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MUTISM MTSMIT (BMISm
TERMS, $2,00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE.
(Original jMrtj.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
STANZAS.
Oh: trailer than hope or than pleasure,
Than the tints of the bow fleeting fast,
I. ,he dear, but too vanishing pleasure,
Our early loves won from the past.
Thou hast beauty, and spells of a power,
Which the heart that has suffered like mine,
Oan never forget in the hour,
That shows me the falsehood in thine.
• | >s ! for thy self, when the season
Os beauty is over, and years
shall demand the calm office of reason,
And a love which in faith soothes its fears.
When the beauty so precious is fading,
And the heart at the last feeling lone,
In despair, its own folly upbraiding,
geeks ihe love which shared none of its own.
When that hour with its pang is upon thee,
And thou look’st o’er the wreck of thy bliss,
Thou wilt feel ‘tis iby guilt has undone thee,
And that hour will avenge me for this!
Leontes.
For the Suit hern Literary Gazette.
BONNET.
||j s eye was tearless, but his cheeks were wan ;
There sorrow long had set her heavy hand;
Yet was his spiiit noble, and a bland
And sweet expression o’er his features ran !
fun had not tutored him to sullenness,
The world’s scorn not subdued the natural
man, —
The sweet milk of his nurture was not less,
because the wo; id had met him with its ban :
||,■ is above revenges, though he drinks
The hitter draught of malice and of hate ;
\nd still, though in the weary st rife he sinks,
They cannot make him murmur at his fate—
He suffers, and he feels the pang, but proves
The conqueror, though he falls, for still he loves.
Delta.
iT'ljr ftonj (Ftllrr.
From Dickens’ Household Words.
DUST;
(JR, UGLINESS REDEEMED.
On a murky morning in November,
wind north-east, -a poor old woman
with a wooden leg was seen struggling
against the fitful gusts of the bitter
breeze, along a stony zigzag road, full
of deep and irregular cart-ruts. Her
ragged petticoat was blue, and so was
her wretched nose. A stick was in her
lelt hand, which assisted her to dig and
hobble her way along; and in her other
hand, supported also beneath her with
ered arm. was a large rusty iron sieve.
Dust and fine ashes filled up all the
wrinkles in her face ; and of these there
were a prodigious number, for she was
eight v-three years old. Iler name was
Peg Dotting.
About a quarter of a mile distant,
havinga long ditch and a broken-down
fence as a foreground, there rose against
the muddled-gray sky, a huge Dust
heap ot a dirty black colour, —being,
in fact, one of those immense mounds
of cinders, ashes and other emptyings
from dust-holes and bins, which have
conferred celebrity on certain suburban
neighbourhoods of a great city. To
ward this dusky mountain old Peg Dot
ting was now making her way.
Advancing toward the Dust-heap by
an opposite path, very narrow, and
just reclaimed from the mud by a thick
layer of freshly-broken flints, there
came at the same time Gaffer Double
year. with his hone-bag slung over his
shoulder. The rags of his coat flutter
ed in the east-wind, which also whistled
keenly round his almost rimless hat,
and troubled his one eye. The other
eye. having met with an accident last
“eck, he had covered neatly with an
oyster-shell, which was kept in its place
by a string at each side, fastened
through a hole. He used no staff to
help him along, though his body was
nearly bent double, so that his face was
constantly turned to the earth, like that
ot a tour-footed creature. He was nine-
tv-seven years of age.
As these two patriarchal labourers
approached the great Dust-heap, a dis
cordant voice hallooed to them from
the top of a broken wall. It was
rneant as a greeting of the morning,
and proceeded from little Jem Clinker,
a poor deformed lad, whose back had
l"en broken when a child. Ilis nose
and chin were much too large for the
r, ’ s t of his face, and he had lost nearly
all his teeth from premature decay.—
Cut he had an eye gleaming with intel
ligence and life, and an expression at
°nee patient and hopeful. lie had
balanced his misshapen frame on the
top of the old wall, over which one
shriveled leg dangled, as if by the
weight of a hob-nailed boot that cover
ed a foot large enough for a plowman.
hi addition to his first morning’s
salutation of his two aged friends, he
now shouted out in a tone of triumph
and selfgratulation, in which he felt as
sured of their sympathy—“ Two white
skins, and a tor’shell-un !”
h may be requisite to state that lit
he Jem Clinker belonged to the dead
c' at department of the Dust-heap, and
n °w announced that a prize of three
sbius, in superior condition, had reward
him for being first in the field, lie
w as enjoying a seat on the wall, in or
'*er to recover himself from the excite
,lu ‘ u t of his good fortune.
At the base of the great Dust-heap
, ° two old people now met their young
friend— a sort of great-grandson by
adoption—and they at once
Joined the party who had by this time
assembled as usual, and were already
J "\v at their several occupations.
