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BY W.M. JEFFERSOX & CO, VOLUME 3. mSggLLASiSQUg. Fill no Class for Me. Oh i comrades, fill no glass for me, To drown my soul in liquid flame ; For if 1 drank, the toast should be, To blighted fortune, health and fame. Yet, though I long to quell the strife That passion holds against my life, Still, toon companions may ye be, tint, comrades, fill no glass for uie ! I know a breast that once was light, Whose patient sufferings need my cart;— t know a heart that once was bright, But drooping hopes have nestled there. Then, while the tear-drops lightly steal From Wounded hearts that I should heal, Though boon companions ye may be, Ob! comrades, till uo gl’aß3 for me ! Wliett I whs young, I felt tbe tide Os aspirations nude filed j But manhood's years have won the pride My parents centered in their child. Theta, by a mother’s sacred tear, By a'.! that mem’ry should revere, Though boon companions ye may be, Oh Icomrades, fill no glass for me! Byron’s Farewell to his Wife. Fare thee well! and if forever, , Still forever faro thee veil ; Kven though unforgiving, never ’Gainst thee shall my heart rebel Would that breast were bared before thee ’Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o’er thus Which thou ne’er canst know again! Would ilint breast, by Mice glance 1 over, Kvery inmost thought can show ! Then thou worth!’nt at last discover ’Twhs not well to spurn it so. Though the world for this commend thee— ■ Though it smile upon the blow, Even its praises must offend thee, Fouiuled'on another’s wo— Though my many faults defaced mo, Could no other nrm be found Than the one which once embraced me. To inflict a cureless wound 1 Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive, not; Love may sink lv slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus lie tourn away: Still thine own its life retainoth, Still must mine, though bleading, bent; And tho undying thought which paiueth Is—that wo no more may meet. These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead ; Both shall live, but every morrow j Wko us from a widowed bed. And when thou would’t solace gather, When our child’s first accents flow, .Wilt tlum teach her to say ‘Father!’ Though his care she must forego ? ’ \V hen her little hands shall press thee. When her lip to thine is pressed, ’ Think of him whose prayer stiali bless thee. ••-* Think of him thydove has blessed! , Should her lineaments resemble Those thou nevermore inav’st see, ’ Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse } et true to me. ’All my faults perchance thou knowest. All my madness none can know ; All my hopes, where'er thou goest, Wither, yet witli thee they go. Kvery feeling hath been rliaken ; Bride, which not a world could bow, Bows to^tlice —by thee forsaken, Even my sous forsakes mo now. But ‘tis done—ad words are idle— Wards from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way without the will— Fare thee well—thus disunited, Turn from every nearer tie. .Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted. More than this 1 scarce can die. To Victor Hugo. Silt:—Y'our letier to the London Star lias found its way into the Ainericati press, for which it was doubtless intended. If nr- At enthusiasm could win justice from her *’ .strict course, yours might have lmd some .effect upon the destiny of John Brown. But all the eloquence of ger,iu6 cannot take the blackness from treason or the e ilia son stain from murder. It requires something more than an outburst <>f fine poetry to k tun: crime into patriotism—something /nore than impetuous denunciations to /•.heck the solemn footsteps of justice. Before this time, you will have learned slkat Virginia has viudieatcd the majesty .of laws; and that Jeliu Brown aiul his lunhappy confederates have passed to a higher tribunal for judgment. You will learn, slim, that cut of nearly thirty millions of people, spreading^over a great continent, *hmre w handful of men and “women who have jtjgßeiyed the news of this exe cution “Itmval. North ana South, the great bedy of our people acquiesce in Abe fate of John Brown, as an inevitable I necessity—a solemn obligation to tlie laws. Like you, wo may feel compassion for the man who waa brave even m his crimes; but he .was a great criminal, and so perish ed. God have mercy *n his soul! The impulses of humanity which prompted yutv 1“. M, ** wi *** thy from ovary true heart. But uo out hurst of compassion, no denunciation from abroad, is likely to influence a people who j have learned to govern .their passions while Kiev pt*ect their rights. When, in the order of your/ancy. Waafl. jiiyton stood before vou—lmmortal with A Wee&ly to Koiae Literature-, Agriculture, Ifaroiga and Domestic News, Wit, Humor, &c. heavenly greatness —your intellect should have gone a step farther, and informed it self more correctly regarding the Consti tution, to establish which he gave the best years of a glorious life. You would have learned that eacli State of