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VOLUME 10. THE GEORGIA CITIZEN IS pi BUSHED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING, BY L F. W. ANDREWS. Oitk e—/ Horne'a Building, f'herrv Street, Tim hrhnr Third AS trrrt. Tf.HMft: — S'i.OO !*rr annum. in iSianre. aJia-rna-mefela it the regular charge *ill t* One Dollar , r , nf o•€ A n*'lmi yrorii- or If**. f*r the first Snfpr ‘ l K< ifor eacfc A \-*\ ii jit- not he pabtkM nntl uO‘l thilfoe kflconiiiifrlt. A allowed • otb****’ v ivertiM bv the year. I .. rni nuwir with County t HBivrs Dm**!***, \ * leers, M*rcfcin?, and other*, who may wWi to make . ratted contact*. r . f— * 1 ami HuJwai Cards win \ Inserted m. OrrlhiihiaM, at in* ••% ‘ : r r Five line*. J>er annum SOO y. <frri) tttiiS K. • Ml# p,r Ten line-. and” w ” v , ..ivrrtiwment <.f tbn* class will be admitted, unless paid t. m advance, nus fl-r a kt>n Hum twelve mnmt* a. Ad ’ ~liemetds .1 over ten line* wffl *■ charred pro rata. Ad rtisements U"t paid tor In advance Wilt be charged at the regular rates. Ol,Unary Notice* <4or-r tm liner, will l charred at the usual rat-s. tnnnunee.iienl. • f fl.r to te paid *>r at th.- usual rate*, when inserted. dlm of laT.ii J iiviH \eiT%vr* hv Fxecutor* ♦ op. and liuaitfiaiM* are requ red by la* to be aD ertm 11 ii v ; gr-.zeite forty lav* prPYtau* to the clay of These iuu>t be held on the ttr*4 Tuesday in thy m*'■•**.between th- hours of ten in ihe IhrußOOt and three in the afternoon, -.it the Court-house in the county In which the property is sttu *ale of PenoMl Property mw* be advertised In lik^ manner, forty days. \odre to DeMois and (’mllt>ri"fatt mu*4be puMbbt* forty days VUiov that apptkattna wiU be made to the Ordinary for . ivf t. P4-1I Lana and Negroes, must le ptblUnd w eekly for tvro months. 4 itntioiiM f *r Letter.- of Administration, thirty days; IbJ Pemission rooi Administration, monthly, six months: fo r DlifiiMlnn from GuanflaMfcip, weekly, forty days. Kule* for Forfflirin f Vlortiacn, monthly, four months; for cstaldlshteff b st papers, for the full space of thn*e months; farcompeUlng titles from executors ot sdmini>rrm u, where a tn>nd has lieen riven by the deceased, the full -j*ce of three months. CT h c Citizen. tF"We don't often meet with a more touching effudon ban this dmple lay, or one that ex pr>nte more in a simple THE OLD PRINTER A I'rtnler *tond a* hi* ca*e one night, (And a very hard cane wa* his n). And his •( ;ry aighi was dim as the light Os th.- lamp in his dusty j” isc.n ; The wintry winds are howling without, A nd the snow falling thick and f.-t. But the Prii ter, 1 trow. shook his locks of snow. And laughed at the shrieking blast; He watched the hands as the clock c-ept round. Keeping time with Its snail-like tick. As he gntnered the t pe with a weary click. In hla old rust-eaten stii-it. His hair* wire as white as the fulling snow— And stientlv.day by dav. He beheld them with grief, ilke the autumn leaf. One by one “parsing away.™ Time hall cut, with hia plow, furrows deep in his brow His cheek was fever.'! and thin. And his long roman nose could almost reprose Its hea t on its g-ay-beaded chin ; And with fingers tong a. the hours stole on. Keeping time with the clock's dull tick. He gathered ihe type with a weary click. In hia old rimt-eaten flirt. F"r many long years, through joy. through tears, Thst old P. Inter's time hollered face. Ghostly and lean, night and m> rn had been seen, karueelly bent o'er the ckane. In a few ve-rs more Doth will lock up hit .form. And put it to preen in the mould. And a stone on the .put where they lay him to rot, WiU tell us his name, and how old; And his C uarades will light tbeohi lamp by the cane. And list to the clock’s dull tick. A* tney art np his death, withs - iemrt tick, la his old rust-eaten did. THE GRADUAL SCALE. .BOS THZ OEXMAtf or rmiß . A sparrow caught upon a tree A tty so fat hi* taste grew stronger; His victim, struggling to get free. Begge.l hat to live a little longer: The mnrderer answered, •'Thou must 6*ll. For I am great and thou art small.” A hawk beheld him at his feast. And in a moment pounced unon him : The dvingsparrow wished, at least. To too*-- what iulury be had done him : The niupder.r an.wered, “Ihou must fall. For I smgreat and thorr art small. The * tgie saw the hawk belor , Ami q sickly on the gor mate I soiree— Oh, noble king! pray iet me g"! Mercy ‘ thou sickest mo to piece*.” The murtlerer answered, “ T1...U must fell. For 1 am groat and thou art small.” He feasted ! 10, an arrow lew And pierced the eagle's bosom through : Unto the huuier 1 ud screamed he, “Oh. tyrant ! wherefore omrder mo?” “Ah! - <tid the munleter. “Tnou nnud fall. For I am great and thou art small.” HUNTING IN MINNESOTA. An intelligent correspondent of the Fairmount ‘‘True Virginian” gives the following description of a hunt with the Sioux Indians in Minnesota. The writer had been to Bt. Paul, and on his return from that city to his home, night over took him in what are know n as the ‘*Big Wood*,” and finding it impossible to make his way out, he determined to | quarter with the Indians. The next morning he was invited to join them in a hunt, of w hich he w rites as follows : u Before I went to sleep I agreed with j Little Crow, the chief of the hand, whom : I was well acquainted with, that I would join him in the next day’s hunt. Ac cordingly he aroused me in the morning before day, and gave me my breakfast. I had scarcely completed it, when all the , hunters and warriors assembled before ‘ the chiefs tent, and performed those mysterious rites which invariably pre '■ede a grand hunt, and which none but the initiated can comprehend. Their movements, somewhat resembling a sol emn dance, although exceedingly inter esting, were conducted with the greatest regularity and precision, while the pa triarchs of the tribe and the ‘ medicine ‘ men sang a low’ and lugubxious ehar.t. which sounded not unlike the ‘Hy, yi yi,’ of the Shakers. They seemed to be in voking the blessing of the Great Spirit on their corning sports. And they wor shipped with a zeal and earnestness which superstition and ignorance alone <an inspire. 