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18 WHAT THE MOON SHINES ON. * . by ANNIE K. BIXH'NT. Faces of beanty in festive thrones, Lit up with music, and mirth, and songs; Eyes of bewildering, varying hue— Seldom on spirits sincere and true. Jeweled bosoms, anil Parian brow, Jesting saln\e and courtly bow; These, but alas! not these alone, Are some of the scenes that the moon shines on. Soft falling veil and a bridal wreath lliiling a struggling heart beneath; Altar prepared, and a victim bride Sacrificed for some kinsman's pride; Falsely vowing to love and obey. While the truant heart is away, away; . Her jewelled hand clasped in one more warm, While close at her side stands an unseen form. Hark 1 tis n spirit voice she hears. While her lashes conceal the coming tears; It is the one which blessed her youth, Ere gold had purchased her woman truth ? Nay; twas only a moonbeam spoke Words to a heart that was well nigh broke; Sad are the scenes I’m doomed to see, Malden! I weep while I gaze on thee ! A bower of roses—a youthful pair Learning their first love-lesson, there; Soft hands clasped, and eyes cast down To hide n blush, not a gathering frown, Ah! the moon would smile If she did not know That human love too oft brings woo; That those who listen end most believe, Must learn that the fondest ones deceives! • A coffin black —and a young bride there With the white flowers still In her shining hair; Her hands clasped o'er a bosom cliill, Where tho diamond glitters proudly still, Smiles on the lips, where the kiss of love Is lingering yet, though they ne'er may move— Oh God 1 how they pray for a tone —a breath From the pale lips closed with the seal of death. A pallet of rags in a corner lying Catchipg the breath of the faint, and dying; No pillow to ease the aching head— A pitcher of water —a crust of bread. Curtains of rags of various hue, Where tho keen north wind comes whistling through; No watcher-to tell when life's sand run out, Only the moon on her midnight rout. No sounds of music—no tone of mirth A cold bare room—and a clean bare hearth; A handful of ashes—and children’ despair, Crying Because no warmth is there— Uncombed hair, and small naked feet . That have paced all day tho snmv-olad street; Nursed by hunger, and want, and pain,* Asking alms but alas I in vain. A sickly light—an uncarpeted room Shrouded In poverty's darkening gloom; No picture to brighten thu naked wall, Or gladdcu when tears unheeded fall. A weary woman in want, and dirt Singing again the ‘song of the shirt Wearily toiling for life—for bread While the cold night lamps die out overhead. A single candle of sickly beam— Dreary abode for a Poets' dream 1 A fair young maiden with struggling soul, Breathing her life in a glowing scroll; Fashioning thoughts that have filled her brain With beauty that made her forget life's pain, Imparting to paper a music sweet, While her hands glide over the snowy sheet Dreaming that he may read her song, And sigh because of her early wrong; Catching In momentary pause, A far faint sound of world's applause. But the heetic-sisit blooms on her cheek. And the hacking cough is low, and weak— Yes: fame will come— when the icilloics irace Their graceful bough* o'er a nameless grace. Hush'tis the dice-box—oh! no; not there! See the ghastly face—and tho wild despair! • The greedy clutch of tho winning one, The maniac glance of the wretch undone— Think of the weeping sister and mother Mourning the ciimcs of a son and brother— Fortune, and truth and honor gone. Are some of the Beenes that the moon shines on. Hark! tis the sound of wild revelry The wine-cup sparkles and floweth free, Wreathed with roses, but tearing beneath A hideous serpent whose name is Death! Hear the ribald jest, and the laughter loud, And the boisterous mirth of a reckless crowd— The inoon smiles never on such a spot: Nor Virtue—her very name's forgot Not there—not there—tis the gilded hell When Satan ghats over our race's fall; Sin hides beneath that polished floor, « And faces are there which blush no more; The painted cheek and lip are there, Striving to hide the soul's despair. Oh! the laugh which rings on the listening ear, Is mirth from the whited sepulchre ! Stars of the heavens I would not be ye, Too dark are the scenes which you often see. Moon! I envy you not your light, ' It falleth too oft ou woe and blight. Perjured soul—and a broken vow, Crushed heart hid by a smiling brow, Sin cursed soul, and an oily tongue Gloating o'er tears from beauty