this Union is sovereign in itself—in its laws and in its powers to punish crimes committed on its soil. To establish the distinct sovereignty oi these Statjs and link them in one beauti ful confederation, concessions were made and obligations of forbearance were enter ed upon to which the sacred honor of our lievolutionary fathers was pledged—not for themselves alone, but for their chil dren’s children. These obligations make slavery with us a forbidden subject. Washington himself was born in a slave holding State—lived and died the master of Slaves. Neither on the btt!e field, the j floor of Congress, nor in tho Presidential chair, did he suggest the possibility of re volt against the solemn compact made in the Constitution. Had' treason, like that, of old John Brown, broken out in his time, he would undoubt edly have done what James Buchanan is doing now. Maintaining bis august posi tion as the chief of a great confederation, our President respects the rights of a sovereign State, over whose internal laws he has no authority, and leaves to her courts the punishment or pardon of the treason which broke out in her territory. W asbiugton could have done no more than this, crown him with the halo of poc try ns you will. ! Virginia, a severe! n State, has mairi ; tained her authority. John Brown is dead. I Proven gfiilty of treason, condemned of . atrocious murders, he has atoned fer these j crimes on the scaffold. It is impossible for : a man to stamp upon the verge of eternity, ! into which he must be launched by a vio : lent death, without filling every good heart ; with grief and compassion. But when he is : brave, when bis path of bfood has been j lighted by the lurid torch of fanaticism or I iusaui'y, Such minds as yours, affluent,- j earnest, and poetical, may be expected to clothe his crimes in white garments, and forgetting the murderer in the brave man, sing ] ;e ms io the martyr of a vivid iinagin -1 ation only. I am of a sex and of a* nature to whom these feeling are kindred. I cannot think of old John Biown upon tiie scaffold with out a shudder through all my being. 1 cannot think of a mar. made in the image ; of bis God, suffering an ignominious death without thrills of pain. But I find it im | possible to fix my mind on the scaffold of i ibis old man. It goes back to his v ictims at Harper’s Ferry to the women made widows by the outbreak of a single morn ing—to the orphans, who had never wrong ed him; so cruelly bereaved by bis crime. 1 see ihe two sons who blindly followed his lead fall martyrs to his rebelious spirit. I looked beyond all this, far away into the beamiiul South, and instead of an old man on the gallows, 1 see thousands of tin’ own country women, gentle, good and love ly, given up a prey to wild insurrection—l seej those murderous pikes, manufactured with such cruel forethought, piercing their bosoms—l heai the. cries ot children call ing for their mothers who will never an swer them again—l see proud, strong men struggling against tho brute strength ot their own household servants—this pic ture strikes my compassion dumb, and I can only cover uiy face and pray God to have mercy on the old mail’s soul! John Brown was tried, condemned, and executed as a traitor—a guard of Ameri can citizens stood around the scaffold, sad ’ at heart, but steady m their devotion to the laws. The Legislature of a great Common wealth sat, deliberately, after his sentence, and pronounced it just. The federal Union, in which thirty millions of souls throb, stood by in solemn silence while tho treason ot this man was expiated. Out of all these thirty millious of intel ligent. educated men, who make their own laws and abide by them, not one hundred thousand can he found to join with you iu condemning the execution of John Brown, while every good heart among them must sympathize in the pity for his fate, which j mingles so eloquently w ith your deuuu- j ciatioAS. fcjomfl there may be—nay, certainly are —who wouiilaJd bitterness to your words j and wind them, like poisoned arrows, far and wide, if they had the power. But these are tho very men and women who instigated his crime, who urged him on to revolt, and shrunk away into safe places when the gloom of his deeds settle v around him-meu and women who make money by incendiary books, sermons, aod lectures; and while they incite crimes which coin gold for themselves, have no courage to inpet the danger when it arises. But thou sands and tens of thousands share your pity for the old man—guilty and niad as he was— while they put your denunciations aside with calm forheaianoe, feeling how little knowledge you possess ou a subject which agitates you so deeply. But if the great mass ot my countrymen ’ join in your pity for the unhappy man, it j is pot because they condemn his execution j or sympathise with his revolt. Probably 1 (twenty-nine millious and nine hnndred | I theusnud of our people look upon the exe-, j cation ts a solemn atonement for tho crimes | i it! w|iu*lt t!t<v tmvf im Our