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The State Press. From the Picayune NOTHING TO EAT BY M. F. DI ONE V. Nothing to cat ’tis the wailing cry That standings utter in deep despair. When they stretch themselves in pain to die All lost*to hope; too weak for prayer. Nothing to eatthe chainless mind In famine becomes confused and blind ; A thousand phantoms before it rise. Mocking it still w ith taunting cries ; Luring it off w here the demons reign ; Every change is a change of pain ; Still tn its madness it will repeat Nothing to cat! Nothing to cat ’ Who will tell us of “N’**tbingt> Weal' The gilded falsehood of Fashion’s queen Os “Nothing to d'»” “to sny”—“to spare’ And all other Nothings which intervene? Thev’rc are all as nothing, if w e compare These several Nothings with that, I wren, Which starving ones in their pain repeat Nothing to eat! Nothing to cat ! In a lonely garret a mother lies Draw near and look at those fearful cyc> They were Beauty’s once ' Those lips so pale \nd those sunken checks tell a mournful tale Os the change which hunger and care can bring When they prey on the fair w ith united sting That starving mother and starving child ‘ They are dying noW—bow strange and w ild Are their every look Bring bread ami w inc ' Come.lonely mother, avoir rand dine! Ah! they’re brought too late from the board of wealth To bring back that mother to hope ami health ! Though she seems to feast with her fearful ey es ; As if she fain would again be strong ; That bread and wine ar. a tempting prize Toon? with nothing t« rut >•• long. Alone a maiden i • *»n the -ircrt, A poor, a friendi a homck " on* The freezing wind a..d the blinding sl -vt Career like anger at -.■• of >un. Where shall she go ' Ah who <an tc’l . Hunger and pride in her thoughts re > • How hard it is to restrain i 1 ride How hard to ask and to be denied. Thousands ar mnd her have wealth unb 1 Treasures of si!’. t r and treasures ot gold. While thousands like her have nothing to eat. Starving in garrets or on the street. The rich pass on without thought orcarc, And if alms are asked they've nothing to spare They can spare to folk. can span to pride. Con spare to ta.-'hion, but wo betide The hungrv beings who dare entreat, 80-au.’C. foisooth, they’ve nothing to eat. So the rich pass on to some gilded show. They’ve Dotting io sj are to the poor and low. Alone a maiden is on the street, A pour, uf’ieudle.-s, a h n > les- one , Tn the freezing w ind and tl.»- blinding sleet. She asks herself what shall be dune ? With bcantv and virtue her only store ; > ... | i ,i. as she ticads aloi e, From street to street, and from door to door. She has “asked for bread and received a stone.’ What shall be dour' What -Lull be done! Ah! poor and lonely and friendless one! Shall we judge thee’harshlv w hen hunger pleads. And hope has proved a deceitful tale, If thv answer br given in evil deeds. When evil deeds can alone av ail ? Cun.e stately .p. t n of tin* marble hall. Pride of a “circle,” belle of the ball; A stranger to cv en a single care, With costly raiment and jewels rare. And more than enough to eat and wear. Thou must have a tender heart, indeed; An open hand when the hungry cull; \ willing cur when the helpless plead, \nd boo for thy fellow creatures all. Yet why didst thou spurn from thy marble hull The starving maiden that asked tor bread ? That act of thine w a- a deed of thrall; It ended hope ami to ruin led ! To whom should a maid in distress appeal. If a sister’s heart prove as han! as steel If a sister’s v ice can bid her go, All reckless of ruin or woman s wo. And call her unjustly in wo;ds of shame, thing <*f evil i*<» vile to name? Ah ! when thus brand*-*! am! coldly -pumed Is it strange that the maiden in madness turned, As a last resource to the u ild ami rude. And bartered her virtue herself for food ! ( ome stately quocti of the mai lde hall. If angels are glml when the vile reform, Shmild’bt thou take pai l in a s’-ler’s fall By driving h* r forth in a night of storm • Remember th: t thou and* as fdr, as proud, \ nd as pure a* thou, have w rakly bowed, Like erring frailties, :.t Pass n’s shrine Have tasted its manna and drank its wine. With no excuse but n w .niton will To lead them in error’s < »mipting way. The) yield, but, in yielding, make efforts still Tu bide th. ; r deeds from the light of day. Nothing I ' vat' 'tis the fearful e:y Os wild, united, half frantic men. Who throng the streets. The sound swells high Nothing to eat I again ! again ! What means it ? These an- the men of toil. Why do they riot and cry for spoil ? Whv do they batter the storehouse down. And Kuttcr abtoad through the hungry town The unbought f< <>d vvhi h in fi antic might They wrest by force, without thought of right? It is that Toil is no more repaid liv pwishing food in the marts <>f trade; That, im u art starving ; that children moan ; That hunger is stronger than walls of stone. Thev are starving fathers who throng the street ; Their wives 1 children have nothing to vat ! .Nothing to e.d ! hi. .he burning thought Os shipwrecked men uii the ocean wave; Their foundered ves-c 1 the depths has sought, And still around them the waters rave, A crazy raft is their sole support; Hunger increases »" hope decays; The gull sweeps round them as if in sp<»rt. And nearer and near* r th*' dolphin plays. Thus has it been for days ami day s ; Their cheeks arc sunken, their eyes arc wild. Relief is distant, and famine pt v s With increasing pang. Ah! one has smiled. For him the sorrows of life are past ; The wail of the sea, the sigh of the blast. No more are heard. His nerves no nmre Shrink back in tortute. A fairer shore Than earth can boast, like a dr am, i« spread In th*, airy realms where the seraphs tread. O ! it w i r«* bliss o;i such shores to stray. And angels whisper- nway ! away!’’ Another mullet s <*f nothing to cat And stares at his fellows with wolfish eyes. His ilj. ughts are fiends which would fain entreat For him ra fit h when a comrade dies. He curses himself his Go I. He raves At the warring winds and the warring waves ; II- i ursev his fHi >, as if thev viewed In him a beast to be slain for food. Thu, leaps in the flood like a dcnrnn grim And 'wears none ever shall feast on him. ?f* t .Indy others await their doom. Though every’ dav mak*- their number less : A m ment seems lik«* an age of gloom With >uch surrounding, in such distress. At length, a hurricane sweeps the main ; They sink; but s’ill in their thoughts repeat The c<-h'*i-s loue of that sa l refrain “Nothing to eat Nothing tu eat New Orleans, October, I'i.’-T. KORTS KISSING. UY MA". Bout a k - du you a»k ? It’s me that can tell ; For, ould .