
when Edward was sent to school, his letter
home once a quarter always contained his
love to his little wife. Their course of
true love seemed likely to run terribly
smooth, their fathers having maintained a
friendship as regular as their accounts. —
Mr. Worthington’s death, howevr, when
Emily was just sixteen, led to the discovery
that his aflairs were on the verge of bank
ruptcy. Mr. Rainsforth now proved him
selt a ti ue friend: he said lit tie, but did every
thing. Out of his own pocket lie secured
a small annuity to the orphan girl, placed
her in a respectable family, and asked her
to dine every Sunday. With hisfullsanc
tion,‘the little’ became ‘the young lovers ;’
and the town of Allerton, for the first time
in its life, had on fault to find with the con
duct of one of its own inhabitants.
The two friends were not destined to he
long paried, and a few months saw Mr.
Rainsforth carried to the same churchyard
whither he had so recently followed the !
companion of his boyhood. A year pass
ed away, and Edward announced his in
tention of (pray let us use the phrase ap
propriated to such occasions) becoming
a votary of the saffron god. The whole
town was touched by his constancy, and
felt itself elevated into poetry by being the
scene of such disinterested affection. But,
for the first time in his life, Edward found j
there was another will to he consulted than
his own. His trustees would not hear of
his marrying till he was two-and-t wenty,
the time that lii.s father’s will appointed
for his coming of age. The rage and de
spair of the lover were only to be equaled
by the rage and dispiur of the whole town
nt Allertion. Everybody said that it was
the crudest thing in the world ; and some
went so far as to prophesy that Emily
Worthington would dieof consumption be
fore the time came of her lovet’s majority.
The trustees were declared to litr e no
feeling, and the young people were uni
versally pitied. The trustees would not
abate one atom of their brief authority ;
they had said that their ward ought to see
a little of the world, and they were both
of them men of their word.
Accordingly it was settled that Edward
should go to London for the next three
months, and see how he liked studying
the law. He certainly did not like the
prospect at all; and his only consolation
was, that be should not leave his adored
Emily exposed to the dissipations of Al
lertion. She had agreed to go and stay
with an aunt, some forty miles distant,
where there was not even a youno curate
in the neighborhood. The town of Aller
tion was touched to the heart by the whole
proceeding ; no one spoke of them hut as
that romantic and that devoted young cou
ple. I own that L have known greater
misfortunes in life than that a young gen
tleman and lady of twenty should have to
wait a twelve-month before they were
married ; hut every person considers their
own the worst that ever happened, and
Edward and Emily were miserable to
their hearts’ content. They changed locks
of hair ; and Emily gave him a portfolio,
embroidered by herself, to hold the letters
that she was to write. H e saw her oft'first,
under the care of an old servant, to the
village where she was to stay. She wa
ved her while handkerchief from the win
dow as long as she could see her lover,
and a little longer, and then sank back in
a Hood of “falling pearls, which men call
tears.’
Edward was as wretched, and he was
also exceedingly uncomfortable, which
helps wretchedness on very much. It was
a thorough wet day—all his things were
packed up—for lie himself was to start in
the afternoon when the mail passed through
—and never was a young gentleman more
utterly at a loss vvliat to do with himself. —
In such a case an affair of the heart is a
great resource ; and young Rainsforth got
upon the coach box looking quite unhappy
enough to satisfy the people of Alleriion.
It must he owned that he and the weather
equally brightened up in the course of sta
ges. To he sure a cigar has a gift of pla
cidity peculairly its own. If l were a wo
man 1 should insist upon my lover’s smo
king; if not of much consequence before,
it willin' an invaluable qualification after,
the happiest day of one’s life.
In these days roads have no adventurers
—they might exclaim; with the knife-grind
er. ‘Story ! Lord bless you, 1 have none to
tell!’—we will therefore take our hero
after he was four days in London. Hois
happy in a lover’s good conscience, for that
very morning he had written a long letter
to his beloved Emily—the three first days
having been ‘like a teetotum all in a twirl,’
he had been forced to neglect that duty so
sweet and so imlespensihle to an absent
lover. He had, however, found time to
become quite domesticated in Mr. Alford's
family. Mr. Alford was of the first emi
nence in his profession, and had two or
three other young men under his charge ;
hut it was soon evident that Edward was
a first-rate favorite with the mother and
two daughters at all events. They were
fine looking girls, and who understood
how to look their best. They were well
dressed, and it is wonderful how much
tlie hair ‘done to a turn,’ ribands which
make a complexion, and an exquisite chaus
sure, set offayoung woman. Laura taught
him to waltz, and Julia began to sing duets
with him. Now, these are dangerous em
ployments for a youth of one-and-twenty.