GREENESBORO’, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY MORNING, MARCH 28, 1860. country is divided into three political par ties, none of which will endorse this rebel lion or condemn the course justice has taken. When you call upoi> the Federal Union to interpose its authority against the laws of Virginia, there is not a schoolboy throughout the land—for to all such our Constitution is a text-book—who would not smile at your idea that the general govern ment has any right to interime with the legal acts of an independent Common wealth, or that tho majority of a single State would interfere, if it had the power. Your picture of John Brown’s trial, is a painful one. It must he a hard heart which does not swell with compassion as it presents itself: ‘’Upon a wyetched pal let, with six half gaping wounds, scarcely conscious of surrounding sounds, bathing his mattrass with blood, and with the ghost ly presence of his two dead sous forever before him.” Thus yon place the unhap py man before the world, forgetting that those ghastly wounds are but the evidence ot a more ghastly crime—the fearful wit nesses by which his guilt was confirmed. It is, indeed, a terrible picture you have drawn, but the streets at Harper’s Ferry had one more terrible still. There, inno cent men, all unconscious of danger, were shot down like wild animals. There, wid ows, newly bereaved, knelt moaning over their dead, anil orphan children cried a loud for the parents that John Brown had so ruthlessly murdered. This picture you have forgotten to place side by side with the ether; hut we who love oar countrymen have sympathy for the innocent as well as pity lor the guilty. You complain that his trial was hurried, that the jury sat only forty minutes, and that all the proceedings were indecorously urged forward ; hut were they so swift as tlie rule halls that shot down unarmed men in the streets at Harper’s Ferry?/ Were they so ruthless as John Brown’s midnight descent upon a sleeping village in Kansas, where husbands and sons were dragged out of their beds, and shot down within hear ing of tlieir wives and mothers? Is this the man whom yon speak of as “pious, austere, animated with the old puritan spir it, inspired by the spirit of the. Gospel, while you call his companions “sacred martyrs?” _ This, sir, is tho blasphemy of a highly wrought imagination—excuse me fur say ing—not original with you; for wilder and more irreligious men than i trust you are have gone to greater lengths, and blas phemed more .eloquently than this. They nave pronounced John Brown’s gallows holier than the crors, and held up his rebel lion as a rebuke to the unfinished mission of oar Lord and Saviour. “At this moment,” you say, “America attracts tlie attention of the whole world.” Not at this moment only, hut ever since she become a free nation this has hee.u the, truth. To all the kingly governments of Europe she has always been a contrast and an irritation—a subject for criticism, an 1, whenever au opportunity for blame arose, of denunciation. It is not strange, then, that a rebellion in part fostered in Europe should call forth bitter remarks there. Let thejudges of Charlestown and the slaveholding jurors and the whole popula tion of Ya. pouder it well—they are watch ed—they are not alone in t .e world. They have pondered on it well, and the execution of John Brown lias taken place. If the whole American lie public were responsible for Ins death, as you say it is— it would simply be responsible for a most painful duty, solemnly performed; and re ceived with mourning resignation even by ’the most merciful, because of its impera tive necessity. Justice demanded the life of this man. for lie had taken human life, necessity demanded it, for lie was the spir it and soul of a treason that threatened the foundations of our nationality—that would forever have been plotting more bloodshed so long as he lived ou earth. You call the execution of Brown a “brotherhood of blood’’—you say that ‘the faces of our splendid republic will he. bound together by the running noose that hangs from the gibbet.” If this w ere true—if any brotherhood of blood is connected with tins painful event, it rests neither with the “whole” American republic nor with the State, of Virginia ; hut ! its red track may he. found across the foam of the Atlantic, linking Exeter Hall with the seusation pulpits on this side ofthe ocean. The weight of John Brown’s blood lies with England and the confeder ates of England, who have by tin ir teach ings, their money and crafty sympathy, led the old man onto death. What but this “band pf blood” did the people of Eng land expect when they gathered penny contributions throughout the length and breadth of their land, in order to urge this iucendiary spirit forward in America ? l’enny contributions—as it Liberty were a Tyrant or a Pauper, to be intimidated or bribed by tlieir infamous c >pper. What wag this contribution intended for? i |An insult, or a fund for incendiary uses ? [lf sent to