1 thought ot’ the old line, 4 Lo, the poor Indian, whose untutored mind,’ etc-, and wondered if, with all his faults, the dusky savage is not about as good for heaven as any of us. “ My reveries were broken in upon, however, hy a general rush to the woods. Fhey took different directions, and went as if the pursuers of Tam O Shunter’s mare were after them. I did my utmost to keep up, but failed in the effort, and began to think seriously of aliandouing the chase, when my friend Crow came to my assistance. Crow is the most tal ented among the Sioux chiefs, and though * tall, sulky, green-looking Indian, is a f rave man and a first rate follow. lie proposed that we should walk on leis urely to the centre of the circle agreed u pon for the day’s operations. This we bd, and on our way he informed me that the favorite way of hunting with the In dians is ring-hunting, as we would call it 10 \ irginia. They thus enclose great numbers of wild animals, which in shun ing Scylla are apt to fall into Chary b ’ I * <l * The fleetest buck is seldom able to so many and such subtle foes. ** near 10 o’clock in the room ing before we saw any game, but after that time great numbers of deer were seen darting through tiie wood* like ar rows. Crow shot at many of them as they ran, but succeeded in killing but one only. For my part, I did not even kill or wound one. I find that the Indian’s great superiority in hunting consists in his creeping abilities. Crow would crawl on his belly nearly as fast a* I could walk, and that, too, with little or no noise. ‘•As we gradually ‘closed in,’ the sharp crack of the rifle was heard in ev ery direction, and the frequent whizzing of a bullet by our heads reminded us of the recklessness of the hunters and our own danger. Anon a wounded buck would fly past us, pursued by wolfish dogs and fiendish Indians yelling and howling after their victim. It was very exciting sport, for the Indians were urged almost to frenzy, and acted more as if they were in some tierce battle than at a comtnou exorcise. “ About this time, and at the height of the excitement, we heard a yell proceed ing from the other side of the ring, loud er, more fierce and d.flerent from any other of those that were rising around us. The Indians seemed to understand it, as they all rushed to the spot fiom whence it came. I followed them, and to my astonishment found that one of them had been shot dead by accident.— The yell that 1 had heard came from the Indian that had done the deed. Fur ther proceedings were stopped at once, and all rejoicing and yelling was hushed. The deceased had been a tine fellow and a general favorite. Ilis name was Ma nom-e-ne. Those who had killed any game shouldered it and struck home.— The balance, of whom I was one, formed a procession which followed poor Ma nom-e-ne, carried on the back of his de stroyer, to the camp. His squaw, who was a young and very pretty woman, had heard the news before we got there, and came out with her two little children to meet and take chaige of her dead hus band. It was a sad spectacle. She threw herself upon him and broke forth in the most piteous and aflecting cries of agony I ever heard. There was no affectation about it; no estate to be settled up—no dower to set apart —nothing to abstract hei mind from her crushing grief. There was not a dry eye in that dusky crowd, notwithstanding their usual stoicism and coolness. When we arrived at the camp the corpse was decently laid out on some poles, about eight feet from the ground, and wrapped Dp in a blanket or buffalo skin, with his rifle by his side. Sentries were set about him, and every face about the camp except my own and that of the widowed squaw was painted black, and some in the most hideous manner. Now commenced the formal lamentation of the tribe for the deceased hunter. They sang dolefully and howled dismally.— No man who has never heard the Indians lamenting their dead can form any idea of the wild and awful character of their cries and their wailings. “ When I had got home, several days after. I saw the widow going by with her pony, (which had been given her by the Indian who had shot her husband,) her two little children, and their dead father. She had two poles, some twelve or fif teen feet long, attached to each side of this p*ny, much like a shaft, on w-hicli were fastened cross pieces, and on these were placed the corpse. She was taking him to the common burying-ground on the Minnesota, some fifty miles distant. Her poor little children were trudging along by her side as she led the horse, both of them crying with the cold or about their fa*her, taeir tears almost freezing as they fell to the ground. The woman herself could not suppress her sobs, nor would she accept any nourish ment from the kind hands that were ex tended to her as she passed through our village, but worried on, carrying her pre cious load to its last resting-place.’’ THE LITTLE HAND Thine is • iiitle hint!