* I’m n**w. 1 am minding it well. Wh- n - spalpei n oftliree, with how much delight My mithc-r kissed Kory and bade him good night, But my uiitber she died and left R u v behind. And die lasses I met brought her so to uiy mind, I’hat at kissing 1 went, first one ami auitbvr. Be* iuse they wore bunnvts ami looked like my mither. At la ’. would vou think it, swat** Bridget O’Flinn Had scarcely been kissed when sin* kissed me agin. And tould m* a pracst away down in the city. Would say, if we’d ask him, a bit of a ditty. A dittty, swate Bridge ’. ami what might it be ?” 'Ne’er mind, my dear Rory, but come just vv id me !” We trudged to the city, and sum us my life. He said a short ditty and called her ti.< w ifc. We got a wee cottage, a pig ami a spade ; Bridget sickened; we hired her sister fur maid ; The maid I was when, true as yc’r there, 1 felt t! ■ ould divil a pulling luy hair. B»g or-. y«>u odd varmint !’’ I yelled m affright. And ><*rt o’ turned round to be getting a sight ; What did I diskiver? Instead of an elf. Swale Bridget O’Flarhvrty there jist herself • 0, Rorv ’’’ she blubbered, still pulling away, lint sick is my heart vv id ver conduct to-day ; \ kissing my sister while I’m in my bed. Nor able to raise from the pillow my head !” 'Troth ! my Bridget,” says I. -perhaps ye can mind When yi t • the kissing were greatly inclined, V< kiss* d me and kissed me at Donnybrook fair, And now by the jubvrs ye’re pulling my hair. :wgrn*'! ye ould fool, wid a rumpus like this. I’m only a larniny yer tisltr ti» J-t> ‘ rhe most provoking <»f all auditors are the literal class ; thus • who have a natural in capacity for taking a joke, look solemn at the aiin»Htncfrnent of a daring spi-eulation, and re main entrenched in the fortress of a national propriety, while the speaker is revelling in the world of fancy. THE STORY OF EUGENE ARAM. KNARESBOROUGH CASTI.E. A cohl and lowering February evening, in the year 1744. was just about closing in—the shadow* beginning to creep up darkly and clotfdly from the cast and north, indicating the approach of a night of sleet or heavy snow, when two men, warmly’ and cosily wrapped up in the staid and respectable tradesman s broad cloth of the period—the square skirt and the eoeked-hnt. indicating a remote fashion —might have been seen walking briskly up towards the old keep, crowning the hill on which the ruins of Knareaborough Castle stretch them selves in grey, and. just then, with an air and aspect of stern, sullen dignity. tion of the interior which was otherwise not known to the world generally , they eautioiDly descended besi<lc thv keep into a hideou- old dungeon, and thence, after traversing a laby rin thinc passage, by a sally-port into a covered way . beneath the moat. Damp. foul, and re pulsive as this subterranean spot in which they now found themselves necessarily v.hs. and to which they had directed thvmsslws by the furtive gleams of a dark lantern < ne bad taken from beneath a horseman's coat, they >at clown upon some fragments of stone which had fallen from the arch of a small chamber belonging to a secret hiding-place, or ancient way of escape or surprise, which thv ( iistle, with others ot the period, possessed: and there began a conversa tion. evidently as mysterious as the place ua* aptly chosen for the depository of their dark secret. Thv first of the two was a bluff, jovial-look ing man of middle age. whose oil-hand manner might at first be taken for frankness, only that there was a coarse and sensual expression lurk ing about the month, and a cunning ami crafty light shining in the eyes, which never looked you right in the face, and destroyed the first favorable impression. Dressed as he was, he had the air of a thriving tradesman. Ilis name was Daniel Clark, and he was a shoemaker in the town of Kaare*borough. His companion. Richard Houseman, a some what younger man. was a flax-dresser <»f the same town. A horseman’s whip and riding coat, together with his bespattered boots, showed that he had only recently dismounted from his nag. after returning from a journey. “So, so. Dick Houseman, you've kept tune, ehf—and the matter goes swimmingly. dov> it t" asked Clark, with chuckle. “.Justus you could wish, old fellow. I sold the leather you sent to York, and a quantity of the cloth He re also, and 1 haveju.-t come from Ripon, where 1 disposed of my tlax—ha! ha! You've got Aram s bond, haven't you : “Oh. yes. drawn on his friend, Mr. Norton, too; so I shall give him twenty pounds to night before going to 1 he cave, in order to keep him <|uict and lull suspicion. He fell into the trick as easy, bless you, as if, instead of being the clever fellow he is supposed to be. he was more than half a Idol and soft as any sponge.” “ Take care he don't suspect you, or suspect his wife, either, else you may wake up the liond in him. lie’s not quite so shallow as you think. I know that he’s had a devil ami all of a life to lead with his flighty lady, and if he don’t dream that you ami she are old sweet hearts; it will be as well to keep that dark. Houseman spoke this warningly, ami in an earnest manner. “Oh, that’s all right!” returned Clark: “ besides, as we’ve buried some of the goods in his own garden, (he was wrathy enough at that till 1 told him it was Io avoid a search from my creditors till I got my wife’s mom y.) the fear of finding that out will keep him still f ’ “ Well, has it come—your wife’s expected money f demanded Houseman anxiously. “Aye. has it—a hundred and fifty pounds, which I II bring to Aram's to-night when we go to the cave for the plate. 1 was a bit fright . lied, though, for my ‘missis' had a qualm.” “ Have you sent her away for a day or two (" broke in Houseman, with an applauding laugh and a nudge of the arm. “ Sent her for a week to her friends, till 1 get the hou>c ready for our wedding-fca.-t—ha! ha! ’ ami the knave laughed, in his low chuck ling manner, at the success of a base scheme of trickery that ha<l been in progress for some time, ami was m>w rapidly ripening, lie had not quite counted upon the harvest he might reap, however. lloiDeinan again grinned his applause, ami Clark proceeded. •Well, there’s about five to eight hundred ounces of plate —clips, tankards. di>hc* ami all, come in—ami there it lies snugly buried in the very heart of the cave, beaten up and broken in regular pewter. I've seen to that, and all's ready for to-night: and Aram s to be with us to the last, d’ye sec f' “1 see. J see.” responded Houseman. “Egad! it was not a bad idea for you and me to pay off our debts in this fashion, for deuce another way could we do it than by leg-bail ami mak ing our own creditors help us off. Pity Aram must have the twenty ” “I promised it him for books, you know, and 'twill stave oil’ old Norton from bunting me yet a bit. and someone must boon the spot till we get the plate sold off. You see, when I found Aram had married that precious piece of his. I thought she might help me one day or other. It has conic. I'm very fond other for old times' sake, ami was to have married her om e. Well, in America she’ll help me in a scheme I've got. Never mind that now.