Hut besides all these, another indi
v ‘dual, belonging to a very different
( '* US! S formed a part of the scene, though
a ppearing only on its outskirts. A
’ aiiul ran along at the rear of the Dust
leaP, and on the banks of its opposite
V| !<• slowly wandered by—with hands
’ jasped and hanging down in front of
| llni , and eyes bent vacantly upon his
hands— the forlorn figure of a man, in
a very shabby great-coat, which had
e vidently once belonged to one in the
position of a gentleman. And to a
a mem mmAk mmm m wmm, Am i® mb m mmml mrmdmwL
gentleman it still bekmged—but in
what a position. A scholar, a man of
wit, of high sentiment, of refinement,
ai.d a good fortune withal—now by a
sudden “ turn of law” bereft of the last
only, and finding that none of the rest,
for which (having his fortune) he had
been so much admired, enabled him to
gain a livelihood. His title-deeds had
been lost or stolen, and so he was be
reft of everything he possessed. He
had talents and such as would have
been profitably available had he known
how to use them for his new purpose;
but he did not; he was misdirected ;
he made fruitless efforts, in his want of
experience ; and he was now starving.
As he passed the great Dust-heap, he
gave one vague, melancholy gaze that
way, and then looked wistfully into
the canal. And he continued to look
into the canal as he slowly moved
along, till he was out of sight.*
A Dust-heap of this kind is often
worth thousands of pounds. The pre
sent one was very large and very val
uable. It was in fact a large hill, and
being in the vicinity of small suburb
cottages, it rose above them like a great
black mountain. Thistles, groundsel,
and rank grass grew in knots on small
parts which had remained for a long
time undisturbed; crows often alighted
on its top, and seemed to put on their
spectacles and become very busy and
serious; Hocks of sparrows often made
predatory descents upon it; an old
goose and gander might sometimes be
seen following each other up its side,
nearly mid-way ; pigs rooted around
its base, —and now and then, one bold
er than the rest would venture some
way up, attracted by the mixed odors
ot some hidden marrow-bone envelop
ed in a decayed cabbage-leaf-—a rare
event, both of those articles being un
usual oversights of the Searchers below.
The principal ingredient of all these
Dust-heaps is fine cinders and ashes;
but as they are accumulated from the
contents of all the dust-holes and bins
ot the vicinity, and as many more as
possible, the fresh arrivals in their orig
inal state present very heterogenious
materials. W e cannot better describe
them than by presenting a brief sketch
ot the different departments of the
Searchers and Sorters, who are assem
bled below to busy themselves upon
the mass of original matters which are
shot out from the carts of the dust- men.
The bits of coal, the pretty numer
ous results of accident and servants’
carelessness, are picked out, to be sold
forthwith ; the largest and best of the
cinders are also selected, by another
party, who sell them to laundresses, or
to braziers (for whose purposes coke
would do as well;) and the next sort
of cinders, called the breeze , because
it is left after the wind has blown the
finer cinders through an upright sieve,
is sold to the brick-makers.
Two other departments, called the
“ soft-ware” and the “ hard-ware” are
very important. The former includes
all vegetable and animal matters —eve
rything that will decompose. These
are selected and bagged at once, and
carried off as soon as possible, to be
sold as manure for plowed land, wheat,
barley, &c. Under this head, also, the
dead eats are comprised. They are
generally the perquisites of the women
searchers. Dealers come to the wharf,
or dust-field, every evening ; they give
sixpence for a white cat, fourpence for
a coloured cat, and for a black one ac
cording to her quality. The “ hard
ware” includes all broken pottery —
pans, crockery, earthenware, oyster
shells, &c., which are sold to make new
roads.
The bones are selected with care,
and sold to the soap-boiler. He boils
out the fat and marrow first, for special
use, and the bones are then crushed and
sold for manure.
Os rags, the woollen rags are bagged
and sent off for.hop-manure ; the white
linen rags are washed, and sold to make
paper, &c.
The “ tin things” are collected and
put into an oven with a grating at the
bottom, so that the solder which unites
the parts melts, and runs through into
a receiver. This is sold separately ;
the det ached pieces of tin are then sold
to be melted up with old iron, &c.
Bits of old brass, lead, &e., are sold
to be melted up separately, or in the
mixture of ores.
All broken glass vessels, as cruets,
mustard-pots, tumblers, wine-glasses,
bottles, &c., are sold to the old-glass
shops.
As for any articles of jewelry,—sil
ver spoons, forks, thimbles, or other
plate and valuables, they are pocketed
off-hand by the first finder. Coins of
gold and silver are often found, and
many “ coppers.”
Meantime every body is hard at work
near the base of the great Dust-heap.
A certain number of cart-loads having
been raked and searched for all the dif
ferent things just described, the whole
of it now undergoes the process ofsifting.
The men throw up the stuff, and the
women sift it.
“When I was a young girl,” said Peg
Dotting—
“ That’s a long while ago, Peggy,”
interrupted one of the sifters : but Peg
did not hear her.
“When 1 was quite a young thing,”
continued she, addressing old John
Doubleyear, who threw up the dust in
to her sieve, “it was the fashion to wear
pink roses in the shoes, as bright as that
morsel of ribbon Sally has just picked
out of the dust; yes, and sometimes
in the hair, too, on one side of the head,
to set otf the white powder and salve
stuff. I never wore one of these head
dresses myself-—don’t throw up the
dust so high, John—but I lived only
a few doors lower down from those as
did. Don’t throw up the dust so high,
I tell ’ee—the wind takes it into my
face.”