— A tiny l.ttle hnl But if it chtsp Within ttsftrs.ep Mine own—ah. me 1 I well cm umlerstan.l The pressure of that little hand ! Thine itlittle mouth— Avery little mouth— But. ah! what Miss To steal a kiss. Sweet as the honeyed rephyrs of the South. From that same rosy little month ! Thine Is s little heart— A Uttle fluttenn* heart— Vet it is want. And pure and calm. And love* n e wiih Ks whole untutored art. That palpitating little heart! There art a little girl— Only a little r rl— Yet art thou worth The wealth of earth— Diamond and ruby, esiptire, gold and {earl— To me. thou Messed little girl! Wanted to go to Heaven. A few evenings since a little daughter of a gentleman of this city secreted herself in a closet with & vial partly filled with lauda num, and drank the contents of it. The child was missed, and on search being made she was found, stupid from the effects of the narcotic: By the use of proper means she was saved from death, and on return ing to consciousness was asked why she bad drank the laudanum. Her reply was that she w anted to die and go to Heaven where her little brother was. Other questions be ing asked, it was found that the child con ceived the idea of death and Heaven from the reading of Sunday School books and in conversation with her playmates about the stories in them. How she obtained her knowledge of the power of laudanum was not ascertained. — Ind. Journal Ist. Philosophers say that shutting the eyes makes the sense of hearing more acute Per haps this accounts for the many closed eye* that are seen in churches on Sundays. Doan Swift proposed to tax female beauty, and leave every lady to rate her own charms.— He said the tax would be cheerfully paid, and very productive. No doubt there is room enough in the world for men and women, but it may be a serious question whether the latter are not taking up moro than their share of t just now. “HAVE PATIENCE!” A vouth and makl. “ne winter ni^tt, Wereaittinirin tlie corner; His name, wr re told, via* -li-shua W hite, Ami her* ws Patience Warner. Not much the pretty maiden said. Decide the voune man sitting; Her cheek* were flushed a r y red, Her eves bent on her kniitinar. Nor could he jruess what thoughts of him Were to her l<oaoin flocking. A- t-er fair fingers, swift and slim. Flew round and round the stocking. While, as for Joshua, t-ashful youth. His words grew few and fewer ; Thou*b ail the time, to tell the truth. His chair edge! nearer to her. Meantime- her liall of yarn gave out. She knit so last and wendy ; And he must giie his aid, no doubt. To get another ready. He held the skein ; or course, the thread Got tangled, marled, and t isted ; “Have Patience!” criid the artlessinaid. To him who her assisted. Good chance was this for tongue tied churl To shorten all palaver; “ Have Patience !” cried he, “ dearest gir!! And may I really have her?” The deed was done ; no more, that night. Clicked needles in the corner; And she is Mrs Joshua White That once was Patience Warner. From ihe I‘hdadcljihia Keening Journal. RELIGIOUS INTOLERANCE. The letter of the Catholic Bishop, which was published recently in some of the Irish papers, would form a striking commentary on the proceedings in Bos ton. He urged that Catholic and Prot estant children should be educated to gether, because, if brought up thus, they would not in after life regard one anoth er with hatred and suspicion. It is of the utmost importance that our youth should be taught to regard one another with kind and friendly feelings. If the public schools of Boston are to be con ducted as they have been, the end will be that a large denomination will be de prived altogether of their advantages.— They are supported for a public pur pose, and it is unfair and unjust to intro duce exercises which utterly exclude from them a large class of children.— Protestants would object if the Douay version of the Bible were used, and rightly ; but, on the same ground, it is wrong to have that of King James read. The priest forbade those belonging to his congregation to join in the service, and when they obeyed they were whip ped. Does any one sec enlightened tol eration in such violations of the rights of conscience? One little fellow used lan-. guage which compares very favorably with the exclamations in Fox’s Book of Martyrs. “1 can bear whipping,mother,” said he, “but I cannot chant the Lord’s Prayer. Can’t 1 suffer for my Lord Je sus ? He suffered for me.” To say that “the spirit of his resistance was heroic but misdirected,” is to beg the whole question. He was taught by his parents to think as he did, ard either they have the right to direct his religious educa tion, or they have not. If they have not, where is liberty of conscience ? If they have, it is an outrage tor a teacher em- i ployed by the State, to interfere with the belief which they have instilled in„o his youthful mind. Public schools are not fit places for proselytizing. The re sult of any such use of them is certain. The children of the Catholics will be withdrawn, and they will grow up with embittered feelings against those who excluded them, and instead ot unity and cordiality between all denominations, j there will be jealousy and hatred. In the private schools of this city, at least, the children are not asked to sacrifice their religion in order to get an educa , tion. The scholars go there as men go to their counting-rooni9, or as students go to medical or law lectures. Theology is i out of place among geography and arith metic. It is surely not expedient to sow discord among children and train them to be bigots. We see every day how men cherish a most unchristian and ir rational prejudice against those who dif fer from them in religious faith, simply because they have never come in friend ly contact with them. When members of different sects come to be acquainted, i they soon learn that a man’s opinions neither render him worthy of confidence or distrust. It is a truism, though many 1 seem still unaware of it, that in every party and denomination are found the good and bad, and when it is remember ed how uniformly training and associa tion determine one's creed, and how rare it is for any to change their faith, one nnrvels that men should be found so , foolish and wicked as to indulge in sweeping denunciations of any sect. In a prominent church in this city, on last i Sunday, the preacher compared those of another denomination to owls that pre fer darkness to light and prey upon gaibage. Such bigotry in an educated gentleman is amazing. There is not a sect in this community but numbers among its clergymen men of learning, sin cerity and worth. The speaker, of course, had never known one of those whom he abused.