— Aram is a<pfiet, school-mastering fellow—poor enough, (with her extravagance,) as all your book-men are—ami I'm his bondsman, too, in turn for some wormy old volumes he's had from York. I thought my wedding spree would pay; and Missis Clark -as is—had al together by her a good two hundred, as you know ” u Ay, ay.” sa'u 1 Houseman; “but. zounds! it's wry chilly here. I've brought a drop of brandy with me!’’ ami taking out a flask, with a shudder —for a keen blast went driving with a melancholy wail through thv ruined arches at the moment—he handed it to his compan ion, who drank in turn. •• Ah. that’s better!” continued Daniel Clark. “ Well, you see, my credit, through my wife, being good again, (only there's too much to pay.) ami as she helped me to be on friendly terms with Aram, he gives me a letter to some of the gentry-folks as he has taught, ami the inn ket pers arc trusting—ha! ha!—why, the plate is right, am! Aram is the man who will answer all questions”—and his detestable chm kle ajain followed this explanation. •• Am’. «o Aram's wife gees with you, does -heasked Houseman, inquiringly. “ Meets me at Haru ich in a week, nml brings what she can lay hands on. Aram thinks of nothing but hi" books, and does like a child, all lie s told. Why, none but he would have belic\e<l the story, that in the Parliamentary wars they buried a lot of plate down the well hero, and then < arried it through, under the river, to St. Robert’s Cave—where, sure enough, there is >o;nv —ami broke it up to car ry it away am! sell it. He'll help us. for all he l.v>i:ute<l. ‘lt's a iin*l.' says Ito him, “and it's ours a> well as any one else's; and as a share will drop to you.' I say s, • why you may as well have it.’ Don't you see. Dick, how square the story tells f ' “Excellent. Dan. excellent! Still. <*hoke me if I like the woman's part in it. I'd rath er “ We can't alter it now.” was ( lark'" hasty interruption. “ Any change would "poil the whole, and any delay after to-night would rniu us. I've got a cart ami horse in the obi "tables by Griiuble Bridge, ami the plate won't l»e much to share anmng us to curry off from livre —and then drive off.’’ “Are the tools in the cave?’’ naked House man. “ Everything pick ami spade, hammers, sacks—all right, and provision for a jolly sup per before we start. But, come, let us to thv cave for an hour—making some arrangements —then separate just as we may settle. I must sot his u ife for a minute or two first, as I wasn't sure you'd be back to-night.” And now. leaving the associates to concert still more perfectly their infamous design . wt hall in- troduce the reader to a third person in this re markable criminal story. | This is no other than Eugene Aram, whose name, for more than a hundred years, has been assoeiate<l with obloquy and the (•rime of mur der; but as the whole of the evidence against him was circumstantial, we hope to show that he was the victim of an infamous conspiracy, and of the sanguinary and merciless tendency of the penal code of that day. as we find it t<? have existed in England up to the commence ment of the present century at least. We do not know that it is much more merciful or forlamring now. Eugene Aram, who seems to us the most finished tyq»e of the student-scholar, the learner and the teacher—all in one—that his day pro duced. was born, on the maternal side, of an ancient yeoman family whose names were identified with that of the lords of the town ship of Haram, or Aram, on the Tees. His father was a gardener, and a very able botan ist. of Nottingham. Eugene received the ru diments of a simple education at Skelton, near Newby, and at Newby, up to the age of about sixteen, followed thv bent of his fancy in the study of mathematics, for which he seemed, from the abstract bent of his mind and brain —his fondness for retirement and books—to be peculiarly fitted. At sixteen he went to London, and served as book-keeper in thv counting-house of a Mr. Christopher Blackett, whence, in about two years, he was obliged to return home, after "Uttering severely from small-pox. Once more at Newby, he resinned his mathematical stu dies, adding thereto poetry, history, and a study of ant’upiitics. When considerably over the age of twenty , he was invited by some friends to visit Netherdale—his native air—w here, in his own words, he says, “J first engaged in a school, and where, unfortunately enough for me. I married.” He attributes —presently we shall see with w bat justice- -the catastrophe that subsequently overtook him—Lis prosecu tion, his prison, his infamy and sentence —to the misconduct of the woman lie was unhap py enough to select and make the partner of his existence. B tter for him—for her—that she had never been born, or that they had nev er met. Still, this is among those mysterious sequence" of things which go to prove that man is the creature of circumstance—that an irresistible destiny govern" him—that be is in the hands of a superior fate, against w hich lie is utterly powcrles . to assist himself for any purpose of good or of evil, kt him strive as he may. Educational advantages, beyond those which he himself acquired, do not seem to have been this extraordinary man s to any very great ex tent. Sell-taught ami self-dependent, he mas tered the Latin and Greek-languages, their historians and j outs until he was familiar wiih the w hole range of the classics, and their most illustrious authors the companions of every hour of his leisure. Adding to these the He brew, the Chaldee, and his almost incredibly extensive researches into the Celtic, he had mastered the modern French, besides being familiar w ith heraldy, botany, and the whole circle of the physical sciences. In a word, he must have been a sort of Admirable Chrich ton ; and what is astonishing unless we attri bute it to a certain trusting honesty of nature he possessed, and the habits of abstraction which had become to him almost a second na ture—how it happened that he became in any way associated with such persons as Clark and Houseman—men who were necessarily imbued with the tpialitications for shining in the New gate Calendor—of l*>w birth, of vulgar educ a tion, and in every w ay opposite to him in feel ing, mind, thought, and daily action. In the pursuit of learning, he had found it hvck "-ary to faciliate his way through the al most incredible obstacles in his path, by the formation of a polyglot dictionary, upon a plan ami method of hi- own; and perhap- the -( heme was among the most stupendous, as an iiitelleeturi task, which any one man h i- ever undertaken to perform. A home devoid of domestic happiness, .