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Pcuotcft to Citcmturc, Science, anb tl)c Sons of temperance, <D5b iTellomslpp, iilasonrn, auii ©eneval 3ntclliqcmc. VOLUME I. Slliifii lOIVIf. THE FATHERLESS. Speak softly to the fatherless ! And cjreck the harsh reply That sends the crimson to the cheek, The tear-drop to the eye. They have the weight of loneliness In this rude world, to hear; Then gently raise the fallen hud, The drooping floweret spare. Speak kindly to the fatherless The lowliest of their band, God keepeth, as the waters, In the hollow of his hand. *Tis sad to see life’s evening sun Go down in sorrow’s shroud, But sadder still when morning’s dawn Is darkened by the cloud. Look mildly on the fatherless! Ye may have power to wile Their hearts from sadden’d memory, By the magic of a smile ! Deal gently with these little oues— Be pitiful—and He, The friend and father of us all, Shall gently deal with tliee ! m mm&w w &&as s. THE RETURN. BY ALFRED CROWQUIL. The wind was north-east! Every body knows that the wind can’t help being frightfully and bitingly cold when it comes from that quarter, said to be the place to which all the ingenuity of man has never been able to get him an introduction. I do not see the use of it, if he could, for taking a long jour ney, when he knows at starting he will only be received in a. cold and cutting manner, is folly. The wind, then, was north-east, as near as could be guessed in the dark. If you turned your face to that quarter, you might almost feel certain it was, as the whistling sharpness seized upon all prominences with such a numbing feel that it made your profile a matter of doubt. Your face became too rigid for a smile, and the tips of l° ur hngers painfully obtrusive ; rubbing your lands was a labor in vain ; to put them into \ T our pockets is, in such cases, most advisable, as it cjblodgesthe cold air which creeps in the most insidious manner all over you —ay, into your very oois, notwithstanding your patent straps.. ic wind was positively north-east, and vvork e a " a J * n the most industrious manner, to do ciu it to the quarter from whence it came, un f°lng all that a soft south-west had been doing, ln a darn P way, for days. t turned the mud into hardbake, and licked up rh^ 1101 P uddles as and c°uld, and then fin l!i e od hy framing and glazing them in the and most fanciful manner. The roads ev^ 0 a p as die SC) fi d rock, giving a sound to k LI ? t o()tste P enough to startle itself! Knock ! weiu\\ k noL ‘k-—hammer! hammer! hammer! W ° men a ‘ ld Children ’ never liked'"'™, ,ivin g where th . e y are with ihnir ’ not have come up to it, even It was as if E'3T ble f ulti P Ued knockin f‘ inrr n 0,-., ,• c^]( f-hearted north-east was mak samm?r°anl 1C C ? at a s,lort nolicc > to bul 7 the and autumn in. T nn energetic ad vocate for the P , r i u , . ke an energetic au its sparkling C ° Si , ng inovement > 11 P ut U P so thit th & Uist ‘"°rk shutters over every pane, up for a VUK)t en °nes might as well have been in tho T lat you could see of the goods and wares C a e r . Bhopkee P ers ’ windows. FS anc * Wor king-men began to belabor mann” ve ® with both hands, in the most insane E Ve £, er die fashion of devout disciplants. c arr\i seeme d to aim at unusual velocity, o n A out die delusion that they were “ putting hrearh j tcam ’” the volumes of smoke-like e Ver Ki roded palpably around them. Yet °dy appeared pleased, although the tears did come into their eyes, and their respiration be came alternately hot and cold. It was certainly bracing and invigorating, send ing the warm blood to the heart, and giving birth to pleasant feelings; thoughts of home and com fortable firesides, and pitiful thoughts for those without them. A north-east wind appears a cold and boisterous visitor, yet it blows open die doors of our hearts, and the doors of shelter for the poor, that only open at its bidding. Even in its severity it brings charity in its hand, and, with its cold finger, points out to us our duties, too oftenTiog iected at other times. So the north-east wind is not so bad after all. The wind commemorated in the foregoing thoughts was a frolicsome visitor of a few winters past, and, having gained its point, went the way of all winds ; what particular way that is I do not pretend to know; for, although we are pretty cer tain as to where it comes from, if there be any faith in weather-cocks, where it goes to is a puzzle. Long coaches were then on the road, at their very best. I, and a companion to whom I shall have much pleasure in introducing you, had rubbed the frostiness off the window-glass of one of those conveyances, which was taking us down the road some forty miles or so, and seen all that I have written about. My companion—for it is with him this tale has to do, and not with me— was a fine hale old man, between seventy and eighty—so his family Bible said ; but