— It is only necessary that men should live isolated and apart for them to hale one another most cordially. The Protestant who has never known a Catholic, be lieves that they are all desirous of re-es tablishing the Inquisition, and the igno rant Catholic returns the compliment.— Instances of this are met with every day. We boast that the doctrines of religious liberty have been firmly established, and that all are equal before the law; but something more is to be done. Men are yet to learn that the spirit which wounds the pride of a fellow-creature on account of his faith, is the same as that which casts his body into the flames ; that the intolerance which insists upon having the public schools opened with exercises which are offensive to a large fraction of the scholars, differs but little from that which lighted the fires of Smithfield. As Sydney Smith said in one of his manly articles, in favor of admitting the Catho lics to full political equality, “Nothing is left now but to morufy a man’s pride, and set a mark upon him by cutting him off from his lair share of polLical power.” By this receipt insolence is gratified and humanity is not shocked. The gen tlest Protestant can see, with dry eyes, a Catholic excluded from Parliament, MAt OX, CJA., FRIDAY, APRIL 15, ISSS9. though he would abominate the idea of personal cruelty—that is to say, he lives in the nineteenth instead of the sixteenth century. They are but degrees and modifications of the same principle. The minds of these two men no more differ because they differ in their degrees of punishment, than their bodies differ be cause one wore a doublet In the time of Mary, and the other wears a coat in the reign of George. The true spirit is to search after God and lor another life with lowliness of heart; to fling down no man’s altar, to punish no man’s prayer; to heap no penalties and no pains on those solemn supplications which in divers tongues, and in varied forms, and in temples of a thousand shapes, but with one deep sense of hu man dependence, men pour forth to God. ‘ There is Death in the Pot.” Alas ! that this should have ceased to be a merely vague apothegm. Alas! that Death and the Pot—that one’s cof fin and one’s coffee—one’s soup and one’s shroud—should be so intimately linked in the service of Iniquity. Alas ! that a new sort of Frankenstein should have taken so direct charge of our feastings— that the influences of anew Attiia should should so seem to sway the destiny our dietics. But the fact is so, face it how he will. For the moment Therapeutics yields place to Toxocology, and Poison has won popularity from Physic—for the moment a Upas tree has taken root in our clime, and its mephitic exhalations are penetrating every crevice of society —for the moment the stoutest stomachs of honest humanity are sick with the suspicion that a scorpion’s sting may be lurking in that which is taken to sustain the disease-beset body. Ask you what is the particular danger while you contemplate the general con sequence? See you not the evil in its evidences ? Is not the demon of poison more frequently than ever invoked by ♦he wretches who art weary of wedlock ? Are not all the life-taking banes that curse this earth—ranging from a vulgar surfeit of Laudanum to a fashionable killing (lose of Essential Oil of Almonds —constantly constrained to do all the divorce duties for modern matrimonial mesalliance? Only look at the newspa pers for the past fortnight. There you find all conditions of men, and every variety of case, attesting that the poison ing Vampire is aboard. Extraordinary clergymen and ordinary codgers—mild mouthed matrons and gin grinning gri settes—are all alike represented as seek ing to sever the connubial tie through the science of poisons. But there is a more slippery snake in the grass even than this. More slippe ry did we say ? Good sooth, it is not easy to out-traitor the miscreant who misters to an ailing wife or friend, and while whispering of health and life only tries to deepen the disease and deal out death. It is not easy to be more troth lessly dangerous than the reptile whose hug of kindness is meant to kill. Yet do we say that there is peril around us more endangering than even that. Are we not utterly helpless in the matter of detecting the salubrity of what we eat or drink ? < )nly think of the ease of that fam ily in Fourteenth street, who, the other day, took “poison from the pot,’ and had some of them to perish thereby. That occurred, remember, in one of the most edulcorated districts of this city. Only think of it and be unfearing if you can. There, within sight of the classic temple dedicated to music—there, within ear shot of the mansion whence pour the af fluences of harmonies—there, within the aerial aupiees of the tuneful nine—under the special shelter of soul-soothing Eu terpe —there came the vilest and pal triest spirit of Malice, and, possessing the soul of a spiteful cook, there did that same spirit dip its azotic fingers in the food which was furnished to a whole household. Thv -e then had Malice a terrible op portunity to glut this, its fiendish spirit, for the poison thus fused into the pot found, full soon, its virulent way to the life seat of the unsuspecting people who j partook thereof. What security is there, then, against such catastrophe in the ex purgated localities around Union Square or any other spot so exempt from con tact with the stercoraceous slime of a more unhealthy neighborhood? Small effect can these refreshing fountains — j these deterging trees —these spruce gar- : dens—these stately and highly-ventilated mansions—these uninfected streets, with-! in whose absterged sphere it is the pur chased privilege of the “upper ten” to live, and breathe, and keep their being ; in a state of cozy clarification. Small ‘ effect, we say, can they have in staying a Fury—even one in the kitchen —if poison be contemplated. Not even the inspiration which ought to be cast around by the eternally-teaching pres ence of the statue to him who is crown ed, in all hearts, as the “ Father of his Country”—note\en these can check a Jezebel cook if her cursed heart is set upon seasoning the pot of life with the poison of death. Are we not all alarmingly insecure in this respect ? Alike those who live far from disease-appeasing influences and those who do not ? Do not the poison cases of the past week or ten days dem onstrate a danger we are not sufficiently awake to ? Who knows how often death has crept into one’s own home through the culinary department?