wrung— Virtue crushed down by iron heel— Fortune with ever turning wheel Raising proud vice to an earthly throne, While the honest jssir weep and die alone. v Hearts where the ‘canker worms’ always gnaw V Bridal favors—and funeral pall Watched by the God who loves us all — Nttiese, and the talc is not yet done, of the scenes that the moon shines on. Tue of War. —The hideous nature of war has selorW reC eived a better literary il lustration than which has just ap peared in London *\es. The information is taken from tho Gazette, of April, 1813, and published in Times, of May 22, 1813, some months ay r the French re treat from Moscow. The documtot states that in the Government of Minsk tliereWere burnt, up to the end of January, 1813, the aNtd bodies of eighteen thousand seven hundred anoWn e ty seven men, and two thousand seven liunWd and forty-six horses. In that department tliefV still remained to be burnt—of the former, thirty' thousand one hundred and six, and of the lat ter, twenty-seven thousand three hundred and sixteen: Those were all lost at the passage of the Beresina; but the total number taken into account as being consumed by cremation in Rus sia was two hundred and thirteen thousand five hundred and sixteen human corpses, and ninety- thousand eight hundred and sixteen dead horses 1 ft xkk seram nsu And sxrkhib*. - . - ■ - [Written fur the Southern Field and Fireside.] JACK HOPETON AND HIS FRIENDS; ! OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A GEORGIAN. BY WM. W. TURNER. » Not long after this adventure, I was riding witli my father over the plantation, and we came to where Jones was overlooking some of the hands. “ Mr. Hopeton,” said Jones, “ some of the best low-ground corn is badly injured.” “ How was it done ?” “ It was trampled down by Mr. Warlock's cat tle." “ Is'nt the fence around the corn a good one ?” “ First rate; but there are not many fences which will turn an old steer of Warlock s, that stays on the creek swamp.” “Well, it is strange that people will allow mischievous stock to go at large.” “ I don't much think this steer will trouble us anv more, if Juba tells the truth about the mat ter.” “ Why, the old fool hasn't killed him, lias he?” “No, sir.” “What, then? I have always given strict orders that when my neighbors’ stock break into my fields, they shall be sent home, and the own ers informed of it.” “ Well, I did this, the first time the mischiev ous old brute got in the corn; and the second time, too, which was last Saturday. On Sunday, Nep was down on the creek fishing—a rascal!— and he saw this steer, with many other cat tle, trampling on the eorn. I was gone to see Mr. Hill, who is very sick, so Ncp came to the house and told Juba—Juba got those ugly curs Os his, with two or three of the boys, and put out for the low-ground. There he dogged the cattle till ho was tired, and at last got the old scamp that broke the fence, in a corner, where the boys held him by the horns and tail while Juba cut a good sized sappling, and beat liim till he. could hardly stand. When the steer was turned loose, lie struck a bee-line for home, and hasn’t been back since.” “Well. I am sorry it happened, but still Juba acted perfectly right.” “I am sorry for it myself,” said Jones, “ for I am afraid Juba lias got himself into a scrape.” “ What sort of a scrape ?” “Why, I understand that the Warlocks swear if they ever catch Juba off of your plantation, they will skin him. They've had enough of com ing here, it seems.” “ These men are the pests of the community, and if they are as troublesome to every one as they have proved to me, I should think the neighbors would all agree with me that they ought to be driven off. Well,” continued my father, while his thin lips became white and quivering—a sure sign of deadly wige with him —“ Let them dare to lay a hand on Juba for this cause, and they will wish they had never been born.” I saw that trouble was brewing. “Father,” said I, as we rode off, “I had rather not leave home till this matter is settled with the Warlocks. I acknowledge that 1 am somewhat uneasy for you.” “You need not be,” was tho reply. “They are cowardly dogs.” “I grant that. They may not attack you openly; if they would, my uneasiness would be less. ' What I fear is, that they may try to do you a secret injury—l hardly know what. They are not men to hesitate at any thing—perfect assassins in spirit, and ready to become so, in deed. You have heard the reports already in circulation as to their former