The heart turns round, as well as the head
sometimes, in a sautcusc, and then it, is diffi
cult to ask these questions appropriated to
duets, such as ‘Tell me, my heart, why
wildly heating ?’ ‘Canst thou teach me to
forget ?’ etc., without some emotion.
A week passed by, and the genet al post
man’s knock, bringing with it letters from
his trustee, who, as an item in his accounts,
mentioned that he had just heard that Miss
Emily Worthington was quite well, put
him in mind that lie had not heard from
her himself. Oh ! how ill-used he felt ;
lie had some thoughts of writing to over
whelm her with reproaches for her neg
lect ; hut, on second thoughts, he resolved
to treat her with silent disdain. To be
sure, such a method of showing his con
tempt took less time and trouble than
writing four pages to expiess it would
iiave done. That evening he was a little
out of spirits, but Julia showed so much
gentle sympathy with his sadness, and
Laura rallied him so pleasantly upon it,
that they pursued the subject long after
there was any occasion for it. The week
became weeks—there was not a drawback
to the enjoyment of the trio,excepting now
and then ‘some old fiiends of papa, to
whom we must he civil ; not,’ said Laura,
‘hut that I would put up with one and all,
excepting that odious Sir John Belmore.’
Edward had been intown months and a
fortnight when one evening Julia —she had
been siging ‘Meet me by moonlight alone’
—asked him to breakfast with them.— ‘ I
have,’ said she, ‘ some commissions, and
papa will trust mo with you.’ He break
fasted, and attended the blue-eyed Julia to
Swan and Edgar’s, ‘Now 1 have some
conscience !’ exclaimed she, with one of
her owe sweet languid smiles. Julia had
an especially charming smite—it so flat
tered the person to whom it. was addressed.
It was that sort of smile which it is im
possible to help taking as a personal
compliment. ‘ 1 iiave a little world of
shopping to do—bargains to buy netting
silks to choose; and you will never have
patience to wait. Leave me here for an
hour, and then come hack—now punc
tual. Let me look at your watch—it is
just eleven. Good-bye, I snail expect you
exactly at twelve.’ Siie turned into the
shop with a most becoming blush, so pret
ty, that Edward had half a mind to have
followed her in, and quoted Moore’s lines—
‘Oil ! let me only breathe tiic air,
The blessed air that’s breathed by thee !’
But a man has a natural antipathy to
shopping,and even the attraction of a blush
and a blush especially of that attractive
sort, one on your own account —even that
was lost in the formidable array of ribands,
silks, and bargains—
‘Bought because they may be wanted,
Wanted because they may be had.’
Accordingly, he lounged into his club,
and the hour was almost gone before ho
arrived at Swan and Edgai’s. Julia told
him she had waited, and he thought—what
a sweet temper she must have not to show
the leastsymptom of dissatisfaction ! on the
contrary, her blue eyes were even softer
than usual. By the time they arrived at
herfalher’s door, he had also arrived at the
agreeable conclusion, that he could do no
wrong. They parted hastiy, for lie had a
tires me business appointment ; however,
they were to meet in the evening, and a
thousand little tender things which he
intended to say occupied him till the end
of his walk.
When the evening came, and after a
toilet of that particular attention which in
nine cases out of ten one finds leisure to
bestow cm oneself, he arrived at Mr. Alford’s
house. The first object that caught his
attention was Laura looking, as the Amer
icans say, ‘dreadful beautiful.’ She had
on a pink dress, direct from Paris, that
flung around its own atmosphere rlc rose,
and nothing could ho more finished than
her whole ensemble. Not that Edward
noted the exquisite perfection of all the
feminie and Parisian items which com
pleted her attire, hut ho was struck by the
general effect. He soon found himself, he
scarcely knew how quite devoted to her ;
and his vanity was flattered, for she was
the belle of the evening.
It is amazing how much our admiration
takes its tone from the admiration of ci
thers; and when to that is added an ob
vious admiration ot ourselves, the charm
is irresistable. ‘Be sure,” said Laura, in
that low, confidential whisper, which im
plies that only to one could it he address
ed, ‘if y>u see me bored by that weariful
Sir John Belmore, to come and make me
waltz. Really, papa’s old friends make
me quite undutiful!’ There was a smile
accompanying the words which seem to
; say. that it was not only to avoid Sir John
that she desired to dance with himself.
The evening went off most brilliantly;
and Edward went home with the full in
tention of throwing himself at the facina
ting Laura’s feet the following morning ;
and, what is much more, he got up with
the same resolution. He hurried to Har
ley found the dame dcsespcnsccs alone.