— Who can say how many graves daily j open to receive the victims of slow and undetected poisoning ? Is there a bar ’ room or kitchen in New Y ork whose \ pots are innocent of many deaths ? Thi9 question and its bearings are as tounding. One who ventures to look these interrogations through and through must stand aghast as much at the actual revelations as at the started suspicions. Veiily, turn over these truths how we may—clas the causes how we will — cogitate upon the consequences how we must—call up the facts how we please —there is Death at every side staring us from the Pot; putting the pot, too, in its widest signification.— N. Y. News. Havn’t the Change. MRS. MARY GRAHAM. It was house cleaning time, and I had an old colored woman at work scrub bing and cleaning paint. ‘Polly is going,’ said one of my do- ; mestics, as the twilight began to fall. ‘Very well, tell her that 1 shall want ! her to-morrow.’ ‘1 think she would like to have her : money for the day’s work,’ said the girl. I took out my purse, and found that I had nothing in it less than a three dol lar bill. ‘How much does she have a day !’ ‘Six shillings.’ ‘I havn’t the change this evening.— Tell her that I’ll pay her for both days to-morrow.’ The girl left the room and I thought no more of Polly for an hour. Tea time had come and passed, when one of my domestics who was rather communi cative in her habits said to me. ‘I don’t think old Polly liked your not paying her this evening.’ ‘She must be very unreasonable then,’ said I, without reflection. I sent her word that 1 had no change. How did she expect that I could pay her ?’ ‘Some people are queer, you know,’ j remarked the girl who made the commu nication more for the pleasure of telling it than any thing else. 1 kept thinking over what the girl had said, until other suggestions had come into my head. ‘I wish I had sent and got a bill chang ed,’ said I, as the idea that Polly might j be really in want of the money intruded itself. ‘lt would have been very little trouble.’ This was the beginning of anew train of reflections, which did not make me very happy. To avoid a little trouble, I had sent the poor old woman away, after a hard day’s work, and in need of it was evident from the fact that she had asked for it. ‘How very thoughtless in me,’ said I, as I dwelt longer and longer on the subject. ‘What’s the matter,’ enquired my husband, seeing me look serious. ‘Nothing to be very much troubled at,’ I replied. ‘Yet you are troubled ?’ ‘1 am; and cannot help it. You will , perhaps, smile at me, but small causes, sometimes produce much pain. Old Pol ly has been at work all day, scrubbing and cleaning. When night came she j asked for her wages, and I, instead of j taking the trouble to get the money for ‘• her, sent her word that 1 had’nt the change. There was nothing less than a three dollar bill in iny purse. I didn’t reflect that a poor old woman who has to go out to daily work must need her money as soon as it is earned. I’m ve j ry sorry.’ My husband did not reply for some time. My words appeared to have made considerable impression on his mind. ‘Do you know where Polly lives?’! he enquired at length. ‘No; but I will ask the girl.’ And j immediately ringing the bell ; but no i one in the house knew. ‘lt cannot be helped now,’ said my i husband, in a tone of regret. ‘But I j would be more thoughtful in the future, j The poor always have need of money. . Their daily labor rarely does more than . supply their daily wants. I can never forget a circumstance that occurred when I was a boy. My mother was left a widow when I was but nine years old— and she was poor. It was by the labor of her hands that she obtained shelter and food for herself and three little ones. ‘Once—l remember the occurrence as if it had taken place yesterday—we were out of money and food. At break fast time our last morsel was eaten, and we went through the long day without a mouthful of bread. We all grew very hungry by night; hut our mother en 1 couraged us to be patient a little while longer, until she finished the garment j she was making, when she would take that and some other work home to a la dy, who would pay her for the work. — ; Then, she said we should have a nice ! supper. At last the work Mas finished, and I went with my mother to help ear- , ry it home, for she was weak and sickly, | and even a light burden fatigued her.— j The lady for whom she had made her garment was in good circumstances, and , had no want un-met that money could supply. When we came into her pres ence, she took the woik, and after glanc ing at it carelessly, said : ‘lt will do very well.’ ‘My mother lingered; perceiving which the lady said rtither rudely. ‘You want your money, I suppose. — How much does the work come to V ‘Two iWllars,’ replied my mother. The lady took out her purse, and, after look ing through a small parcel of bills, said. ‘1 havn t the change this evening—call over any time and you shall have it.’ ‘And without giving mother any time more urgently to urge her request turn ed from us and left the room. *1 shall never forget the night that fol lowed. My mother’s feelings were sen sative and independent. She could not make known her want. An hour after our return home, she sat weeping with her children around her, when a neigh bor came in, and learning our situation, supplied the present need. This relation did not make me feel any the more comfortable. Anxiously I awaited, on the next morning, the arri val of Polly, As soon as she came I sent for her, and handing her the money : she had earned on the day before, said: ‘l’m sorry 1 hadn’t the change for you last night, Polly. I hope you did’nt want it very badly.’ Polly hetitated a little, and then re plied : ‘Well, ma'am 1 did want it very much, or I wouldn’t have asked for it. My poor daughter Hetty is sick, and I want ed to get her something nice to eat.’ ‘l’m very sorry, said I, with sincere regret. ‘How is Hetty this morning ?’ ‘She isn’t so well, ma’am. And I feel very bad about her.’ ‘Come up to me in a half an hour Pol ly,’ said I. The old woman went down stairs. — When she appeared again, according to my desire, I had a basket for her, in which were some wine, sugar, and fruit, and various little matters which I thought her daughter would relish, and told her to go at once and take them to the sick girl. Her expressions of grati tude touched my feelings deeply. Nev er, since, have 1 omitted, under any pre tence, to pay the poor their wages as soon as earned. THE DUCAT AND TEE FARTHING. BY MARY IIOWITT. A ducat and a farthing had just been coined at the great mint where all the gold, silver and coper pieces are made. The two lav close, side by side, clean and beautiful, and the clear sunlight glit tered upon them. ‘•Thou rag-muffin !” cried the ducat, : “off with thee ! Thou art only made for vulgar copper, and art not worthy to be shone upon by the sun. Thou wilt soon be black and dirty, and no one will think it worth while to pick thee up from the ground. I, on the contrary, am of: costly gold. i shall travel through the world to the end, to princes and kings, ( 1 shall do great things; and even at j length, perhaps, become part of the king’s crown.” At the same moment a great white j cat, lying near the lire, rose up, and , turning round on her side, remarked: “ The under must be uppermost to make all even.” And the fate of those two coins was somewhat the same. The gold piece came into the posses sion of a rich miser, who locked it up in a chest among a great number of other gold pieces. The miser, fearing that he should soon die, buried all his gold in the earth, so that no one could possess it af ter him; and there lies the proud du cat to this present time, and it has grown so black and dirty that no one will pick it up if they saw it. The farthing, however, traveled far through the earth, and came to high hon or, and this is how it occurred : V lad in the mint received the farth ing in his w’ages; and the lad’s little J sister admiring the bright little coin, he gave it to her. The child ran into the garden to show her mother the farthing; j an old lame beggar came limping up, and begged a piece of bread. “ I have , none,” said the little girl. “ Give me j then, a farthing, that I may buy myself a bit of bread,” said the beggar. The child gave him the farthing. The beg gar limped away to the baker’s. \\ hilst he stood in the shop, an acquaintance, j dres'ed as a pilgrim, w ith his cloak, staff and b3g. came up the street, and gave the children pretty pictures of saints and holy men. and the children dropped pence into the box which the pilgrim held in his hand. The beggar asked, ••Where are you going]” The pilgrim replied, “ Many hundred miles, to the city of Jerusalem, where the Lord Jesus was born, and lived, and died. I am going to pray at his holy grave, and to buy the release of my brother, who has been taken prisoner by the Turks. But first I am collecting money in my box.” ‘So take my mite,” said the beg- i gar, and gave the pilgrim the farthing. The beggar was walking away, hun- ; gry as he came, but the baker, who had looked on, gave the poor marr the bread j he was about to have bought. Now, the pilgrim traveled through many lands, sailed over the sea in a lit tle ship, and at length reached the city of Jerusalem. When the pil grim arrived, he first prayed at the sep- , ulchre, and then presented himself be fore the sultan, who held his brother captive, ile offered the Turk a great sum of money if he would only set his brother free. But the Turk required more. “1 have nothing more to offer,” spake the pilgrim, “than this common farthing, which a hungry beggar gave me out of compassion. Be thou also compassionate, and the farthing will re ward thee.” The Sultan put the farthing in his pocket, and soon forgot all about it.— The Emperor of Germany come to Je tusalem, and waged war against the Sul tan. Tne Sultan fought bravely, and j was never wounded. Once an arrow was shot straight at his breast—it struck him, but fell back again without wound ing him. The Sultan was much surpris ed at this, and, after the battle, his clothes were examined, and in the breast pocket the farthing was found, against which the arrow had struck. The Turk held the farthing in great honor, and had it hung with a golden chain to the handle of his scimetar. Later on the war, the Sultan was taken prisoner by the Emperor, and ’ forced to yield up his sword to him.— And thus the farthing came with the sword into the Emperor’s possession. Whilst the Emperor sat at the table with a beaker of wine in his hand, the Empress said she should like to see the Sultan’s sword, and it was brought. As the Emperor exhibited it to the Em press, the farthing fell from the golden chain into the wine. The Emperor per ceived this, and before he placed the I beakei to his lips, he took out the farth ing. But the farthing had grown quite grten. Then every one saw the wine ’ was poison. A wicked attendant had ! poisoned the wine In order to destroy the Emperor. The attendant wa* con- deiimed to death ; but the farthing was placed in the imperial crown. Thus the farthing had delighted a child, had procured a beggar bread, had released a prisoner, and saved the life of a Sultan, and of an Emperor. There fore it was set in the imperial crown and is there to this day—if one could only see the crown. From Life Illustrated. Wearing Out and Rusting Cut. A late citizen of Hartford, having re tired from business with a competency, felt the want of regular employment, and adopted a judicious plan to secure it.