*• wife with w horn the worn and pallid student had nothing in common, though he fought nobly to discharge the re sponsibilities undertaken—childless, with no tie of low or affection to bind to the outer world— almost friendless, save possessing that rc-pect which his inoffensive and beneficent life c impelled— in an evil hour these tempter wit h a story us hidden plate found in the castle well, and in the gloomy cave of St. Robert, came aero— him. and. by touching on that cord respondent to his yearning for rare and costly book-, involved him in bonds, debt—in an al most incredible mesh of difficulties; finding him. in his despair and newly-awakened hopes, a fitting tool to their purposes. Aram, at this time, was a pale, abstracted, worn-looking, yet singularly handsome man, of an intellectual but melancholy countenance, as a potrait of him, yet extant, shows, and just forty years of The night, cold, bitter and bleak, had set in with a snow-storm, the moaning winds driving down the sleet and cloudy flakes in whirling masses, totally obscuring every star in the heavens. Eugene Aram, who had been upon some monetary business to the house of his friend. Mr. Norton, had called on Clark by ap pointment; and not finding him at home, was hastening to his own house to see if he were there, as it was arranged that their final visit should be paid to the dreadful cave on this dark and dismal February night. He had entered his garden by a back gate to avoid a circuit, and advancing to the house, was about to enter, when seeing a light in a small back parlor, one shutter not being quite closed to. he drew back with a shivering start as if he had received a sudden -tab from an unseen foe. Every drop of hi- hot and roused blood surging at his heart, and with the whole hideous skele ton of his sad and betrayed lite laid bare before him, he saw Daniel Clark standing besidd hi wife. passing some gold into her hand, then rat ifying a treaty by an embrace and a kiss, a they turned away to seek Aram’s chamlier. where he might now every moment be ex pected. “ Blind and betrayed!” he muttered, his whole nature shaken with the fierce repressed tire of a new and baleful passion he had never before known. “Oh, Judas! Judas! do you show • yourself to me now !” and then he sank upon a bench beside the now dark window, and sob bed and w* pt such bitter burning tears as only a man so constituted and so betrayed could shed. An hour passed—and this was an hour past midnight now. as the chimes told him when he rose, his face as white as the -now which sheeted him over, and with a calm, deadly tranquility of aspect, he passed round to the front, knocked ami entered, u here he found Houseman and Clark impatiently waiting for him. Just entering the apartment, he caught the following words spoken in a hasty under tone : “ If lie hesitates—if he draw s hack at last— if he betrays us—” he heard Hou.-ciiian say. “ It he doe- cither the one or the other, then by I'll shoot him!' 1 Clark responded; and Aram >aw him strike his hand on the breast of his coat, where the butt of a pistol was visible. Calmly saluting them, but so strangely pale that his wife was fain to ask what ailed him. he coldly ordered her to quit the room, and giving a reason for his delay, en tered into their arrangement with a calmness and nauy froid only to be understood in men of a well-balanced, nervous, mental sytem. M as it that he too had made his resolve to play out the game to the last, and at last find in the crisis a measured method of revenge, w hich should be some equivalent to the shame and the w rong they were so deliberately working again-t him t Be that as it may. at two o'- clock, dunked, and with whatever other im plements they had ready, they prepared to set forth. “By the bye. Aram.” said Houseman. “1 wish xoil'd ask your wife to lend me a hand kerchief to tie round my face—” “Certainly! Mv wife is very obliging and considerate, 1 know”—andjhe thought us that handkerchief in the tragical story of “Othello” with which the fiendish lago worked so much wrong. It might be only another portion of th* scheme against himself. What did it sig nify uoaf It w asto nut-ave himself, but to be avenged—that was now his pre-occupation. — ' The handkerchief being borrowed —though I Aram’s wife could not see that look and light in her husband's eye, apcaking to her what made her dumb with terror and white with •Iread, without an internal shudder, and an aw - ful doubt—the three men. w rap|n*d in their cloak e w<*nt forth ; Aram significantly saying to hi« w ifc as he crossed the threshold — “ Do not leave this house till 1 return ; you will th«i> know why; and —and there may be work for vou to <lo< * ‘ « Thickly fell the snow and fiercely the wind howled along the streets. They parsed be side the turbid and swollen waters of the Nidd; and under the frowning rampart of rocks which rose tow ering to a hundred feet above their heads —where the yawning entrance to St. Robert's cave was found. The gloom and horror of this rave, w hen they had passed into the interior and could sec by the light of the lantern w hich they had brought w ith them, can scarcely be described in suitable words. The entrance being sinuous and nar row. it was impossible for any one from with out to know that it had any occupants. Aram, b\ teeth (battering with cold, but bis blood at a tierce and fervent heat, seated himself for a w hile, and gazed about him. “Queer place, eh, Aram, isn't it?” asked . Clark. “ It looks like a vault where they pile up the dead," replied Aram, w ith a glittering look.— “ A strange idea haunts me. how a man may enter here alive and never come forth again. What a silent, unspeaking grave might be found here!’’ Houseman and Clark exchanged ]ook<.— “Ah, how you talk!" said ( lark, laughing, ’’there's better stuffhere than dead men—' Don't laugh.” said Aram, in turn, and with a tragic solemnity of manner. “Suuppose you ' found a grave here—suppose you were never to leave this place till y <»ur bones were shovell ed out—” “What the devil do you mean.'" began ('lark, angrily. “ Let us take some brandy, and think of the wurk in hand. Here, House man. get the pick and spade—” •• Ay .to dig a grave!" said Aram. “Listen! Do you bear how the wind is wailing a dirge a moaning for the dead— ’’ I lead !