he was a boy. Age had rumpled his cheek into a perfect cobweb of wrinkles, but had left the rosy color of youth almost as bright as ever. His well turned leg was as active, and his eye as clear, as at middle age. Time seemed to have pegged away at the tough old man, until he found it labor in vain, and then given it up in despair, to take his own time about his journey. The truth was, he could not touch his heart; when that is young man is never old. He was an Independent man in the village where he was born, to which locality we were bound. The same roof sheltered his gray hairs that had sheltered him when sleeping in his cradle. He watching for the London coaches, bent over the same gate that he had climbed up far that purpose as a child. His life, with few exceptions, had been one of calm and sunshine, undisturbed in his cottage with the turmoil and vanity of the great world. I used to call him uncle, from a distant relation ship by marriage ; I did not care how distant. — There is always a pleasure and a pride in delud ing oneself into a relationship with the good. He, at the utmost stretch of his jocosity, called me “my lord,” as I and the lord of the manor were the only two seen about in black, except, indeed, the gentleman who came over for an hour and a half on Sunday mornings to preach, from some distant village. He being only a very small visitor, his coat was very little seen. My uncle, in the kindness of his heart, excused him: “Poor fellow,” said he, “he has two more churches to attend to!” We had progressed some miles on our journey, and found the cold getting more severe at every mile; consequently, upon the first stoppage to change horses, we alighted to knock some life and feeling into our feet. At the door of the little inn, a small covered cart drew on one side to give us room. After ordering something warm, we popped into the large kitchen, invited by the roar ing fire wheih illuminated the whole place. — There, around its blaze, sat some poor, shudder ing wretches, who, we understood, were being passed to their parishes, in the little cart which we had seen on our entrance. One more par ticularly interested us, from her extreme old age, which, from appearance, must have been upwards of seventy. The cold seemed to have made her insensible; her almost equally frozen companions were attempting, by every attention, to bring back some life to the poor old creature. SAVANNAH, GA., THURSDAY, JUNE 7, 1849. “fcbe’s blind, too, poor old soul,” said one rough looking fellow, who was rubbing her bony hand between his palms, as he saw our pitying looks; “ she’ll never live the way down, I’m sure; it’s come on so bitter, and that tilt draws the cold through so dreadful.” Where is she going to, poor soul?” said my pitying uncle, as he drew the back of his hand across his eyes. “ Thirty miles on, sir,” answered the man; “the village of My uncle turned his eyes towards me; —the very village—his own ! “ I do not know her face ,” said he. “ 1 believe, sir, she’s been a long time away in foreign parts, or somewhere : I don’t know right ly,” continued the man. “Poor thing! poor thing,” muttered the kind old man; “she must not go on—it would be worse than murder. Landlady,” said he, turn ing to the kind-hearted woman who had brought in a cup of hot tea for the poor creature, “ Black Will’s coach comes through here in an hour, she must go with him. I’ll pay. Put her inside.— He’ll set her down : he’s a kind-hearted fellow. Do what you can for her, there’s a good soul.” “As he said this in a hurried tone, he kept gazing upon the death-like features of the old woman, and passing from one poor shivering ob ject to another his hot glass of brandy and water. He drew out his purse, and put some money into the hand of the landlady. “ Give her what you can to do her good,” continued he, and I’ll see after her to-morrow. I live where she is going to. Wrap her up, you know, and—” “ Beady, sir,” says the coachman ; “the other insides are in.” We bowled away. For a few minutes we did iiot utter a word ; at last the kind old man began to rub his hand, and exclaim, “ Well, gettingout for so short a time as that circulates one’s blood. I leel all of a glow—as warm as a toast!” No doubt ol it, but not a drop of the brandy and water had passed his lips. ######*# “Money!” said my uncle, placing the pegs leisurely and thoughtfully in the cribbage board, as we sat toasting our shins before the sparkling logs on his hearth, after our cosy supper, on the sell-same bitter night. “Money, my dear boy, is given to us as almoners. Woe betide us if we break our trust! The reward for charity is un questionable, is immediate ; witness the glow that pervades the heart when you give to those who are in sorrow and distress. On the contrary, the continual misery of the foolish ones, who close their hands and their hearts against the call of the needy : scraping a mountain of wealth, that they may die worth so much money, but not one bles sing. They drag the worthless weight with them to the verge of the unfathomable future, and it sinks them ‘ Deeper and deeper still.’ “If I ever feel indisposed, or out of humor, as the world calls it (and we are all liable to me grims,) I go among my fellows, and give my mite, where I know it is a blessing, and rightly be stowed, which is very easy to find out in .such a small community as this is. You would be as tonished what excellent physic I find it. Mind, my dear boy,” continued he, “I don’t preach, nor wish to give you lessons, for you have forgot ten more than I, in my simple way, ever knew. But these thoughts, after our painful scene of to night, will find utterance. • “ So take up your cards and let me see whether you play better than you used to do.” I did as he directed me, but as had been the case on all my visits, I was most wofully beaten; I never was a card-player. My brain was gal lopingand careering away, upon a thousand sub jects, called up by the last few hours’ incidents. At last he threw down the cards with a laugh, vowing that it was no honor to beat me. I bore it like a martyr, and took my candlestick to retire to bed—we parted on the broad landing. T shook him heartily by the hand and wished him pleasant dreams: who doubts that he had them ? Such a bed! sweet as a bed of flowers, instead of feathers. No more bumps in it than the waves ol the sea, like which it received me as I plunged into it. That dear old patchwork counterpane, quilted to a miracle of warmth, was to me always like a memorandum-book of generations. Little square bits of long departed pride, snipped from the Sunday-going gowns of aunts and grand mothers, all passed away, patterns of women.— Could it have found tongues to prate of its pos sessors, what a strange history it would have been ! 1 iek—tick—tick! went the powerful old clock. It had me at an advantage now, and would be heard. It was an unusual sound to my metro politan ears, and I began counting its vibrations. I positively felt as il I were swinging with its in defatigable pendulum. W hen I had almost got at full swing, much to my annoyance, the light of my candle, which I had placed on a well-polished old coffer, or clothes-chest, sent one of its little rays upon the frame of a picture that hung oppo site to my bed. I knew the picture well: it was a very poor drawing of a young female head, with high dressed hair, and a gipsy bonnet, with flaunting ribbons. In fact, in the style of the last century, so outre in our eyes at the present day, as we, no doubt, shall be to the eyes of a future day. That picture was the skeleton of my uncle’s peaceful house. Those blue eyes and rosy cheeks had made him a bachelor, but not a cynic. It was no secret, every body in the little village knew of uncle’s being “crossed in love,” so I will tell you. “More than half a century before, the gray headed old man, who slept in the next chamber, was the young athletic hero of the village-green. From his independence, a sort of squire—happi ness, and the world all promise, before him. To love was part of his nature —the original of that little picture was the object—she was an orphan, though well provided for, brought up by an old aunt, and had never quitted the village of her birth. She was spoiled and petted by every body, who, of course, called her the village belle. “loung, handsome, and rich for his position, he soon became the favored swain, to the dismay ol many who had dared to hope. But who could rival him? none. The old people chuckled and said it was just as it should he—both rich, both handsome, and such kindly hearts, what a merry wedding it would he. “ And so it would have been—hyt fate decreed it otherwise ; months rolled on, and she leant on hi*s arm at church and market and the old people blessed them as they passed on their way. It was all sunshine ! “ The feast or annual fair came round, and with it, a host ol visitors from far and near. The rich farmer and the poor cottager kept open house ; all was innocent merriment and enjoyment. My uncle, and his almost bride, Annie Leslie—that was her name, although no one in my remem brance ever mentioned it before him—danced with the best, and better than anybody else, so said the village gossips. “Among the visitors was a gay, dashing young buck from London, upon a visit to some farmer relation who had driven him over to see the frol ics. The cut ol his boots and the tie of his cra vat almost set the village beaux mad. He was young, gay, and agreeable. His eye soon fixed on the village belle, Annie ; be sought her for a partner, and danced his best. My uncle looked on without the slightest spice of jealousy, only pleased to see her acquit herself go charmingly with the London gentleman. He felt proud of her. “ The feast was passed some days, when an NUMBER 11