the United Sates for the pur pose of inciting insurrection, or in any way opposing our law, then that money lias | been tho price of John Brawn’s blood, and 1 wa the firsts:rand of the halter that hung stem his gallows. What did the people of Scotland expect j when they rent tho American flag iu twain and bung i*. tattering and quitering. beneath the indignity over the head of an American woman, who smiled benignly under the insult, and received alms after it was offered ? Out of such acts and such insults, the halter of John Browq was wo ; to such insidious encouragement the old man owes bis death. Was there an English man or woman living who supposed that a great nation would allow the tieason thus instigated on a foreign soil to ripen in her bosom, and fail to punish it with all the force of her just laws ? It is the people of England, then, with a very small party in the United States who are united by this ‘bond of blood.’ It red dens the vestrrients of our sensation minis ters, not the ermine of our judges. The sacramental tables of our political churches arc encritnsoned.with it, and the places once sacred are overshadowed by the old man’s crime. In these places when you call John Brown ‘the champion of Christ,’ it may be considered meek and holy language; but the great mass of our American people will turn from such impiety with a shudder. Y’our letter closes with an appeal to our republic, calling it tbe sister of the French republic. How litrio you know of tbe great land you compliment and revile in the same breath. Liberty with us subjects herself to the laws which she lias inspired, arid he who revolts against those laws sins against her and the whole people whom siie protects. She sprang another Minerva from the mindsjof patriot statesmen, modest ly clad, serene and beautiful; she presides over our republic, and has so far protected it from anarchy or oppression. It is that your republic may have no sis terhood with those of France that such insurrections as you denominate ‘a -sacred day,’ are met with the whole force of our laws. Were they permitted to obtain a foothold in the land, our Republic might indeed become sister to those of France, and perish as they did. Had the insunection at Ilarpei’s Ferry succeeded, the scenes of anarchy which left France lying like an unnatural mons ter satiated with the blood ot her own children might have been repeated here. But we are not yet prepared to see innocent babes shot down in battalions, or fair girls compelled to drink blood frotliiig from a yet warm human heart, in order to redeem their fathers from the hatchet. We are not prepared to see mu ‘pastors slaughtered at tbe foot of their own altars, or hear coarse songs thundered forth from the solemn arches of our temples. It is to save our country from consanguinity with republics founded on atrocities like these that our laws cruJi rebellion when it first creates itself. Rest, sir, upon your knees before oar stnrspnngled banner. While onr pulpits are turned into political forums, and tlieir inuiiste.rs preach rapine and bloodshed, the foot of our flagstaff is, perhaps, the most sacred place for devotion that we have to offer you. There, certainly, a pure spirit slionld inspire your prayers. Yes, kneel reverently, and plead that the great coun try protected by its folds may fling off the poison so insiduously circulated m her bos om by foreign nations. The spirits of our immoital stat< smen will be around you when that prayer is uttered ; and, if you are, in truth a patriot one heavenly voice will whisper, iu tones that must be changed if they .do not penetrate to the depths of yoursouls—•! know no North.no South, no East, no West, nothing but my coun try and Kneel, kneel, I beseech you, sir, and let this patriotic sentiment be the burden of your prayer ! Millions of souls on this site the Atlantic will swell the -breath, as it passes your lips, into a cloud of sacred incense, which the spirit of Washington, and the mighty ones who have joined him sha!l waft to the feet of Jehovah and grow holier from the work. Ann S. Stkphkxs. New York, Dec. 27 1859. Gals, Don’t do it. There is a practice, quite prevalent among young ladies ofthe present (lay, which we are old-fashioned enough to consider very improper. We allude to tlieir giving daguerreotypes of themselves to young men who are merely acquaintances. We con sider it indelicate in tho highest degree. We are asfonsilied that any young girl should hold herself so cheap as this. With au accepted lover it is of course all right. ! Even in this ease tho likeness should be. returned if the engagement should by any misunderstanding cease. If this little para graph should meet the. eye of any young girl who is about to give her daguerreotype to a gentleman acquaintance, let her know that the remarks made by young men when together, concerning what is perhaps on her part but a piece of ignorance or iinpm dence, would, if she heard them, cause her j cheeks to crimson with shame and anger. I‘Wore it a sister of ours,’ we have often i j said with a flashing eye—were it a sister j of ours, but that not being the case, wc give this advice to anybody’s sister who needs! it, most anxiously desiring that she should | at all times preserve her dignity and self- j respect.