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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—