“Ah ! There ! What’s that ?” sud
denly exclaimed little Jem, running as
fast as his poor withered legs would al
low him toward a fresh heap, which
had just been shot down on the wharf
from a dustman’s cart. He made a
dive and a search —then another—then
one deeper still. “ I’m sure Isaw f it!”
cried he, and again made a dash with
both hands into a fresh place, and be
gan to distribute the ashes and dust and
rubbish on every side, to the great mer
riment of all the rest.
“ What did you see, Jemmy ?” ask
ed old Doubleyear, in a compassionate
tone.
“ Oh, I don't know,” said the boy,
“only it was like a bit of something
made of real gold !”
A fresh burst of laughter from the
company assembled followed this some
what vague declaration, to which the
dustmen added one or two elegant epi
thet’s, expressive of their contempt of
the notion that they could have over
looked a bit of anything valuable in the
process of emptying sundy dust-holes,
and carting them away.
“Ah,” said one of the sifters, “ poor
Jem’s always a-fancying something or
other good—but it never comes.”
“ Didn’t 1 find three cats this morn
ing ?” cried Jem, “ two on ’em white
’uns! Dow you go on!”
“ I meant something quite different
from the like o’ that,” said the other ;
“I was a-thinking of the rare sights all
you three there have had, one time and
another.”
The wind having changed, and the
day become bright, the party at work
all seemed disposed to be more merry
than usual. The foregoing remark ex
cited the curiosity of several of the
sifters who had recently joined the
“companythe parties alluded to were
requested to favour them with the recit
al ; and though the request was made
with only a half-concealed irony, still
it w r as all in good-natured pleasantry,
and was immediately complied with.
Old Doubleyear spoke first:
“ I had a bad night of it with the
rats some years ago—they runn’d all
over the floor, and over the bed, and
one on ’em eome’d and guv a squeak
close iuto my ear—so 1 couldn’t sleep
comfortable. 1 wouldn’t ha’ minded
a trifle of it, but this was too much of
a good thing. So 1 got up before sun
rise, and went out for a walk; and
thinking I might as well be near our
work-place, 1 slowly come’d down this
way. I worked in a brick-field at that
time, near the canal yonder. The sun
was just a rising up behind the Dust
heap as I got in sight of it, and soon
it rose above, and was very bright;
and though 1 had two eyes then, 1 was
obligated to shut them both. When 1
opened them again, the sun was higher
up ; but in bis haste to get over the
Dust-heap he had dropped something.
You may laugh —1 say he dropped
something. Well—l can’t say what
it was in course—a bit of his-self, I
suppose. It was just like him—a bit
on him, I mean—quite as bright—just
the same—only not so big. And not
up in the sky, but a-lying and sparkling
all on fire upon the Dust-heap. Thinks
I—l was a younger man then by some
years than 1 am now —I’ll go and have
a nearer look. Though you be a bit o’
the sun, maybe you won’t hurt a poor
man. So I walked toward the Dust
heap, and up I w r ent, keeping the piece
of sparkling fire in sight all the while.
But before I got up to it, the sun went
behind a cloud—and as he w ent out
like, so the young ’un he had dropped,
went out arter him. And I had to
climb up the heap for nothing, though
1 had marked the place vere it lay very
precizely. But there was no signs at
all on him, and no morsel left of the
light as had been there. I searched all
about.; but found nothing ’cept a bit
’o broken glass as had got stuck in the
heel of an old shoe. And that’s my
story. But if ever a man saw any
thing at all, I saw a bit ’o the sun ; and
1 thank God for it. It w r as a blessed
sight for a poor ragged old man of three
score and ten. which was my age at that
time.”
“Now, Peggy!” cried several voices,
“tell us what you saw. Peg saw a bit
o, the moon.”
“ No,” said Mrs. Dotting, rather in
dignantly ; “ I’m no moon-raker. Not
a sign of the moon was there, nor a
spark of a star —the time l speak on.”
“ Well—go on, Peggy—go on.”
“ I don’t know as I will,” said Peggy.
But being pacified by a few good
tempered, though somewhat humourous,
compliments, she thus favoured them
with her little adventure :
“ There was no moon, or stars, or
comet, in the ’versal heavens, nor lamp
nor lantern along the road, when I
walked home one winter’s night from
the cottage of Widow Pin, where I had
been to tea with her and Mrs. Dry, as
lived in the almshouses. They wanted
Davy, the son of Bill Davy the milk
man, to see me home with the lantern,
but I wouldn’t let him, ’cause of his
sore throat. Throat!—no it wasn’t
his throat as was rare sore —it was —
no, it wasn’t—yes, it was—it was his
toe as was sore. Ilis big toe. A nail
out of his boot had got into it. I told
him he’d be sure to have a bad toe, if
he didn’t go to church more regular,
but he wouldn’t listen; and so my
words coine’d true. But, as 1 was a-say
ing, I wouldn’t let him by reason of his
sore throat — toe , I mean —and as I
went along, the night seemed to grow
darker and darker. A straight road,
though, and 1 was so used to it by day
time, it didn’t matter for the darkness.
