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\ OL. i. ran c JULY hr Is published every Saturday. by P. L ROBLY&OJSi *, Warrenton , Geo. at three dollars per annum, which may be discharged by two dollars and fifty cents if paid within si.vty days of the time of subscribing. SELECT TALKS. From the Port Folio. FALSE A PPEA ILLYCES. BY MRS HARRIET MUZZY. All the world, that is, all the world who composed the mere acquaintan ces of the worthy Mr. Spencer, tho’t Tio parent had more reason to be proud of his children than he had of his two lovely daughters. They were so beautiful in their persons, so re fined in their manners, and Withal, so highly accomplished, they dressed with studied elegance, and no sound more boistrous than the cooing of the ringdove was ever heard to proceed from their rural lips, especially Lau ra the younger sister, who was gen tleness itself. Sophia, the elder, was equally mild, hut she was more learn oil, and consequently talked more, and sometimes a little faster than her sister, but then she contradicted with admirable politeness, and defended her opinions in such lady like, refined language, that no person could sup pose, she was fond of argument, or that she differed in opinion from her friends, merely to show her white teeth and superior information. Such an idea never occurred to the casual visitors of the family, and, as I said before, every body believed Mr. Spen ccr to be the happiest of fathers, for such beautiful creature must be the most obedient, attentive children in the world, and so Mr. Spencers friends often told him. lie was ob served to sigh sometimes, when thus congratulated, but as he always ad tuiried the justness of the praise be stowal upon his darlings, the sigh was supposed to prnreed from the re membrane? <f t.jic mother of thus* daughters, who had taken unwearied pains witu their education, and whom in person tie y resembled. The old gentleman was afflicted with the rheu matism, and seldom left his easy chair. It was observed, whenever a visitor accidentally called in* that his loot gmol was always placed conveniently , his hook, spectacles, and backgammon board always on the little table close beside him. the newspaper at hand, and every thing looking comfortable and cheerful. Consequently, as In had the misfortune to he a widower, aii this was to he imputed to the filial attention ot Ins children. Nobody seemed to r member, or i they did, they total!} overlooked the circum stance, that Mr. Spencer had an ‘or phan niece’ residing with him, hut 1 being behind the scenes, well knew that Matilda, or ‘cousin Matty* as she was called, was the moving spring or the dotn stic establishment, ii was Matty who attended to all the old gt ntleman*s wants and wishes. I was she who placed his little comforts and indulgences close beside him It was ‘cousin Matty* who read to, i*r played backgammon with him lor hours, when his dar'-liters were en gaged dressing, visiting, or other a musements*. Matty‘s sympathising eve, always .gave notice that she felt every twinge of her unde’s rheurna* tism, and her cheerful smile and ready anecdote, were always there to enliven his otherwise lonely hours She was alacrity itseif; il the old gen tleraan asked lor something whi< h wa at the other* end of tue apartmen Rural Cabinet. Warren ton, February 7, 18*29. +J 7 *• .ousi.i aiaiu ua.l iwougai u ot i re his elegant, and ug iter iiad heard the request. ‘Sophia, my dear,’ the fa ther would sometimes say, ‘come play me a tune n the piano forte: there’s; a darling; play the tune your mother j liked so well.’ ‘Oh, no, father, not! now,* breathed the gentle voice of the | amiable Sophia, <doi‘t you see l‘rn engaged in reading this divine poem; let Laura play O r you. Read it a-j loud to your ftte‘, will you? Ob, no, sir, don*t ask me, pray, you would, not like it. Laura, do play for pa pa.’ ‘Come, then, Laura, my dear, you will play for ine?’—‘Papa, I’m busy now striding these pearls, they; will all be I >st if [ leave them—why! <an‘t cousin Matty play, she has nothing else to do!’ Matilda Hies to the instrument, and ends the filial dis pute. The old father sighs deeply, but scarcely knows why. The girls are so gentle, so quiet, they Are only j thoughtless’—hut still the sigh would rise, and no heart but the heart of a parent can know the bitterness of such a sigh. How was it possible that, people could thus overlook the atnia-i ble and useful Matilda? wliv, she was not beautiful in her person, or showy in her manners. She was rather a plain girl, with nothing attractive in her Lee except its angelic expression, and that casual observers overlooked —as also the sweetness of her disposi tion, the activity of her mind, and the excellence of h<-r understanding, for she was retiring in her habits, s ldom showed herself in company, and; s arcely ever joined in rouversa i n.j Her elegant cousins looked upon ner as a sort of nobody* yet as a conveni 1 ence which their father could not do without, and as she was always kind & obliging to them, & took a deal of trouble <>ff their bands, they liked her well enough. There was one person in particular, who visited at Mr. Spencer’s house, win was equally ad aired by both the beautiful Hitters, and was al io a great favourite with heir father, because, in addition to uis own endearing qualities, the pa rents of Mr. Maynard had been bis most intimate IViend*— the young gentleman was charmed with Mr. spencer‘s daughters; and scarcely Knew which to admire most. llh be ame rather domesticated in th<* fami ly from being the son of an old friend, and had many opportunities of observ ing what a mere casual visitor would never have seen. He saw that the old gentleman, though the most indulgent of patents, and father ot the ‘most beautiful and gentle beings in the world,’ nevertheless looked up to his niece for all those little attentions which constitute the charm of domes lie life, and whi h are so gratifying to a parent from his children, and which it is so natural for children, especially daughters, to bestow, lie, like others, had long overlooked Ma tilda, or regarded her only as a good qeiet girl, who never said any thing, and took no pains to please, and his attention and admiration had been exclusively devoted to the forms, seraph countenances, and hi! ver tones of the ‘angelic sisters.* Lut this delusion was not always to con s inue. He saw them neglect their in valid father in pursuit of frivolous a nusements; he saw no expression of -,j mpathy in their dove-like eyes for his involuntary exclamations of pain; mo devoted attention to soothe and en liven his enforced confinement; no are for his personal comforts. I‘r all these their father looked to ‘cousin Matty,’ and these she bestowed in ( ilia- qoici uuotnrusive way, and with that peculiar manner, that carries conviction to the heart of an observer, 1 that they come direct from the heart, j*Cousin Matty’ began to look charm ing; her quiet manners began to be ; absolutely faciyating: he would seek (to meet her ejes when she was en-’ gaged in perhrmiiig some act of kindness to herjunclc, and convey by j his own, the feelings she inspired. ! Such a heart as Matilda’s i buM not I be insensible to Wve—such a heart is ! precisely the one most formed to fee| it; but it was long before the modest Matilda could believe that the elegant amiable Mr. Mtynard could ever | condescend tu think of her. Rut he did, and at length made his affection verballv known to her, anti asked her hand of tier uncle. ‘Ah,’ sighed the old gentleman, ‘yes, take Matty, but you’ll take all my comfort with her, but she deserves to be happy, so my ! selfishness shall not prevent it. ‘ls it j possible?* said the beautiful Sophia, j‘can Mr. Maynard really like cousin Matty? I never should have dreamed of sucli a thing, but I suppose her/us !sy ways about Rapa have made him believe she is very good , and all that, hut his taste is certainly very odd.* ‘Yes,’lisped the gentle Laura, of all things for him to choose Matty. I wonder wfat it’s for. If she goes a way, what shall /do fur somebody to read to and play for Papa. I wish Mr. Maynard would let her stay where she is.’ Both sisters, however, were too gentle and refined to give any audible expression to their dis content, and Matilda, though sincere ly sorry to leave her good uncle, re collected that she could visit him eve ry day, and still attend to his amuse ments and comforts —so she gave her hand to the man who possessed her heart. Can any one doubt of their being happy? INTEMPERANCE. To the People o f the United States—their account of the costs of intemperance. The people of the U, S. to intemper ance. Dr. To 50 000 000 Gallons of Spirits at 50cts. $28,000, 000 “1,344,000 000 Hours wast ed by drunkards, at 4 cts. 53,760,000 ‘the support ol 150.000 paupers 7,500,000 ‘losses bv the depravity of 45,000 criminals, unknown, but immense ‘disgrace and misery of 1,000.000 persons relatives of drunkards incalculable ‘ruin of forty-eight thousand souls annually infinite, unspeakable ‘loss by premature death ol 30,000 