—w bo's dead L' •■ //” cried Aram, with a great outburst of agony. “My nam< —-my good name—my hon or, my reputation—my honest life—my wife oh, wife no longer! all arc dead! and dig quick and deep, that ail may lie and sleep in peace forever!' “He's mad. I think” growled Clark: and looking towards Houseman for his determina tion. as he played with the butt of his pistol. “ 1 don't know,’’ replied Houseman; “but there’s no hurry—” “ Dig up the plate, continued Aram, spring ing upward, “ with which you have befooled me in a belief of your lying story. Dig up the plate for which you have made me w rite myself swindler and thief! —l. the student, the schol ar. the schoolmaster—ha, ha, ha!” and he laughed wildly. “Dig up the plate, dog! who havedishoiiered my wife and destroyed me! Dig it. up. but leave open space for a grave; for by heaven or by ht-11—w hichever aids —one lof us sleeps here this night!” and springing at Clark's throat, he bore him to the ground in an instant, throttling him like a rabid doir. the latter loudly calling upon Houseman for help. “Not 1!” cried Houseman, as Clark Ly a desperate eflbrL flung his weaker opponent I otf. but who had possessed himself of the pDtoL “ Not 1 ; but I ll help—and curse nic if 1 don't think it will he the hot plan yet!” and ere Aram could speak or interfere—had he so mi* •! cd —Houseman had taken the spade, and by a sweeping blow drove it into the luckless knave'." "kull, ('leavingrit so effectually that with a >hort sob. and a choking gurgle in the throat. Daniel Clark fell dead before them. The deed wo done, and the associates henceforth and for ever in the horrible secret, stood gazings pct»ch less upon each < ther. ***** The two returned to Aram's house. House man carrying with him a portion of the plate; and then the latter gave back to the scared woman the bhual-spotted handkerchief, bv means of which she. years afterwards, auda ciously swore away her husband's life. The next day Clark was reported to have abscond ed with the plate, bis wife's money and other valuables. On making searc h in Eugene A rain's house, naught was found t > inculpate him. though some cloth wa< dug up in the garden, w hich made him suspected ; but in the absence of clearer proofs, it was siibse(|Uently believed that Clark had really gone otf, having not only made a tool of Aram, hut also of Houseman; who. however, by skillful manage ment, and by secretly visiting the cave, carried . otf the rest of the propertv. At all events, none was ever found there, when fourteen years after they sought for the corpse of ('lark Yes, fourteen years after the commission of this dread and awful tragedy, when Eugene Aram was fifty-five years of age, and in the sad, quiet pursuit of his duties as usher of a school in Lynn, the accidental discovery of some human bones by one digging for limestone in the huge and rocky matrix seperated from that on which the castle stands, by the foaming Nidd—fourteen years after, was Aram taken up for the murder of Daniel Clark: and the i unfortunate victim of a worthless woman, and of a scoundrel whose word ought not have been taken upon oath, was thus condemned to death. Aram's confession has been urged again"! him. hut the man simply abandoned his right line of defence, and udmithd what he never committed. Despite the extraordinary skill, force and (mistaken) lucidity of his defence— the most extraordinary on record —he was ad judged to death. He made an attempt upon his life in prison, hut was saved to expi ate his misfortunes on the scaffold at York in the year 1759. If we have not already suflicien. top-. int out the fallacy and the measureless wrong ot judg ing upon circumstantial evidence, the story of the gifted and hapless Eugene Aram may be quoted as one evidence the more. 1 his, though the last, is not the least inter* sting event con nected with the history ot Knaresborougl. Castle. Iv:.ii«•.•! orotigh (’astir, situated in the Wot Rid ingot Yorkshire, England, i> an of interest t*» the the traveller, not alone from the picturesque 1 >- culity of w hich it forms the centre, and the associa tions with which the castle it>clf is connected, bat bv the fact that in close proximity t<> it is thv Drop ping Well, whose waters have the power ofpettilying • almost everything they touch : that near this is th<* spot where that curious prodigy. Mother Shipton, w..s born manv of whose predictions reully can>«-to pass; and finally, that in the same neighborhood is a gloomy, large, winding cave, meinoraulr t* r a i.mr der committed in it during the lust century, in which the well-remembered, long-transinitsed name of Eu gene Aram is conspicuous. \ writer in a London periodical is giving illiuarations and histories < t the old cast’cs of thv I'nited Kingdom, and in refcring to the one in question, introduces the foregoing ver sion of the appalling tragedy, which would seem to prove the fact, which is we believe, now very gen erally admitted that Eugene Aram was wrongfully convicted of that nmrdvr Kissim; at a (.'eetaix Age.—A celebrated dandy was one evening in company with a young lady, and observing her kiss her favor ite potxlle. advanced and begged the like favor, remarking that she ought to have a< much charity for him as she had show n the dog. “Sir.” said thv belle. “1 never kissed my dog when he w as a puppy " “How to make Leeches BnE.” is the cap tion of an article going the rounds of the pa pers. The best way. uihpi. stionably, is to pre sent them a first rate im? at thirty days, w ith an offer of 5 per cent. . month. They will lute instantly, and never "top sucking until they get the whole. The I'tica lelegraph 1 a< an article headed •Why Old Maids Multiply It has always hern understood that they are just the ones who do not multiply and replenish the earth. that has spent mu< h of his time in his study, will seldom he ( olleeted cwiqrh to talk much in company. THE PRESENTIMENT. “ There was a sound of revelry by night.” The moon was shining brightly upon the 1 polished muskets and the gorgeous equipments • of a sentinel in the scarlet uniform of the Buffs I —the crack regiment of the day—as he tra versed liis brief round at the garden gate of Greenwich street, behind the residence of Sir Henry (Tinton, the commander-in-chief of the British forces of America. His stalwart figure and high grenadier cap made his shadow appear gigantic beneath the , rays of (*ur full and glorious orb—the Western moon. ('ecash»nally he would pause, as it lis tening to the rich music w hich ever and anon swelled forth from the residence of Sir Henry, and his thoughts turned upon the youth and beauty mingling in the dance w ithin. (luce or twice he passed the back of his hand across his eye, as if to stay a truant tear that was stealing from it" fountain. His memory rushed to the days of his early home in “ iner rie England.” “By George!” he muttered, half aloud, “I did not think I could be childish. The sound of the tune has put me in mind of old Devon shire.'’ Say ing this he broke out into the military song of Gen. Wolf, w hich, as tradition goes, he sang while passing up the St. Lawrence, the night before he tell on the Plains of Arahain: “ Why, soldiers, why. Should we be melancholy bovs. Whose business ’tis to die/’ Ac. His voice, naturally sweet, sounded perfectly j melodious, as unconsciously, he forgot his duty as a sentinel and gave to the song the full com pass of his manly tones. At a little distance, concealed from the sentinel by the shuhbery, was an officer, upon whose arm leaned a beau tiful girl—absentees from the bail room. As the after fate of this brave officer forms a memorable page in our country’s history, my renders may perhaps like a description of his i person. He was rather under the middle height, of a handsome, well-made figure and erect military carriage. His face was oval, and the features decidedly handsome. The main expression of his countenance displayed franknc"." and sincerity. 