Hows’ever, when I come’d near the bot
tom of the Dust-heap as I had to pass, the
great dark heap was so ’zackly the same
as the night, you couldn’t tell one from
t’other. So, thinks I to myself —what
was I thinking of at this moment ?
for the life o’ me I can’t call it to mind;
but that’s neither here nor there, only
for this—it was a something that led
me to remember the story of how the
devil goes about like a roaring lion. —
And while 1 was a-hoping he might not
be out a roaring that night, what should
I see rise out of one side of the Dust
heap, but a beautiful shining star, of a
violet colour. 1 stood as still, as stock
still as any I don’t-know-what! There
it lay, as beautiful as a new-born babe,
all a-shining in the dust! By degrees
I got courage to go a little nearer—
and then a little nearer still—for, say
CHARLESTON, SATURDAY, SEPT. 14, 1850.
I to myself, I’m a sinful woman, I know,
but I have repented, and do repent con
stantly of all the sins of my youth and
the backslidings of my age —which
have been numerous ; and once 1 had
a very heavy backsliding- —but that’s
neither here nor there. So, as I was
a-saying, having collected all my sin
fulness of life, and humbleness before
Heaven, into a goodish bit of courage,
forward I steps —a little furder—and a
leetle furder more —?i-til I come’d just
up to the beautiful shining star lying
upon the dust. Well, it was a long
time I stood a-looking down at it, be
fore I ventured to do what I arterwards
did. But at last I did stoop down
with both hands slowly —in case it
might burn, or bite—and gathering up
a good scoop of ashes as my hands
went along, 1 took it up, and began
a-carrying it home, all shining before
me, and w ith a soft blue mist rising up
round about it. Heaven forgive me!
I was punished for medling with what
Providence had sent for some better
purpose than to be carried home by an
old womanlike me, whom ithad pleased
Heaven to afflict with the loss of one
leg, and the pain, ixpinse, and inconve
nience of a wooden one. Well 1 was
punished ; covetousness had its reward;
for, presently, the violet light got very
pale, and then went out; and when I
reached home, still holding in both
hands all 1 had gathered up, and when
I took it to the candle, it had burned
into the red shell of a lobsky’s head,
and its two black eyes poked up at me
with a long stare—and I may say, a
strong smell, too—enough to knock a
poor body down.”
Great applause, and no little laughter,
followed the conclusion of old Peggy’s
story, but she did not join in the mer
riment. She said it was all very well
for young folks to laugh, but at her age
she had enough to do to pray ; and she
had never said so many prayers, nor
with so much fervency, as she had
done since she received the blessed
sight of the blue star on the Dust-heap,
and the chastising rod of the lobster’s
head at home.
Little Jem’s turn now came: the
poor lad was, however, so excited by
the recollection of what his compan
ions called ” Jem s Ghost,’ that he was
unable to describe it in any coherent
language. To his imagination it had
been a lovely vision, —the one “bright
consummate flower” of his life, which
he treasured up as the most sacred
image in his heart. He endeavoured,
in wild and hasty words, to set forth,
how’ that he had been bred a chimney
sweep ; that one Sunday afternoon he
had left a set of companions, most on
’em sweeps, who were all playing at
marbles in the church-yard, and he had
wandered to the Dust-heap, where he
had fallen asleep ; that he was awoke
by a sweet voice in the air, which said
something about someone having lost
her way ! —that he, being now wide
awake, looked up, and saw with his
own eyes a young Angel, with fair
hair and rosy cheeks, and large white
wings at her shoulders, floating about
like bright clouds, rise out of the dust!
She had on a garment of shining crim
son, which changed as he looked upon
her to shining gold. She then exclaim
ed, with a joyful smile, “1 see the right
way !” and the next moment the Angel
was gone !
As the sun was just now very bright
and warm for the time of year, and
shining full upon the Dust-heap in its
setting, one of the men endeavoured to
raise a laugh at the deformed lad, by
asking him if he didn’t expect to see
just such another angel at this minute,
who had lost her way in the field on
the other side of the heap; but his
jest failed. The earnestness and devout
emotion of the boy to the vision of re
ality which his imagination, aided by
the hues of sunset, had thus exalted,
were too much for the gross spirit of
banter, and the speaker shrunk back
into his dust-shovel, and affected to be
very assiduous in his work.
Before the day’s work was ended,
however, little J em again had a glimpse
of the prize which had escaped him on
the previous occasion. lie instantly
darted, hands and head foremost, into
the mass of cinders and rubbish, and
brought up a black mass of half-burnt
parchment, entwined with vegetable
refuse, from which he speedily disen
gaged an oval frame of gold, containing
a miniature, still protected by its glass,
but half covered with mildew from the
damp. He was in ecstacies at the
prize. Even the white cat-skins paled
before it. In all probability some of
the men would have taken it from him,
“to try and find the owner,” but for
the presence and interference of his
friends Peg Dotting and old Double
year, whose great age, even among the
present company, gave them a certain
position of respect and consideration.
So all the rest now went their way, leav
ing the three to examine and speculate
on the prize.
These Dust-heaps are a wonderful
compound of things. A banker’s
cheque for a considerable sum was
found in one of them. It was on Her
ries &; Farquhar, in 1847. But bank
ers’ cheques, or gold and silver articles,
are the least valuable of their ingredi
ents. Among other things, a variety
of useful chemicals are extracted. Their
chief value, however, is for the making
of bricks. The fine cinder-dust and
ashes are used in the clay of the bricks,
both for the red and gray stacks.—
Ashes are also used as fuel between the
layers of the clump of bricks, which
could not be burned in that position
without them. The ashes burn away,
and keep the bricks open. Enormous
quantities are used. In the brickfields
at Uxbridge, near the Drayton Station,
one of the brickmakers alone will fre
quently contract for fifteen or sixteen
thousand chaldrons of this cinder-dust,
in one order. Fine coke, or coke-dust,
affects the market at times as a rival;
but fine coal, or coal-dust, never, be
cause it would spoil the bricks.