persons in the prime of life 30,000,000 ‘losses from the carelessness and mismanagement of intemperate seamen a gents, (§*c. unknown, but very great Certain pecuniary, loss atin. $120,000,000 To which add the other items in the account, Thus it appears beyond a doubt inde pendently of items which it is impossible to estimate, that our country pays or loos es at the rate of One hundred and twenty millions of Dollars per an. num, bv Intemperance'. This sum is five times as large as the revenue ol the U. States's government—it would pay oil our national debt in six months—it would build twelve such canals as the Grand K rie and Hudson canal, every year-it would support a navy four times as large as that of Great Hritairi—it is sixty times as much as the aggeratc income of all the principal religious charitable societies in Europe and America —it would supply every family on earth with a Bible in eight months —it would support a mission ary or teacher among every two thousand j souls on the globe! flow prosprtnug might this country be, —what blessings might it confer upon the world, if it were only relieved from the curse of intemper* ence! And is there no remedy for intemper ance? Yes. there is a remedy, simple easy and effectual.—-Let the temperate continue temperate and then when the in* temperate die (and they will all die soon) the curse will die with them. Christian fathers! Christian mothers! look at the bill which has been presented before you. and count the cost of intem perance—consider the pauperism, the crime, the waste of money and of life— consider, especially, that of all the adults that die in this land—this land, where you and your children must die—one out of every three goes to the bar of God, to answer for a sin, of which an apostle has said, those who commit it shall not inher it the kingdom of heaven. Are you will ing that your offspring through all genera tions, should be exposed to the danger of such a doom! Oh! then, awake from your apathy. Banish the accursed thing from your dwelling. Forbid your children to taste it, or touch it. Learn them to shun it as they would shun the viper—to shun it, as they would shun the worm that nev er dies Signs of Intempf.rf.nce. 1 If you have set times, days, or pla ces, for indulging yourself in drinking ar dent spirits. 2. If you find yourself continually in venting excuses for drinking or avail your self of every little catch or circumstance among your companions to bring out a “trea\” 3 If you find the desire of strong drink returning daily n J oi stated hours. 4. If you drink in secret, tienuse you are unwilling your friends or the world should know how much you drink. 5. If you are accustomed to drink, when opportunities present, as much as you can bear without public tokens ofin ebria'ion. 6. If you find yourself always irritated when efforts are made to suppress intem perance, and moved by some in stinctive impulse to make opposition. 7. Redrn ss of eyes, with a full red conn tenance and tremor of the ham!, especial ly when connected with irritability, petu lence and violent anger. Every man is in danger of becoming a drunkard, who is in the habit of drink ing ardent spirits on any of the following occasions:— 1. When he is warm. 2. When is cold. 3. When he is wet. 4 When he is dry. 5, When he in dull. 6- When he is live ly. 7: When he travels. 8. When he is at home. 9. When he is in company. 10. When he is alone. 11. When he is at work- 12. When he is idle. 13. Before meaN. 14. After meals. 15. When he gets up. 16. When he goes to bed. 17. On holidays. 18. On pub lic occasions. 19. On any day—-or, 20. Od any onasion. A GOOD NAME. ‘A good name is rather to be chosen than gr< at riches, or precious ointment •* It is the richest jewel of the soul—the purest treasure mortal things afford. Give me thi j deservedly, and I can face the frowns of fortune, can be pointed at as the child of poverty, and still know what it is to be happy. The storm mav indeed beat upon me, and the chilling blast a*sail me but charity will receive me into her dwelling, will give me food to eat and raiinnent to put on and will kindly assist me to raise anew roof over the ashes of the old one—and l shall again sit by my fireside, and 1 shall again taste the sweets of friendship and home. Great men, like great cities, have many crooked arts, and dark alleys in their hearts, whereby he that knows them may save himself much time and trouble. The seeds of repentance are sown in youth by pleasure, but the harvest is reaped in age by pain. No. m.