1! is age seemed about thirty. liisM arlet coat was faced with buff, and hud’ breeches, with silk stockings, adorned the lower part of his person. Such was the ball-room costume of that period. “You < ni melancholy to-night. Major An dre.” said his fair companion. “On such a night a" this you should be otherwise.” “ And in such company, you should have added. Miss Beekman. Pardon me for this ap parent quietness; the thought that this might be the last night I should spend in New York, is enough to make one feel sad, is it not, fair lady f’ Leave New York, Major Andres” said the young lady, w ith surprise. Are you going South with Lord Cornwallis" *’ A soldier. Miss Beekman, must inform no one of bis destination, and particularly one like yourself, with a touch of the rebel feeling towards your countrymen. This much 1 will answer, 1 am not goingSouth.” “Some new plan of Sir Henry's. I'll be bound,” said the laughing girl. “ 1 do love Washington, and that’s the truth. My father, it is certain, remains firm in his allegiance to King George, but I—l go with our Republican George—tlie soldier from Virginia.” 1 cannot >ay I think less of you for such fc» lings. Mi"> Beekman.” said Andre; “it is natural that, we should Live our country.— Washin :ton is a brave >oldier, and from all I hear. Is a good man. Be that as it may. how ever. he has no right to take up arms against his lawful king, and w hen he i" taken, as he must be. he will end his days on a gibbet.’ ” “ "I wager yon this rose.” said the merry herted girl, in a laughing tone, taking one from her hair, “against the first new novel you le eeivv by the London packet, that you will suffer such punishment first; and that you know is impossible. Major, for my countrymen treat thv king s oflh ir* with the highest re* pent when pri" ’icr-. Spies only are hung, and neither Washington or yourself are likely to undertake that profession.” It seemed a' if a spasm passed through the frame of the officer, for he trembled for an in stant like a leaf—-an incident which washing remembered by his fair c impanion w hen men tioning liis melancholy fate. “ You lire ill. Major. Let go in.” “ No. no.” said be.” faintingly ; “ it was but a momentary nervous affection, and has now passed. There arc times. Miss Beckman, pre sentiments of evil ia the human mind, that conic without a real cause, and trouble us we know not why. I cannot say but that my physical health is as good as it ever was. The night is beautiful, ami tin* scene w ithin Sir Henry's mansion enchanting; but still there is a heaviness about my spirits that I cannot shake off. I seen danger before me, yet know not where to guard against or how to meet it. Though shadowy, it appears palpable and distinct. Ah '. that song." At this moment the silver tones of thv s<n tinvl s voice rang sweetly upon the ear with thv words of thv song we have mentioned. Whilst thus engaged, the Mqjor and his fair companion suddenly appeared before him. In an instant his voice was hushed, and his mus ket brought suddenly to “ present arms,” as he stood motionless, in true military style, before his superior. “ Nay. nay. Whiteley, cease not your song," sail the Major, “on such a night as this 1 won der not that you should feel like singing. 1 w ill stand responsible to the sergeant for such u breach of discipline.” •’ I should like much better to hear it in full, soldier,” said the lady. “ 1 only know it, lady,” said the sentinel, “from herring Major Andre sing it. when I've been on duty at his quarters. Perhaps he. madam, will consent to favor you with it" “ Well, Miss Beckman. 1 will not deny you, but I cannot equal Whiteley in the song, as you will soon find out.” He then commenced ami sang with great pathos and beauty. The calin splendor of the night, his pensive air. ami the feeling with which he entered into the words of the song gave it great effect. As he concluded, he was surprised to hear the exclamation “ Bravo, A mire!” from numerous voices. In fact, he was surrounded by a goodly portion of the ball ro*im company, who had availed them selves of a puase in the dam e to visit the gar den. “ Well done. Andre!" said a stout and port ly gentleman, in military costume, with a > large star on the breast of bis coat. ‘‘You shall hereafter bear the title of song-master a> well as Adjutant General to His Majesty’s troops in America. But come, man, your po liteness and gaiety seem to be on furlough to-night. I'hc Baroness d • Reidcsel has been looking all around for her partner. Step in. my dear fellow, step in. Miss Beckman, will you condescend to take my arm'” “ 1 have been neglectful. Sir Henry, ami will go instantly and repair the wrong,” said Andre. He entered the ball-room and w altzed with lady Reidesel. the wife ot the Hessian General, Burgoyne's second in command at Saratoga. It was the last waltz :«id ball-room scene ever engaged in by Andre—the night of the 19th of September, 1780. The hall was over, the guests had departed, and it was waxing towards daylight, when Andre left the private closet of Sir Henry Clinton, and stood in the doorway looking to wards Bowling Green. ” Now. my dear Major," said Sir Henry. * I bid yon adieu. May success attend your ef forts. It' your interview with Arnold term inates as we have reason t<» expect. West Point is ours, and a General's commission awaits John Andre. Be cautious, I entreat you.” “Adie(j, Sir Henry, I goto serve my king and country. If I—but I will not sav it. Sir. farewell.” * Ik "hook the extended hand of Sir Henry with emotion, and as he steppe*! into the street, received for the last time the military -alate of a British sentinel. He touched his hat and passed on. At the water's edge he sprang into a boat, and was soon after on the deck of th< Vulture sloop-of-war. on his way to hi- final intcrvkiv with Arnold. In a little more than ten days the high-mind ed soldier dangled on a gibbet. His hopes of | glory were forever closed in the dust and ashes I of the grave. VALOR AND ITS " BETTER PART.” “If thou cmbowl me to-day, I’ll give vou leave to powder me and cat me to-morrow.” Shakapeare. Reader if you have ever met with old \V—. formerly of Louisville, yon will be better ena- ’ bled to appreciate the subjoined “inkling of adventure.” W . was very corpulent, fond of the good things of this life, that is to say. the organ of alimentiveness was fully developed—and a jol ly go(xl-natured fellow he was. too; be would rather run any time than to fight. W ell, he left Louisville for “ the South,” where he in tended to reside. When near his destination, at some hotel, he had an altercation with a Frenchman, who considering himself insulted, challenged him. W. went to a friend in great trepidation and told him that he could not fight;—it was a gainst hi- principles, and even were it other wise. important reasons rendered the thing impossible. The friend expostulated with him. said it was imperatively necessary that he should yo out— he bad come to live in a “sec tion, where such thing- were recognized; if he did not act up to the custom of the country he would lose caste, and be, as it were, socially dead. ‘ ! After much argument. W. was finally pre vailed upon to “accept;” the preliminaries were arranged, and the two ZrxD'Zr.