As one of the heroes of our tale had
been originally—before his promotion
—a chimney-sweeper, it may be only
appropriate to offer a passing word on
the genial subject of soot. Without
speculating on its origin and parentage,
whether derived from the cooking of a
Christmas-dinner, or the production of
the beautiful colours and odors of exotic
plants in a conservatory, it can briefly
be shown to possess many qualities both
useful and ornamental.
When soot is first collected, it is
called “ rough soot,” which, being sift
ed, is then called “ fine soot,” and is
sold to farmers for manuring and pre
serving wheat and turnips. This is
more especially used in Herefordshire,
Bedfordshire, Essex, &c. It is rather
a costly article, being fivepence per
bushel. One contractor sells annually
as much as three thousand bushels; and
he gives it as his opinion, that there
must be at least one hundred and fifty
times this quantity (four hundred and
fifty thousand bushel-; per annum) sold
in London. Farmer Smutwise, of
Bradford, distinctly asserts that the
price of the soot he uses on his land is
returned to kim in the straw, with im
provement also to the grain. And we
believe him. Lime is used to dilute
soot when employed as a manure. —
Using it pure will keep off snails, slugs,
and caterpillars from peas and various
other vegetables, as also from dahlias
just shooting up, and other flowers; but
we regret to add that we have some
times known it kill or burn up the
things it was intended to preserve from
unlawful eating. In short, it is by no
means so safe to use for any purpose
of garden manure, as fine cinders and
wood-ashes, which are good for almost
any kind of produce, whether turnips
or roses. Indeed, we should like to
have one fourth or fifth part of our gar
den-beds composed of excellent stuff
of this kind. From ail that has been
said, it will have become very intelli
gible why these Dust-heaps are so val
uable. Their worth, however, varies
not only with their magnitude, (the
quality of all of them is much the same,)
but with the demand. About the year
1820, the Maryleborne Dust-heap pro
duced between four thousand and five
thousand pounds. In 1832, St. George’s
paid Mr. Stapleton five hundred pounds
a year, not to leave the Heap standing,
but to carry it away. Os course he was
only too glad to be paid highly for sel
ling his Dust.
But to return. The three friends
having settled to their satisfaction the
amount of money they should probably
obtain by the sale of the golden minia
ture-frame, and finished the castles
which thev had built with it in the air,
the frame was again infolded in the
sound part of the parchment, the rags
and rottenness of the law were cast
away, and up they rose to bend their
steps homeward to the little hovel
where Peggv lived, she having invited
the others to tea, that they might talk
yet more fully over the wonderful good
luck that had befallen them.
“ Why, if there isn’t a man’s head in
in the canal!” suddenly cried little J em.
“ Looky there! —isn’t that a man’s
head?—Yes; it’s a drowned man !”
“A drowned man, as I live !” ejacu
lated old Doubleyear.
“ Let’s get him out, and see !” cried
Peggy. “ Perhaps the poor soul’s not
quite gone.”
Little J em scuttled off to to the edge
of the canal, followed by the two old
people. As soon as the body had
floated nearer, Jem got down into the
water, and stood breast high, vainly
measuring his distance, with one arm
out, to see if he could reach some part
of the body as it was passing. As
the attempt was evidently without a
chance, old Doubleyear managed to
get down into the water behind him,
and holding him by one hand, the boy
was thus enabled to make a plunge
forward as the body was floating by.
He succeeded in reaching it, but the
jerk was too much for his aged com
panion, who was pulled forward into
the canal. A loud cry burst from both
of them, which was yet more loudly
echoed by Peggy on the bank. Double
year and the boy were now struggling
almost in the middle of the canal, with
the body of the man twirling about
between them. They would inevitably
have been drowned, had not old Peggy
caught up a long dust-rake that was
close at hand—scrambled down up to
her knees in the canal—clawed hold of
the struggling group with the teeth of
the rake, and fairly brought the whole
to land. Jem was the first up the bank,
and helped up his two heroic compan
ions; after which, with no small diffi
culty, they contrived to haul the body
of the stranger out of the water. Jem
at once recognized in him the forlorn
figure of the man who had passed by in
the morning, looking so sadly into the
canal as he walked along.
It is a fact weli known to those who
work in the vicinity of these great
Dust-heaps, that when the ashes have
been warmed by the sun, cats and kit
tens that have been taken out of the
canal and buried a few inches beneath
the surface, have usually revived ; and
the same has often occurred in the case
of men. Accordingly, the three, with
out a moment’s hesitation, dragged the
body along to the Dust-heap, where
they made a deep trench, in which
they placed it, covering it all over up
to the neck.
“ There now,” ejaculated Peggy, sit
ting down with a long puff to recover
her breath, “ he’ll lie very comfortable
whether or no.”