— After making provision for his children, he used his spare income, not in ventur ing on new speculations, bnt in further ing and supporting favorite objects of benevolence. By superintending the ap plication of his public charities, he fur nished himself with noble and useful oc cupation, in which both mind and body had a share. Let the aged follow his example; nay, let all the unemployed follow it—and thus keep their faculties from rusting. The mind, if properly exercised, does not grow old with the body, and the latter neid not decay so fast as it does. There is no greater ene my to health of both parts of the P3*stem, i than idleness —we were going to sav; but there is—in the absurd sensitiveness to a false sentiment, that compels to idleness, when the human fcehig craves activity. We do not hesitate to say, that this false sentiment has slain its thousands and tens of thousands in this land, and that its slaughter has been most terrific among women. The woman who does not labor—rich and honored though she be —hears on her head the inevitable curse of Heaven. The curse works in her failing health, in her fading beauty, in her fretful temper, in her days devoured by ennui. Let her not dare to think that because she has no domestic circle to care for, she is free from the law meant to be universal. Let her not dare to quail before the judgment of some shallow fop or frivo lous fair one, when she can find employ ment for mental and physical faculties. Let her not be afraid of the sneers of the brainless and the impertinent, who would insult any woman who should walk out not attired in splendid silks, when it was know n she could afford it. She has a higher duty to perform, set ting aside that to Heaven—a duty to herself. Unemployed powers waste away with frightful rapidity. We have not seldom seen women of fourscore whose active frames and perfect intel lects have been said to show “ the tri umph of spirit over matter,” whose pow ers of enjoyment were undiminished.— But never did we see one thus whose life had been an idle one ; such were sure to sink into idiocy long before nature should have been worn out. Consider this—women w ho are ashamed of being j known to labor, because you do not i need to do so! You do need it; the | neglect is at your peril. Disease, imbe- , cility, disgrace, threaten you if you are deterred from obeying the great law of nature —through fear of the laughter of tools. ‘ Some of the Uses of Marriage. One of the London Magazines lias the following sensible observations upon the economy of matrimony: In return for whatever you may have done for your wife, from what a compli cated slavery does she deliver you.— Only make the enumeration. From the slavery of baseness : If you have happi ness beside your hearth, you will not go in the evening to court love under the smoky lamps of a dancing-room, and to find drunkenness in the street. From the slavery of weakness : You will not drag your limbs along, like your sad ac quaintance, that pale, worn-out, bloated, young-old man. From the slavery of melancholy : He who is strong and does a man’s work—he who goes out to labor and leaves at home a cherished soul who loves him—will from that sole circum stance, have a cheerful heart and be merry all day. From the slavery of money : Treasure this very exact arith metical maxim, “Two persons spend less than one.” Many bachelors remain as they are, in alarm at the expense of mar ried life, but who spend infinitely more. They live very dearly at the case and restaurateur's, very dearly at the thea tre. The Havana cigar alone, smoked all day long, is an outlay of itself. But if your wife has no female friends whose rivalry troubles her, and excites her to dress, she spends nothing. She reduces all your expenses to such a degree, that the calculation just given is anything but just. It should not have been “two people,” but “ four people spend less than one.” When a marriage is reason able, contracted with foresight, when the family does not increase too fast, a w ife, far from being an obstacle to liberty of movement, is on the contrary, its natu ral and essential condition. Why does the Englishman emigrate so easily, and so beneficially for England hersell ? Be cause his wife follows him. Except in devouring climates, such as India, it may be asserted that the English woman has sown the whole earth with solid English colonies. The force of Family has cre ated the force and greatness ot the coun try. With a good wife and a good trade, a young man is free; free to leave his home, or free to remain. It must be a trade, and not an art pf luxury. Have such an art into the bargain, if you like; but the first necessity is to be master of one of the arts that are useful to all. — The man who loves and wishes to main tain his wife, will hardly waste his time in drawing the precise line between art and trade; a line which is fictitious in reality. Who cannot see that the ma jority of trades, if traced to their princi ple. are real branches of an arl ? The NUMBER 3. bootmaker’s and the tailor's trades make a close approach to sculpture. A tailor 1 who appieciates models, and rectifies na ture, is worth three classic sculptors. The Duty of Owning Books. BY HENRY WARD BEECHER. We form judgments of men from little thiugs about their house, of which the own er, perhaps, never thinks. In earlier years, when traveling : n the west, where taverns were either scarce, or, in some places, un known, and every settler's house was a house of “ entertainment,” it was a matter of some importance and some experience to select wisely where you would put up. And we always looked for flowers. If there were no trees for shade, no patch of flowers in the yard, we were suspicious of the place. But, no matter how rude the cabin, or