— Advice to Young Women. ty We might pardon ti e ungrateful if j j they would forget who are their enemies; l as speedily and completely as they often I forget win, me their friends. What is Trouble. A company of Southern ladies were one day assembled in a lady’s parlor, when the conversation chanced to turnon the subject of earthly affliction. Each had her story of peculiar trial and bereavement to relate, except one pale, saa-looking woman, whose lusterless eye and dejected air showed that she was a prey to the deepest melancholy. Suddenly arousing herself, she said in a hollow voice,‘Not one of you know what trouble is.’ ‘Will you please, Mrs. Gray,’ said the kind voice of a lady who well knew her story,‘tell the ladies-what you call trouble/’ ‘I will if you desire it,’ she replied,‘for I have seen it. My parents possessed a competence, and my girlhood was surroun ded by all the comforts of life. I seldom knew an ungratified wish, and was always gay and lighl-liearted. I married at nine teen one I loved more than all the world besides. Our home was retired, but the sunlight never fell on a lovelier one, or a happier household. Years rolled on peace fully. Five children sat around our table, and a little curly head still nestled in my bosom. One r.iglit, about sundown, one of those fierce black storms came on, which are so common to our Southern climate. For many hours the rain poured down incessantly. Morning dawned, bet still tlie elements raged. The whole savannah seemed afloat. The little stream near our dwelling became a raging toirenf. Before we were a ware of it our house was sur rounded by water; I managed with my babe to reach a little elevated spot, on which a few wide spreading trees were standing, whose dens foliage afforded some protection, while rny linsband and sons strove to save what they could of our prop el ty. At last a fearful surgo swept away my husband, and bo never rose again.— Ladies, no one ever loved a husband more : but that was not trouble. ‘Freiently rny sons saw tlieir danger, and the struggle for life became the only consideration. They were as bravo, lov ing boys as ever blessed a mother’s heart and I watched their efforts to escape, with such agony as only mothers can feel. They were so far off I could not speak to them, but I could see them closing nearer and nearer to each other, as their little island grew smaller and smaller. ‘The sullen river raged around the liugo trees ; dead branches, upturned trunks, wrecks of houses, drowning cattle, masses of rubbish, all went floating past us. My boys waved tlieir hands tome, then pointed upward. I knew it/was a faicwell signal, and you, mothers, can imagiuo my anguish. I saw them all perish, and yet —that was not trouble. ‘I hugged my babe close to my heart, and when tlie water rose to uiy feet, I climbed into the low branches of the tree, and so kept retiring before it, till an All powerful hand stayed tho waves that they should come no further. I was saved. All my worldly possessions were swept aw ay ; all my earthly licipcs blighted—yet that was riot trouble. ‘My babe was all I had left on earth. I labored night and day to support him and myself, and sought to train him iu the right way ; but as he grew older evil com panions won him away from ine. lie ceased to care for his mother’s counsels ; he would sneer at her entreaties and agon izing prayers. He left my humble roof, that lie might be unrestrained in tlie pur suit of evil, and at last, when heated by wine one night, be took the life of a fellow beir.g, and ended bis own upon the scaffold. My heavenly Father had filled my cup of rorrow before; now it ran over. That was trouble, ladies, such as I hope His mer cy’ will spare you from ever experiencing.’ There was no dry eye among her listen ers, and the warmest sympathy was expies sed for the bereaved mother, whoe sad history had taught them a useful lesson.— Selected. The Sagacity of Dogs. A gentleman who owned a water spaniel, made a bet with one of his friends that he could hide a piece of money in the woods and his dog wouid find it. He did so, and sear his dog for it. The dog was gone a very long time, because a mail came along the road on horse-back, and the horse turned it over with his foot. The inan took it up, and the dog followed him, till he came to the place where he was to slop, and seeing the deg, he said it was a strange dog that had followed, and he fed him. However after he had fallen asleep the dog stoic his pantaloons and carried them to his master. The man who owned the pantaloons, followed the dog to the house. lie was angry at first, but when he had learned tlie circumstances, lie was satisfied, and praised the sagacity of the dog. Once a gentleman, residing in one of tjie interior counties of this State, owned a pointer dog of great sagacity. A friend of tliis gentleman, a sheriff of tfic county, . while on his way to pay him a visit, lost j his pocket-book containing several fbou | sand dollars. He did not know of bis loss I till he had arrived at his friends’ plantation Os course he was greatly distressed and ! concerned, more especially as the money j was not his. On telling hi* friend of it, he | raid hm dog coubl find it although it waa I dark. “File Jog took the road tb gentle man fiad trau Bed. and after going vine Terms—sl,so Always In Advance. four miles, found it and brought it to his master. Guilty—But Drunk.