* were to meet next morning, and to render each other ail the wff/x/acD'ozi w hich it is in the nature of powder and lead to afford. W. retired to his couch at an early hour in the evening, but to him, it provcl neither a couch of roses nor of rest. The fighting reso lution he had formed, was loosing ground eve ry moment, until he finally (■.• me to the conchi >ion that he would be a fool to remain and be ' shot; and just then moreover, he recollected that the steamer Washington was tu L ave, at daybreak, settled liis bill at the hotel, and or dered the porter to accompany him with his baggage down to the Washington. lie was walking along, quite pleased with the idea of his escape from the tire-eating Frenchman, when behold! as he turned the corner of a street, leading to the landing, he was astonished at seeing, a few feet in advance of him, liis dreaded antagoni-t, with a servant behind him carrying a trunk! W. followed him at a respectable distance, and, how great was his joy to sec him go on board the li ash ton. which shortly after, puffing and snorting, departed on her destined trip. It is needless to remark that our fat acquaintance, puffing and snorting equal to the steamer which had just left, such was his haste to save his endan gered honor, returned to hi- hotel, simply <ay ing that he had ( hanged his mind about leav ing. He w ent straight to bed. and was snor ing loudly, when hi- friend arrived to prepare him tor the meeting. Great was that friends astonishment to find W. -leeping <ostctcf/y. and after he was awakened to see him act so eool 1\ : his courage rose above j><ir in th.-.t friend’s estimation. They forthwith repaired to the place of com bat. Our corpulent acquaintance never seem ed in a more jocose and happy hum ir, appar ently disposed to leave the world laughing, if he left it ‘at all. rather than the reverse. But his h» art fluttered, and hi- manhood was on the point of forsaking him. when he saw. in the distant e. as they approached the “ground,” the figure of a man, walking backward and for ward. w ith hasty strides •• That bloody French man,” thought \V.. “it may be that he has re turn* -(I.” liis courage was re-umed however, on finding that it was only his antagoni-t s second, who seemed to be greatly c!iargrin< d at the non-appearance of hi- principal, and who at the expiration of the appointed hour, apologised therefor. But W. was not to be satisfied! he complained of the co.v.-rdly con duct of his opponent—he had lost his shot — he would post "the fdloir"— he y<>int<d! I his proved a -a 1 word for poor \V. Hie absentee's second with the utm<-t n.my ft-‘id., not only ottered but insisted upon taking the place of the principal. “Sir. said he. to the utmost horror ol \\.; —“l will imt be refused; you shall not leave the groiiml dis appointed.” Sir Lu< ius never was in so “tight” a plat e as tills! Honor cried “stand,” but grim death, himself, said “go!'' There was a terrible w eakness creeping up W. - lug, a queer twitch ing seized upon his mouth, his throat worked spasmodically, and his natural and acquired red failed him entirely. At length, with an effort which covered his heroic brow with rather a suspicious dampness, he sputtered forth: “Sir, you admit that you- friend i. a coir urd !' y “ With shame, sir. I do!” “ Will. sir. there's a pair of um," and yon can settle it yourselves, by thunder!” The last that was seen of W.. he w;is tum bling himself over a fence, and the amused seconds adjourned to their “cofi’ce” without the cu.-toinary accompaniment of their “pistols.” The Si ave Trade in Ci ba. —The slave i trade flourishes amazingly. I have heard of fouror five cargos of Bnzol negroes having been landed since I last wrote you ; the la-t but one, bevond Trinida I de Cuba, G<»o in num ber, has been seized by Brigadier Morales de Rada, who happened to to Le in that vicinity, and w ho also made pri-oner- of all the partie s concerned in the landing, i hey, with the Af ricans, arc now on their way to this city. I bis, certainly has the appearance of an attempt to put a stop to the African -lave trade, flic last cargo of Bozals was landed on a quay near San ta Cruz. It had been found impossible to ef fect their landing, without detection, on the main land of this island, and so they were land ed on the quay. There is an improbable report that the-tcamship “Pajaro del Ot cano,” (Ocean Bird.) now in this harbor, is being fitted up for a trip to the African coast. She would carry from 14 to 16 hundred negroes, and w ith her unrivalled speed, could bid defiance to any British cruiser afloat. Three more American vesselshave been sold to the Spaniards, and will most probably be employed in the slave trade. Two have already sailed with a “sea letter” under the Cnited States flag.— Harauna t 'orrtxpoiidt nt. HOW RAIN IS FORMED To understand the philosophy of this phe nomena. essential to the very existence of plants and animals, a few facts derived f.ioni observation and a long train of experiments must be remembered. \\ *re the atmosphere everywhere, at all times, at a uniform temder ature, we should never have rain, hail, or snow. The water absorbed by it in evaporation from the sea and the earth’s surface would descend in an imperceptible vapor, or cease to be ah- : -orbed by the air w hen it was once fully satu rated. The absorbing power of the atmos phere. and consequently its capability to retain humidity, is proportionabiy greater in warm than in cold air. The air near the surface ot the earth i- warmer than it is in the region ot the clouds. The higher we ascend from the earth the colder we find the atmosphere.— Hence the perpetual snow on very high moun tain- in the hottest climates. Now, w hen trom continued evaporation the air is highly satu-j rated with lapur —though it be invisible —it it- temperature is suddenly reduced by cold currents descending from above, or rushing from a higher to a lower latitude, its capacity to retain moisture is diminished, clouds are formed, and the result is rain. Air condenses as it cools, and like a sponge filled with water and compressed, pours out thv water which its diminished capacity cannot hold. How singu lar, yet how simple, is such an admirable ar rangement for watering tlw earth ? Toledo paper reports a speech made by a gentleman of that city, who had been i elected to an important office in a military com- | pany. The recipient of honors being called 1 out for a speech, mounted the rostrum : “My brave men. them who vot«*d for me I myirrt-- them who didn't I du*ju>d.'' WIT AND HUMOR. Di tch Candor. —Some ten years since an old Dutchman purchased in the vicinity of Brooklyn a snug little farm for nine thousand dollars Recently a lot of land speculators called upon him to buy him out. On asking his price, he said he would take sixty thousand dollars—no less. “ And how much may remain on bond and , mortgage ?” “ Nine thousand dollars.” ‘•And why nut more?’’ interrogated the would he purchasers. “ Because the darned place is not worth any more.” Juliun.