“Couldn’t lie better,” said old Double
year, “even if he knew it.”
The three now seated themselves
close by, to await the result.
“ 1 thought I’d a lost him,” said Jem,
“ and myself too ; and when I pulled
Daddy in alter me, I guv us all three
up for this world.”
“ Yes,” said Doubleyear, “it must
have gone queer w ith us if Peggy had
not come in with the rake. How’ d’yee
feel, old girl 1 for you’ve had a narrow’
escape too. I wonder we were not too
heavy for you, and so pulled you in to
go with us.”
“ The Lord be praised !” fervently
ejaculated Peggy, pointing toward the
pallid face that lay surrounded with
ashes. A convulsive twitching passed
over the features,, the lips trembled,
the ashes over the breast heaved, and a
low moaning sound, which might have
come from the bottom of the canal, was
heard. Again the moaning sound, and
then the eyes opened, but closed almost
immediately.
“ Poor dear soul,” whispered Peggy,
“ how he suffers in surviving. Lift
him up a little. Softly. Don’t be
afeard. We’re only your good angels,
like—only poor cinder-sifters—don’tee
be afeard.”
By various kindly attentions and
maneuvres such as these poor people
had been accustomed to practice on
those who were taken out of the canal,
the unfortunate gentleman was gradu
ally brought to his senses. He gazed
about him, as well he might—now
looking in the anxious, though begrim
ed, faces of the three strange objects,
all in their “weeds” and dust—and then
up at the huge Dust-heap, over which
the moon was now slowly rising.
“ Land of quiet Death !” murmured
lie, faintly, “or land of Life, as dark
and still—l have passed from one into
the other; but which of ye lam now
in, seems doubtful to my senses.”
“ Here we are, poor gentleman,”
cried Peggy, “ here we are all friends
about you. How did ’ee tumble into
the canal ?”
“ The Earth, then, once more !” said
the stranger, with a deep sigh. “ I
know where I am, now. 1 remember
this great dark hill of ashes—like
Death’s kingdom, full of all sorts of
strange things, and put to many uses.”
“Where do you live?” asked old
Doubleyear. “ Shall we try and take
you home, sir ?”
The stranger shook his head mourn
fully. All this time, little Jem had
been assiduously employed in rubbing
his feet and then his hands ; in doing
which, the piece of dirty parchment,
with the miniature-frame, dropped out
of his breast pocket. A good thought
instantly struck Peggy.
“Run, Jemmy dear —run with that
golden thing to Mr. Spikechin, the
pawnbroker’s—get something upon it
directly, and buy some nice brandy—
and some Godfrey’s cordial—and a
blanket, Jemmy —and call a coach, and
get up outside on'it, and make the
coachee drive back here as fast as you
can.”
But before Jemmy could attend to
this, Mr. Waterhouse, the stranger
whose life they had dreserved, raised
himself on one elbow, and extended his
hand to the miniature-frame. Directly
he looked at it he raised himself higher
up —turned it about once or twice—
then caught up the piece of parchment,
and uttering an ejaculation which no
one could have distinguished either as
of joy or of pain, sank back fainting.
In brief, this parchment was a por
sion of the title-deeds he had lost; and
though it did not prove sufficient to
enable him to recover his fortune, it
brought his opponent to a composition,
which gave him an annuity for life.—
Small as this was, he determined that
these poor people, who had so gener
ously saved his life at the risk of their
own, should be sharers in it. Finding
that what they most desired was to
have a cottage in the neighbourhood of
the Dust-heap, built large enough for
all three to live together, and keep a
cow, Mr. Waterhouse paid a visit to
Manchester Square, where the owner
of the property resided. He told his
story, as far as was neeeful, and pro
posed to purchase the field in question.
The great Dust-Contractor was much
amused, and his daughter—a very ac
complished young lady—was extreme
ly interested. So the matter was
speedily arranged to the satisfaction
and pleasure of all parties. The ac
qaintance, however, did not end here.
Mr. Waterhouse renewed his visits very
frequently, and finally made proposals
for the young lady’s hand, she having
already expressed her hopes of a pro
pitious answer from her father.
“ Well, Sir,” said the latter, “ you
wish to marry my daughter, and she
wishes to marry you. You are a gen
tleman and a scholar, but you have no
money. My daughter is what you see,
and she has no money. But I have ;
and therefore, as she likes you and I
like you, I’ll make you both an offer.
I will give my daughter twenty thou
sand pounds,—or you shall have the
Dust-heap. Choose!”
Mr. Waterhouse was puzzled and
amused, and referred the matter en
t rely to the young lady. But she was
for having the money, and no trouble.
She said the Dust-heap might be worth
much, but they did not understand the
business.
“ Very well,” said her father, laugh
ing, “then, there’s the money.”
This was the identical Dust-heap, as
we know from authentic information,
which was subsequently sold for forty
thousand pounds, and was exported to
Russia to rebuild Moscow.