crimes.” “ Oh, yes; but they will hardly venture on an assassination here. And this reminds me—l’ve concluded to let you take that trip out West, and you won’t have time to stay at homo much long er, if you go before commencing your college course.” “ Then I’ll forego my project, and would fore go almost any other, rather than leave you at this time.” CHAPTER 111. I heard of several threats made by the War locks, and was rendered very uncomfortable by them. My father tried to persuade me that my fears were groundless, but I insisted that he should go armed. He did not require much per suasion, as he well knew that a good repeater, carried in his pocket, could do no harm, and might preserve his life. One day we rode to a distant part of the coun ty, and had to pass by old Warlock's house. In going we saw no one; but coming back we per ceived a table in the piazza, and around it Jake and Joe Warlock, their father and several con genial spirits, indulging in cards and brandy. From one of the men present we afterwards heard that the following conversation took place as we rode towards the house. “Boys,” exclaimed the old man, “yonder comes the scoundrel who lias been in my way and yours so long. I've got just enough of liquor in mo now to do any thing. If you are not up to the mark, swallow a tumbler of brandy, and that will set you right.” " Men,” he continued, turniug to his guests. “ are you going to stand by us, or are you such cowards as to lie afraid of this aristocrat?” “ Why, we ain’t afraid," said one, “ but we'd rather not have a fuss. And besides, Mr. Hope ton is a very clever man, if he is aristocratic. Many’s the kind act lie does for the poor people round here.” “Yes,” said another, “ last summer, when so many of my folks were sick, he sent over a dozen ploughs and hoes and helped me out of the grass.” “You lying cowards!” broke out the violent host; “ you are afraid. Jake,” he said, turning to his sons, “are you and Joe ready?” Some little reluctance displayed itself in their faces. “If you don’t revenge yourselves now,” he shouted, “for the beating you got, I'll turn you off, you whelps!” “Oh!” said Jake, “I wonder if you didn’t stand by and see nu> knocked down, without rfising a finger to help me.” “ And you'd better not talk about turning us off,” said Joe; “for if you do, I’ll turn State’s evidence, and let a cat out of the bag which would scratch rather badly.” At this the old man turned pale, and Joe added. “But it would be foolish in us to quarrel. We are as ready to have revenge as anybody; but you’d better not threaten us any more, for we won’t stand much of that game.” All right, boys,” said the father, brought to said he, turning once more to his vis itors. Ve you going to help us out ?” “No/Nuiswered a small, hard, wiry-looking man, soberest of the party, “ and you had better let them alone, for if you happen to kill one of thenvwe’ve heard you say enough to make an ugly court." * “ If eyer you tum'ipformer against me I'll cut your throat I" Seeing the turn matters were taking, Joe, who ' * - " , was the soberest of the three Warlocks, endea ! vored to change the face of affairs. “We don't want to kill Hopeton,” said he, winking to his father, "We only want to give him a good beating.” “Well,” answered the wiry man, “go your own way, but if you don't kill them devilish quick after you commence with them, you’ll come off second liest” “Yes,” said the man who had received the fa vor, “ I know them well and they are game to the backbone.” * “ May-be you intend to help them?” said the old man, an ominous frown gathering on his brow, as lie gazed on the last speaker. V Now, gratitude would have required this, on the part of the man, but lie was timid, and over awed by the bullies around liun. “ I shan’t interfere either way,” said he. “You : all must do your own fighting. I intend to keep 1 out of it” “ So do we,” said the others! “ Clear out of my house, then, you infernal, ungrateful, cowardly scoundrels 1 You are no longer friends of mine!” “ And never were,” muttered the men as they left the house. By this time we had arrived opposite the gate, the three ruffians had come out and planted them selves in tiie road so that we could not pass, without riding over them. I was very much surprised at their preparing to attack us thus openly, fearing assassination as I had. I w;is sorry to have a rencontre with such men, hut, being convinced that it must come, was glad to have it brought to an issue so soon. “ Well, sir!” asked