— Why am de beloved of my heart, Miss Dinah, de sunflower of de hill, like a kind oh cloth dry make in Lowell ?” Sam. — I don't know, nigger: why? Julian.— Cos she's an unblrachtd She-tiny ! Bouton Pont. " Will ye dine wid me to-morrow. Mr. B?” ‘Faix.au’ I will, wid all my heart.” “Re member, 'tis only a family dinner I'm axin’ yo to.” “ And what for not—a family dinner’s a mighty pleasant thing. What have* ye got" ’• Och, nothing uncommon—jist an illcgant piece of corn'd bale and potatoes.” “Be the powers, that bates the world—jist me own dinner, barrin the base" A banker asked a young lady of this citv what kind of money she liked best. “ Matrimony,'' she replied. “What interest does it bring if” asked the sharp banker. “If properly invested it will double the orig inal stock every two years,” she replied. ° He concluded .-he was a match fur him, but the rest is a secret. When a devout Ma—nlman found himself in the midst ol a terrible tempest at sea. he ru collected that he had violated Mahomadan's law, by indulging in -wine's flesh on a partieu • lar occasion. Having made due confession and prayed for a<• . lion of the storm, in vain, he pettishly exclaimed, “what a great fuss about a little bit of pork !” An Irishman, attending a Quaker mcetin* r , heard a young man make the following an nouncement: “ B’-cthrvn and sisters, I am go ing to marry a daughter of the Lord.” “ she divil ye arc!” said Pat; “an' it'll be a long time afore ye'll see yer father-in-law.” At a late Hen Convention, finding it difficult to raise the price of eggs, the feathered tribes resolved for the future to lay only ten eggs to t he dozen. 'I hat was a pretty conceit of a romantic hus band and lather whose name was Rose, who named his daughter “ Wild,” so that she grew >.p under the appellation of “ Wild Rose.” But the romance of the name was sadly spoiled in a few war-, for she married a man by the name . f “ Bull.” “1 meant to have tould you of that hole.” •aid an Irishman to his friend who was walk ing with him in his garden, and tumbled into a pit full of water. “No matter,” says Put, blowing the mud and wat r out of his mouth, “ I've found it.” A printer, in settingup “we are but parts of a stupendous whole," by mistake of a letter, made it read, “ We are but parts ot a stupvn (lous \\ hale." Sonv? one commending Philip of Macedon, for drinking freely :—“ That ” said Dvinos thene-. “ i- a good qiuditv in a sponge, but not in a king.” It i -aid that Barnum i at present in full ( hast after a chap whu helped his wife at a >teamb**at table, in prvt' reiice to another lady who s;.f near ha i. He is considered the great est curiosity extant. A notorious miser, having heard a very ele gant vliiirity -<rni!.‘ii —“This sermon,” said he “prow- so strongly the necessity of alms, I haw almost a mind to Leg.’’ A well-known broker being inquired of the other day in rvg. i'd t • the health of his sick child, an-”. (r*d. in tears, “Very HI. Wouldn’t give two percent, fur his life.” It i- u singular fa< t that a woman cannot look from a prvcip'a e of any magnitude, with out biK inii.g giddy. But what is still more singular, the giddinc-s depart the moment somebody puts liis arm around her waist to keep her fr< m failing—queer isn’t it ? “John, can you tell the difiert nee between attraction (d‘gravitation and attraction of cohe sion ?” “Y* •.. sir. Attraction of gravitation pulls a drunke i man to th? around, and the at traction ( I «•<»!.prevents hi.- getting up again.'' “Sir -aid :• little blustering man to a religion opponent. “u» what - •» t do you suppose 1 l.*v l<-i!;: " “Weil 1 don't exactly know,” replied the oth«-r. "but to judge from your size and app ir.im*- 1 think >o’i belong to the cla-s generally called in-sects.” Going to jail i< fun in Raleigh, N. C. The Spirit of the Age says, the prisoners are a mer ry set, fiddling and dancing, whooping and yelling, and cutting up all sorts of capers, even to the annoyance of outsiders who are taxed to support them. Wc know a printer's apprentice, who being too lazy to work, about once an hour bumps hi-no.~c against a post t'.II it bleeds and then sits down tu haw a good re-ting spell. ‘And you charge a dollar for killing a calf, yon smutty thief,' said a planter to an old nig ger. ‘No, no, niassa.' replied Sambo, ‘me cliargus fifty cents for kill urn calf, and fifty cents fur the know how.’ Ladies who wear hoops are kindly advised by the Bellows Falls Argus “to look to their rigging.” A few days ago. the editor observ ed a lady sweeping along with the air of a queen, with about two feet of whalebone stick ing out lahiud! An exchange paper tell- of a parson who prefaced hi" sermon with “ My friends, let us -:.y a few words before wc lagin.” This is equal to the chap u ho took a short nap before he went to sleep. A jilted chemist finds low to be composed of fifteen parts of gold, three of fame, and two of affection. To make hens lay perpetually, hit them a well directed blow on the head. “ The inan who was ‘filled with emotion, hadn't room for his dinner.'’ Can an upright man be called a truly down r" 1 honest fellow ? THE GREAT ELEVATOR. A Southern gentleman, at a Northern hotel, perceiving that the dining room servant, a ne gro, was bestowing his attentions elsewhere, to his own neglect, called up John, and accost ed him in this wise: “John, I haw servants at home, and am waited on as gentlemen should be. lam ne glected here, and am tired of it. I give yow fair notice* that I will whip you like a dog un less yon behave better.” The consequence was, that John became wry attentive during the few days that the gentleman remained. On going away, John w:ls called up and presented with a dollar or two. which he thus acknowledged: “Tankee. massa. Southern gentlemen al ways so—lick u- like blazes if we don't wait on 'em well, but, when dey go, dey allors gib us u dollar or two. “Now. dvse Abolition gemnien mighty hard to suit, and want much waiting on, an’ when dey go 'way shake yer hand, look up to de wail an' say. ‘God bless you, my unfortunate friend, an'elevate you in the s. <de ob humani ty.’ or something like that, but dey,never gib us a dollar or two to elewate us wid.” — 24* r It is said that bleeding a partially blind horse at the nose, will reston him to sight— so much for the horse. Po ( pen a man s eye*, you must bleed him at the p<*cktt.