Imperial Anecdote. Napoleon,
when sailing in a yacht in Holland, en
tered into conversation with the steers
man, and asked him how much his ves
sel was worth? “Mv vessel!” said
the man; “it is not mine: I should be
too happy if it were: it would make
my fortune.” “Well, then,” said the
emperor, “I make you a present of it;”
a favour for which the man seemed not
particularly grateful. His indifference
was imputed to the phlegmatic tem
perament natural to his countrymen;
but this was not the case. “What
benefit has he conferred on me?” said
he to one of his comrades, who was
congratulating him; “he has spoken to
me, and that is all: he has given me
what was not his own to give—a fine
present, truly!” In the mean time,
Duroc had purchased the vessel of the
owner, and the receipt was put into the
hands of the steersman, who, no longer
doubting the reality of his good for
tune, indulged in the most extravagant
demonstrations of joy. —Las Cases.
Smith was arrested in Bos
ton the other day, for fighting.
THIRD VOLUME-NO. 20 WHOLE NO 120.
(©tnrral (Erledit.
THE FEMALE ASSASSIN.
AS RELATED BV PRINCE CAMBACERES ARCHCHAN
CELLOR Os THE FRENCH EMPIRE.
About the close of the Government
of the Directory, the keepers of a hotel
garni in the Rue de L Universitie, wait
ed on the Minister of Police, and in a
state of great agitation, stated that one
of his lodgers, whom he named, had
been murdered on the preceding night.
He had engaged the lodging about six
o’clock in the evening, describing him
self as an inhabitant of Melun, who
had come to Paris for a day or two on
business. After ordering his chamber
to be prepared for him, he went out,
saying that he was going to the Odeon,
and would return immediately after the
performance. About midnight he re
turned, but not alone ; he was accom
panied by a young and beautiful female,
dressed in male attire, whom he stated
to be his wile, and they were shown to
the apartment which had been prepared.
In the morning, continued the hotel
keeper, the lady went out; she appear
ed to be fearful that her husband should
be disturbed ; and she desired that
no one should enter the room until her
return.
Several hours elapsed, and she did
not make her appearance ; at mid-day
considerable surprise was manifested
at her prolonged absence, and the ser
vants at the hotel knocked at the gen
tleman’s door, but without receiving
any answer, it was now discovered
that the lady had locked the door, and
carried the key away with her. The
door was broken open, and the unfor
tunate man was found dead in his bed.
A doctor was sent for, and he declared
it to be his opinion that the man’s death
had been caused by a blow of a ham
mer, adroitly inflicted on the left tem
ple. The female never again appear
ed ; she was sought for in vain.
In about a month after, a similar mur
der was committed. The victim was
likewise a man from the country, and
his death was produced in the manner
l have before described. The affair
excited considerable consternation in
Paris. Within another fortnight a third
crime of the same kind was committed;
and, in all these atlairs, the mysterious
female in man’s attire was involved. —
It is scarcely credible, but nevertheless
true, that eighteen or twenty of these
extraordinary murders were committed
with impunity ! In every instance the
little that was seen of the woman, ren
dered it difficult for any one to give a
minute desciption of her person —all
the information that could be obtained
was, that she was young, very pretty,
little, and well-formed. This descrip
tion of course answered that of many
women in Paris besides the murderess.
Meanwhile, Napoleon arrived from
Egypt, and possessed himself of the
reins of Government. Being informed
of the attrocities which had been com
mitted in the Capital, he directed that
active measures should be taken for the
detection of the criminal. He spoke
to Fouehe on the subject. At that
time the Capital wasfilled with Fouche’s
spies. One of these spies, a fine-look
ing young man, about twenty, was one
evening accosted in tl\e street by a per
son whom he had lirsi supposed to be
a very handsome youth. He passed
on; but suddenly the thought struck
him that the person who had spoken to
him was a woman in disguise, and
he immediately recollected the female
assassin.
“ It is she !” he exclaimed : “I have
discovered her, and my fortune is made!”
He turned back and entered into con
versation with her. She at first denied
her disguise, but finally acknowledged
it, and the young man prevailed on the
nymph to accompany him home, in the
character of a young relation from the
country.
“ Where do you live ?” she inquired.
He named a hotel in which one of
the mysterious murders had been com
mitted.
“Oh. no ; I cannot go.”
“Why?”
“ Because I am known there.”
These words confirmed the suspicions
of the police agent. He alluded to his
property ; and mentioned two hundred
louis which his uncle had given him,
of which he said he had spent the twen
tieth part, adding.
“ Well, then, it you will not go to
my lodgings,, where else shall we go ?”
The female mentioned a hotel, to
which they immediately repaired.—
The young man was about to leave the
room to order supper, when the woman
called him back.
“Will it be safe,” said she, “to leave
your money all night at your lodgings?
Is it not likely you may be robbed ?
Suppose you go and bring it here ?”
“Ah !” thought the young man, “the
veil is now raised ;” and then, without
the least appearance of suspicion, he
thanked her for her prudent hint, and
went away, under pretext of going to
fetch the money.
He immediately repaired to the of
fice of the Police Minister, and gave
information of the discovery he had
made. Furnished with the sum of one
hundred and eighty louis, he returned
to the house where he had left the wo
man. He was accompanied by several
agents of the police, who stationed
themselves at the door of the apart
ment.
The murderess and her pretended
lover sat down to supper. She request
ed him to hand her handkerchief, which
she had left on a console behind her
chair. He rose to get it, and during
the instant his back was turned, she
poured a powerful narcotic into hisglass.