An offer is certainly a desperate act*.—
The cavalier—
‘Longa to speak, and yet shrinks back,
As from a stream in winter, though the chill
Be but a moment.”
Edward certainly felt as little fear as a
gentlmati well could do, under the circum
stances. He, therefore, lost no time in
telling Miss Alford that his happiness was
in her hands. She received the intelli
gence with a pretty look of surprise.
‘Really,’ exclaimed she,‘l never thought
of you hut as a friend ; and last night I
accepted Sir John Belmore! As that is
his cabriolet, I must go down to the libra
ry to receive him ; we should be so inter
rupted here w ith morning visitors !’
She disappeared, and at that moment
Edward heard Julia’s voice singing on the
stairs. It was the last duet that they had
sung together.
‘Who shall school the heart's affection,
Who shall banish its regret?
If you blame my deep dejection,
Teach, oil, teach me to forget !’
She entered, looking very pretty, hut
pale.
‘All,’ thought Edward, ‘she is vexed
that I allowed myself to he so engrossed
by her sister last night.’
‘So you are alone,’ exclaimed she, ‘J
have such a piece of news to tell you !
Laura is going to he married to Sir John
Belmore. llovv can she marry a man she
positively despises ?,
‘lt is very heartless,’repied Edward with
great emphasis.
‘Nay,’ replied Julia, “hut Laura could
not live without gayety. Moreover, she
is ambitious. 1 cannot pretend to judge
for her; wo never had a taste in com
mon.’
‘You,’ said Edward, ‘would not have so
thrown yourself away !’
‘Ah ! no,’ answered she, looking down,
‘the heart is my world.’ And Edward
thought lie had never seen anything so
lovely as the deep blue eyes that now
looked up full of tears.
‘Ah ! too convincing, dangerously dear,
In woman's eye, tb’ unanswerable tear.’
Whither Edward might have floated on
the tears of the ‘dove-eyed Julia’ must re
main a question ; for at that moment—a
most unusual occurrence in a morning—
Mr. Alford came into his own drawing
room.
‘So, Madam,’ lie exclaimed in a voice
almost inarticulate from anger. ‘ I know
it all. You were married to Captain Da
cre yesterday; and you, Sir,’ turning to
Edward, ‘made yourself a party to the
shameful deception.’
‘No,’ interrupted Julia; ‘Mr. Rainsforth
believed me to he in Swan and Edgar’s
shop the whole time. The fact was, I
only passed through it.’
Edward stood aghast. So the lady, in
stead of silks and ribands, was buying per
haps, the nearest bargan of her life. A
few moments convinced him that he was
dc trop; and he left the father storming,and
the daughter in hysterics.
On his arrival at his lodgings, he f mnd
a letter from his guardains, in which lie
found the following entered among oilier
items: ‘Miss Emily Worthington has
beer very ill, hut is now recovering.’ Ed
m ! cared, at this moment very little a
houl the health or sickness of any woman
in the world. Indeed, he rather thought
Emily’s illness was a judgment upon her.
If,she liad answered his letter, he would
have been saved all his recent mortilica
lion. Ho dicided on abjuring the flatter
ing and fickle sex for ever, and turned to
his desk to look over some accounts to
which he was referred by his guardians.
While tossing the papers about, half-list
less, half-fretful, what should catch his eye
but a letter with the seal not broken !
lie started from his seat in consternation.
Why, it was his own epistle to Miss
Worthington! No wonder that she had I
not written; she did not even know his
add:ess. All the honors of iiis conduct
now stared him full in the face. Poor,
clear, deserlcd Emily, what must her feel
ings have been ! He could not bear to
think of them. lie snatched up a pen,
wrote to his guardains, declaring that the
illness of his beloved Emily would, if
they did not yield, induce him to take
any measure, however desperate; and
that he insisted on being allowed permis
sion to visit her. Nothing hut his own
eyes could satisfy him of her recovery. —
He also wrote to Emily, enclosed the
truant letter, and the following day set off’
for Allerton.
In the mean time what had become of
the fair disconsolate ? Emily had cer
tainly quite fulfilled her duty of being mis
erable enough in the first instance. No
thing could he duller than the little vil
lage to which was consigned the Ariadne
BOOK AND JOB PRINTING,
Will be executed in the most approved stpl*
and on the best ter ms,at the Office of the
SCTTTHEIUT THI3TJITE,
—BY—
WM. B. HARRISON*.
of Allerton. Day after day she roamed
—not along the beach, hut along the fields
toward the post-office, for the letter which,
like the breeze in Lord Byron’s calm,
‘came not.’ A fortnight elapsed, when
one morning, as she was crossing the
grounds of a fine but deserted place in
the neighborhood, she was so much struck
by the beauty of some pink May, that she
stooped to gather it; —alas! like most o
ther pleasures, it was out of her reacli.—-
Suddenly, a very elegant looking young
man emerged from one of the winding
paths, and insisted on gathering it for her.