rough the surroundings, if we saw that the window held a little trough for flowers, and some vines twined around the strings let down from the eaves, we were confident that there was some taste and carefulness in the log cabin. In anew country, where people have to tug lor a living, no one will take the trouble to rear flowers, unless the love of them is pretty strong—and this laste blos soming out of plain and uncultivated people is, itself, like a clump of hare-bells growing out of the seams of a rock. We were sel dom misled. A patch of flowers came to signify kind people, clean beds and good bread. But other signs are more significant in other states of society. Flowers about a rich man’s house may signify only that he has a good gardener, or that he has refined neighbors, and does what he sees them do. But men are not accustomed to buy hooks unless they want them. If, on visiting the dwelling of a man of slender means, 1 find the reason why he has chsap carpets and very plain furniture, to be that he may pur chase books, he rises at once in my esteem. Books are not made for furniture, but there is nothing else that so beautifully tumishes a house. The plainest row of books that cloth or paper ever covered, is more significant of refinement than the most elaboialely-carved e toy re or sideboard. Give me a house furnished with books ra ther than furniture! Both, if you can, but books at any rate! To spend several days in a friend’s house, and hunger for some thing to read, while you are treading on costly carpets, and sitting upon luxurious chairs and sleeping upon down, is as if one were bribing your body lor the sake of cheating your miad. Is it not pitiable to see a man growing rich, and beginning to augment the comforts of home, and la\i3hing money on ostenta tious upholstery, upon the table, upon every thing but what the soul needs ? We know ol many and many a rich man's house where it would not he safe to ask for the commonest English classics. A few garish annuals on the tablp, a few pictorial monstrosities, together with a stock of reli gious books of “persuasion,” and that is all! No range of poets, no essayists, no selection of historians, no travels or biographies—no selections or curious legendary lore; but then, the walls have paper on, which cost three dollars a roll, and the floors have car pets that cost four dollars a yard! Books are the windows through which the soul looks out. A ho>’se without books is like a room without wiadows. No man has a right to bring up his children without surrounding them with books, if he has the means to buy them. It is wrong to his family. He cheats (hem! Children learn to read by being in the presence of books. Tli-i- love of know ledge comes from reading, and grows upon it. And the love of knowledge in a young ljiind, is almost a warrantee against the in ferior excite neut, of the passions and vices. Let us pity those poor rich men who live barrenly in great bookless houses! Let us congratulate the poor, that in our day, books are so cheap that a man may every year add a hundred volumes to his library for the price of what his tobacco and beer would cost him. Among the earliest ambitions to be exalted In clerks, workmen, journeymen, and indeed, among all that are struggling up in life from nothing to something, is that ot owning and constantly adding to a library of good books. A little library growing larger every year is an honorable part of a young man’s history. It is a man’s duty to have books. A library is not a luxury, but one of the necessaries of life. Never no Too Mccn at a Time.—Sir Ed ward Bulwer Lytton, in a lecture recently delivered in England, gave the following his tory of his literary habits : “ Many persons seeing me so much en gaged in active life, and as much about the world as if I had never been a student, have said to me, ‘ When do you get time to write all your hooks ? How on earth do you con trive to do so much work ?’ I shall surprise you by the answer I make. The answer is this: ‘I contrive to do so much by never doing too much at a time.’ A man to get through work weli, must not overwork him self; or, if he does too much to-day, the re action of fatigue will come, and he will be obliged to do too little to-morrow. Now, since I began really and earnestly to study, which was not till I had left college, and was actually in the world; I may perhaps say that I have gone through ap large a course of general reading as most men of my time. I have traveled much and I have seen much; I have mixed much in politics, and in the various business of life; and, in addi tian to all this. 1 have published somewhere about sixty volumes, some upon subjects re quiring much special research. And what time do you think, as a general rule, I have devoted to study —to reading and writing ? Not more than three hours a day; and,, when Parliament is sitting, not always that. But then, during those hours, I have given my whole attention to what I was about.” A Child Fcxeral—Probarly True.—There was a strange instance of child desertion, death and burial at Detroit last week. The dead body was found on one of the streets of that city. The child was apparently but a few hours old, and was wrapped inswaddling clothes without any other covering. Some vaga bond children who were playing near the spot, which was a vacant lot, first discovered it.— These, following out the bent of juvenile instiae*, appropriated the little corpse, and without say ing a word to anybody, made preparations for grand funeral, being highly delighted at having a real body to bury. The of passers by was attracted by their movements, and they were discovered gathered around a cigar-box, in which they had placed the child, in the act of saying prayers, with closed hands and*solemn contenances. A detachment with shingles was waiting with eagerness to dig the grave, and all were thrown into a high state of indigna tion at having their funeral disturbed. *