He did not perceive this, and drank
off his glass of wine hastily; but he
had no sooner swallowed it, than he ex
claimed—
“ What wretched wine !”
The lady made the same complaint.
A second glass was poured out, and
pronounced better.
Meanwhile, the young man felt his
head becoming confused, and his lips
growing stiff. With well-acted concern,
the woman rose, and threw her arms
around his neck, apparently with the
intention of supporting his drooping
head.
At this moment he mechanically
raised his hand, and he felt the ham
mer in the side pocket of the coat worn
by the female. He felt conscious ot
the danger of his situation; he attempt
ed to rise and leave the room, but his
strength failed him. He tried to speak,
but his tongue was paralyzed. By one
desperate effort, he made a faint out
cry, and then fell on the floor, in a state
of utter insensibility.
The woman drew the little hammer
from her pocket, and laid it on the
ground. She then searched her victim,
took his purse, and deposited it in the
pocket of the waistcoat she wore. She
placed his head in the requisite position
to receive the deadly blow r , and she
raised her right arm for the purpose of
inflicting it, when the fatal hammer was
suddenly wrested from her grasp. The
police agents opportunely entered the
room at that moment.
On her first examination she gave
the following romantic account of her
self. She was of a respectable family,
and of irreproachable conduct; but
having bestowed her affections on a
young man who had treacherously for
saken her, she had from that moment
vowed implacable hatred to ail the
male sex; and the murders she had
committed were actuated by no other
motive than vengeance for the injury
inflicted on her feelings.
An effort was made to screen the
wretched victim from the punishment
of the law. But when asked why she
committed robbery as well as murder,
she could give no satisfactory reply. —
A pardon was therefore refused. This
is certainly one of the strangest cases
on record.
HOW SOUTHERN EDITORS ARE
WRONGED.
The following remarks, which we ex
tract from an article in the Southern
Star, published at Huntsville Ala., are
in the right spirit:
Verily we have been in the habit for
the last thirty years of looking north
ward for information —for literature —
for knowledge. Examine the cata
logues of many of our Colleges—ask
where they procured Teachers —the an
swer is—at the North. Examine the
title-page of any volume you may
meet with—where published ? The fer
tile press of the Harpers—of Appleton
& Co.—of Putnam issued it—we have
not any publishers at the South —book-
are not printed here. Inquire of any
Southern man what is his periodical—
and where it is published, and who
edits it. You will find it is a North
ern Periodical—Northern Publisher —
Northern Editor. Many of the North
ern periodicals are excellent, better
than many of the South —this we do
not deny. We wish to be distinctly
understood as not under-rating many
Northern Magazines. We are not dis
satisfied that some of them have nu
merous subscribers at the South—we
wish such to be the case so long as sim
ilar ones are not published at the South.
Information is a great and glorious
thing, we love it, w r e covet it; if we
cannot get it at the South, give it us
from the North—send it down to us
friends, through your able periodicals,
we will swallow r it and be thankful. But
when magazines are published at the
South, similar to those of the North —
when similar legal religious, literary,
medical, political, Journals exist at the
South, then for charity’s sake—for love’s
sake—for decency’s sake —patronize
them.
W e are tired of seeing “ Columbian's
and Great West's ,” and others of that
ilk—“ Medical Journals,” “ Literary
Organs,” Youth's Cabinets, inundating
and overwhleming the Land. They
are too far from home—it is too warm
here for them—we sympathize with
them, seeing them so faraway—we are
fearful their “mothers do not know they
are out.” This fair sunny land of the
South is not suited for them—they look
better in Northern families—in the
hands of Northern men, women and
children. It is a pleasant sight, to look
in upon a Northern Farmer’s home
during a cold winter’s night. Cold
white snow upon the ground—wind
roaring and howling—bitter, cheerless,
desolate without —comfortable, happy,
joyous within. The old man—the
“ good man” reposing comfortable by
the fire after a hard days’ honest work,
reading “Wilson 6z Co’s Despatch” or
“Brother Jonathon” —the old lady,after
her day of work, perusing the “ Boston
Ladies Magazine”—the young children
attentively engaged with the Youth’s
Cabinet. Upon the table in the mid
dle of the room, a Bible remains in
pious stillness —pictures upon the walls
representing Northern scenery—north
ern utensils scattered around—northern
newspapers folded away neatly and
placed upon the side-table. This is
right and proper, as it should be—we
bid northern periodicals, so found and
upon such duty, God a peed. We care
not how attractive the Ladies Magazine
may be in a Northern man’s home —
w'e love to know’ that it is well embel
lished —fine portraits in it—magnificent
engravings and original matter. But
ice do not love to see them scattered
over the sunny South, when we know
that Southern Magazines equally as at
tractive, equally as well embellished,
equally as well edited are rotting and
rusting and becoming moth-eaten in the
Office where they were originally pub
lished.
Now’ let it be understood that we
mean no harm in all this, as we have
already stated. We wish Northern
Editors prosperity, and Northern Maga
zines popularity. At the same time
however, we are endeavouring to pre
vent starvation from the lot of
Southern Editors. If a Northern Mag
azine has a club in any place, let the
club remain, let it be increased, until
an equally able Southern Magazine is
originated. We have no ill-will to
northern papers—many of them we
“ puff” because we think they deserve
it. We intend to continue to do so—