—The business of the court in one of the frontier territo ries was drawing to a close, when one morn ing a rough sort of a customer was arraign ed on a charge of stealing. After the clerk had read the indictment to him, he put the question: “Guilty or not guilty?” “Guilty but drunk, your honor.** answer ed the prisoner. “What’s the plea?” asked the judge, half dozing on the bench. “lie pleads guilty, but says he was drunk,” replied the clerk. “What’s the case?” “May it please your honor,” said the prosecuting attorney, “the man is regular ly indicted for stealing a large sum of mon ey from the Columbus Hotel.” “He is hey ? and pleads—-” “He pleads guilty, but drunk ?” “Guilty but drunk—this is a most extra ordinary plea. Young man you are-cer tain that you were drunk ?” “Yes, sir.” “Where did you get your liquor?” “At Sterrett's.’’ ‘ Did you get none anywhere else?” “Not a drop sir.” “You got drunk on his liquor, and after wards stole the money?” “Yes, sir.” “Mr. Prosecutor,” said the judge, “do me the favor to enter in that man's case a nolle prosequi. That liquor at Sterrett's is enough to make a man do anything dir ty ; I got drunk on it myself, tho other day, and stole all Sterrett's spoons! Re lease the prisoner, Mr. Sheriff. Adjourn the court!” What Ait id Him. —The last number of tho Knickerbocker has a good anecdote of a man who rarely failed to go to bed in toxicated and disturb his wife the whole night. Upon his boiug charged by * friend that he never went to bed sober, he indignantly denied tbe charge, and gave the incideots of one particular night ia proof. “Pretty soon after I got into bed, my wife said, ‘Why husband, what is the mat ter with you ?—You act strangely.’ “Theie’s nothing tiie mattar with me,*’ said I, nothing at all.’ “I’m sure there is,’ said she, ‘you don't act natural at all. Shan.t I get up and got something for you ?’ “And she got uj„ lighted a candle and enme to the hedriuo to look at me, shading the light with her hand. “1 knew there was something strange about you,’ said she, ‘you are sober!’ “Now. this is a fact, and my wife will swear to it, so don’t you slander me any more, by say ing that I haven’t been to bed sober in six months, ’cause I have.” A School Kiss. •Who gave that kiss?’ the teacher cried] •Twas Harry Hall,’John Jones replied. ‘Come here to me,’ old Switchem cried, And solemnly he shook his head ; ‘What evil genius prompted you So rude a thing in school to do I’ Said Harry: ‘I can hardly say Just how it happened. Any way. To do a sutn she whispered me*; And round my face her curls, you see—• That is her cheek—and I—and I Just kissed her, but I don’t know why.’ Paddy’s Peas. —Some twenty five or thirty years ago, an Irishman. William Patterson, left Erin’s green isle, to find a home in America. Having friends in thee’ region of Fair Haven, Ohio, l>e made his way thither. Taking dinner one day at the bouse of Dr. P. , lie was treated to the American dish, wholly new to him of green com iu the ear. Unwilling how ever to be thought green himself, or being anxious to display unusual sagacity, after having eagerly devoured the savory corn his nppetite still unnp-peas-ed, he passed up the despoiled cob with the very natural re quest--‘Please put some more pate on my stick!’ A clergyman, being deprived for non conformity, said ‘it should cost an hundred men their tires.’ This alarming speech being reported, he was taken before a magistrate, and examined, when he explain ed himself by saying his meaning was, that ‘be intended to practice physic’ Sundry Useful Receipts, A hot shove! held over varnished furn iture will take out white spots. A bit of glue dissolved in skimed milk and water will restore crape. Ribbons of any kind should be washed in cold soap suds, and rinsed. If your flat-irons are rough rubthem well with iiuesalt, and it will make them smooth Oat straw is best for filling beds. It should be changed once a year. If you are buying carpet for durability choose small figures. \ bit of soap tubbed on tbe hinge* of doors, will prevent their creaking. Scotch snuff, put on the botes where crickets come out will destroy then; Wood ashes and common salt, wet with water, will stop tho creeks of a stove, and prevent the smoke from escaping. A galluu of strong lop put iu a boirelef tiu a ill make it as soft at tain water. NUMBER 18.