1 lie flowers were so beautiful, when gath
ered, that it was impossible not to say
something in their praise, and flowers
lead to many other subjects. Emily dis
covered that she was talking to the pro
prietor of the place. Lord Elmsley, and
of course apologized fur her intrusion,—
He equally, of course, declared that his
grounds were only too happy in having so
fair a guest.
Next they met by chance again, and, at
last, the only thing that made Emily re
lapse into her former langour was— a wet
day ; for then there was no chance of see
ing Lord Elmsly. The weather,however,
was, generally speaking, delightful—and
they met, and talked about Lord Byron—
nay, read him together—and Lord Ehn 3 *
ley confessed that he had never understood
his beauties before. They talked also of
the heartlesssness of the world ; and the
delights of solitude in a way that would
have charmed Zimmerman. One morn
ing, however, brought. Lord Elmsley a let
ter. It was from his uncle, short and
sweet, and ran thus :
NUMBER 12.
‘Mp dear George. — Miss Smith’s guar
dains have at last listened to reason—and
allow that yotir rank is fairly worth her
gold. Come up, therefore, as soon as you’
can and preserve your interest with the
lady. What a lucky fellow you are to
have fine eyes—for they have carried the
prize for you ! However, I advise you
to lose no time in securing the heiress.
‘Your affectionate uncle. E.’
‘Tell them,’ said the Earl, ‘to order post
horses immediately. I must he off to
London in the course of half an hour.’
During this half hour he dispatched
his luncheon, and—-for Lord Emsly was a
perfectly well-bred man—dispatched the
following note to Miss Worthington, whom
he was to have met that morning to show
her the remains of the heronry :
'Mp dear Miss Worthington. —Hurried
as l am, I do not forget to return the vol
ume of Lord Byron you so obligingly len
me. How I envy you the power of re
maining iri the country this delightful seat
son—while I am forced to immure myself
in hurried and noisy London. Allow me
to offer the best compliments of
‘\our devoted servant, Elmsly.
No wonder that Emily tore the note
which she received with smiles and blushes
into twenty pieces, and did not get up to
breakfast the next day. The next week
she had a had cold, and was seated in a
most disconsolate-looking attitude and
shawl, when a letter was brought in. It
contained the first epistle of Edward’s
and the following words in the envelope
'Mp adored Emily. —You may forgive
me—l cannot forgive myself. Only ima
gine iimt the unclosed letter has by some
strange chance remained in my desk, and
I never discovered the error till this morn
ing. You would pardon me if you knew
all L have suffered. How I have reproach
ed you ! 1 hope to see you to-morrow,
for 1 cannot rest till I hear from your own
lips that you have forgiven
‘Your faithful and unhappy Edward/
That morning Emily left oft'her shawl,
and discovered that a walk would do her
good. The lovers met the next day, each
looking a little pale, which each set down
to their own account. Emily returned to
Allerton, and the town was touched to the
very heart by a constancy that had stood
such a test.
‘Three months’ absence,’ as an old lady
observed, ‘ : s a terrible trial.’ The guar
dains thought so too —and the marriage of
Emily Worthington to Edward Rains
forth soon completed the satisfaction of
the town of Allerton. During the bridal
trip, the young couple were one wet day
at an inn looking over anevvspaper togeth
er, and they saw—the marriage of Miss
Smith with the Earl of Elmsly—and of
Miss Alford with Sir John Belmore. 1
never heard that the readers made either
of them any remark as they read. They
returned to Allerton, lived very happily,
j and weie always held up as touching in
stances of first love and constancy—in
the nineteenth century.
Smoking Chimney. —Col. William Mason,
of London, in a letter to the Builder, says—l
have bullt many chimneys, in all possible situa
tions, and have found one simple rnlc always
succeeded, the secret being to construct the throat
of the chimney, or that part of it just above the
(irc-placc, so small that a man or a boy Can hard
ly pass through it. Secondly—immediately a
bove this, the chimney should he enlarged to
double its width to the extent ol about two feet
in height, arrd then dininish again to its usual
proportions. No chimney that 1 ever eostructed
thus, smoked.
Thirty thousand landlords own all
eight thousand own all Scotland,6ooo own all
Ireland, leaving more than 25,000,000 inhabit,
ants of those countries without » foot of GoJ s
creation.