my father, in a sharp tone, “Why do you stop tue road? What will you have ?” “ Why,” answered one of the party,” wo heard that ypu wanted to ting us, and we thought we’d just give you the chance.” “You he! you scnmndrel! You’ve heard no such thing. You have done nothing for which I should attack you, since the night you game on my plantation; and I want to have no further dealings with you.” “Come, come, you must mind how yon give the lie,” said Jake, “or we’ll give you a taste of what you gave me the night you had the advan tage of us with your double-barreled gun.” “Yes,” said Joe, “we will give you tho most unmerciful Hogging you ever heard off, if you don’t keep a civil tongue in your head.” “ Silence, you insolent puppy!” exclaimed I, placing my hand in my pocket. “ Don't be in a hurry, Jack,” said my father, well understanding the movement. “Be calm," he continued, having himself now become per fectly cool. “ I have heard,” said lie now, in a cold, haugh ty tone, to the drunken wretches before us, “that you intend flogging one of my negroes for sim ply obeying my orders. I also understand that you have been making threats against myself.— So far as they are concerned, I intended paying no attention to them, except by going prepared to defend myself; but I intended seeking an in terview with reference to Juba, that I might warn you not to abuse my slave on account of an act for which I alone am responsible.” “ But,” said the old man, taking my father’s moderation and calmness for fear, “you didn’t have to seek an interview. ’Here I am ready to gi*’o you any satisfaction you want. I dkl say I d give old Juba a whipping, and I will do it, if it costs me niy life.” “Look, you sir; the proper reply to your lan guage would lie a cut in tho face with this ri ding whip; but I will not act rashly. What has. Juba done, that you should wish to beat him cruelly ?” “ Almost killed one of my liest steers." “ Wasn’t the steer making havoc with my best com, for tho third time ?” “ Yes;” but what neighbor would let his nc | groes abuse stock for doing what any of them will do if they get a chanee ?” “You sir, for one; even when your fences are not good. I keep good fences, but no barrier will turn some of your cattle.” “ It makes no difference;” roared the drunken old fool; “if I don’t flog old Juba within an inch of his life, you may cut my ears of!'; and, if his master interferes, I’ll serve him the same way.” My father sat on his horse, considering what course to pursue, still perfectly collected. Seeing this, his foe concluded that he certainly was frightened, and losing all prudence, he rushed forward with a drawn pistol. “ Come on, boys,” he shouted, “ let’s pay them off now. They are armed.” Jake and Joe were rather tardy in their move ments, and I, witli my repeater in hand, watched them, believing my father to be a match for his antagonist. A quick shot was made, and old Warlock sunk to the earth, while in the very act of tiring—his ball going under the horse my father rode, and slightly grazing one leg. The sons drew back, and, when we made toward them, fled, leaving their father on the ground.— Upon this, we turned to look on the body of our fallen foe. “This is what I nevof wished to do,” said my ' father. “Itis a hard necessity, but I was forced into it, and it shall not make me miserable. But here, Jack, let us raise him.” I complied, and we found, I must say to my great joy, that life was not extinct. We called some of the negroes, and while they were con veying their master to the house, “ saddle your swiftest horse,” said my father, “ and ride for Dr. Stubbs 1 Henry!” It happened that even this man had one slave who loved him devotedly, and the order was obeyed with a ■will. We staunched the blood, flowing from the wound, and placed the unfortu nate man on an easy couch, waiting impatiently for the physician. Mr. Warlock called for water, and, after drinking, seemed disposed to talk. We persuaded him to be silent, telling him we had sent for a physician. We had not long to wait. Dr. Stubbs, a most excellent surgeon and gen eral practitioner soon galloped up and came into the house. He was a tidgetty, curious sort of man, although one of great nerve. lie com menced. after surveying the scene before him— “My dear sir, what does all this mean ?” “ Doctor,” was the answer, “ I shot this man down about half an hour since—that is all.” “ What 1 you don’t mean that you killed a man in cold blood, do you ?” “No, sir. I said nothing about ‘cold blood.’ ” “My dear Doctor,” said my father, perceiving him to be on the eve of speaking again, “you are examining the wound, I see, but I don’t un derstand how you can do it properly, while talk ing so much. When you are through with your professional duties, I will satisfy your curiosity.” Dr. Stubbs proceeded, silently, to the exami nation of the wound. The ball had passed out, and the painful operation of extracting it, was thus avoided. We assisted all we could, and when the dressing was finished, “ Now, Mr. Hopeton,” said the Doctor, “I do hope you will relieve me of my suspense, by ex plaining this mysterious affair.” “ I will, soon,” was the reply, “ but you forget that ice wish to ask a question first. You surely will tell us whether or not this wound is mortal?” “Mortal? Why no—not exactly—that is.it will not prove so, if the patient can be kept quiet: but if he indulges in his usual fretfulness, his life isn't worth a straw.” “ Well,” said I, drawing a long breath—for I felt as if a weight had been taken off niy breast —he has been very quiet, so far, and I hope he will remain so.” “But that explanation, Mr. Hopeton. For God's sake, don't keep me in suspense any longer.” '• We will remove to the piazza then, if you please.” “ I beg you will not leave this room, gentle men,” suddenly exclaimed Mr. Warlock, in a voice so altered from its usual tone that we could hardly recognize it. “ I acknowledge,” he continued, “ that the act of shooting me was perfectly justifiable, and it gives me satisfaction to confess so much. I will tell you all about it, Doctor.” “ Don't do it,” said the Doctor. Don't do it. You must keep quiet. You must,” he added, seeing the old man raise his head impatiently. “ Come sir; you know I never was afraid of you when you were at your worst, and of course I am not now that I hear yon speak like a gentle man and a Christian —for the first time in my life.” “ I think, Mr. Warlock,” said my father sooth ingly, “you had better follow Mr. Stubbs’ direc tions. Too much excitement might throw you into a dangerous fever.” “And do you really care enongli for me to give me such advice?” Asked the thoroughly sutxlued man. “ Certainly. Do you take me for a heathen ?” “ Ah! You will please excuse me for judging you by my own bad heart. I know' so well, that if I.had found you, or one of yours, at death's door, I would not have lifted a finger to aid you.” “Name o'God!” broke in Doctor Stubbs, “are you two going continue to prate nonsense, while I am dying of curiosity?” “ It is more than likely. Doctor,” said I. “ And why then can’t you enlighten me ?” “I can.” “ Well, why havn’t you been doing so all this while ?” “ Because you never asked me.” “You have grown very ceremonious, of late. Well then, you scamp, I do ask you, now.” “Toolate. Doctor; I won’t bo second choice.” The Doctor began to swear like a trojan, and would have burst with curiosity, had not my father come to his relief. He narrated to him, in as few words as possible, the circumstances of the case, sparing the feelings of the suffering man as much as he could. “Are you not thoroughly ashamed of your self, sir?” said the Doctor to his patient, after hearing my father out. But he’was answered in so repentant a tone, that even lie was softened. “It is time for us to go now, Jack,” said my father, rising. “Mr. Hope-ton,” said the wounded man, “I am going to make what will seem to you a strange request —it is, that you and your son pjiend the night with me.” “It is out of the question for me to do so. The Doctor will make arrangements with your overseer to let you have the proper attention. Your sons, too, will doubtless do everything to render you comfortable.” “Ah 1 never mind my sons. So far as atten tion is concerned, Dick there, poor follow, will wait on me faithfully—though I can’t see why, for I’ve led him a dog's life. To be sure, I’ve treated him with a nearer approach to kindness than I have displayed toward any one else, and I suppose he feels gratified at it. But, Mr. Hopeton, I wish to see you privately, soon—l have an important communication to make to you.” “ I will certainly come and see you very soon, and often, as long as you are confined to your room.” We shook hands with tho old man and left the house. “I forgot one thing,” said Mr. Warlock, call ing tous. “Tell Juba he needn’t fear me any longer—l am a changed man.” On getting home, we delivered this message to Juba. He scratched liis lieud and shook it dubiously. “Well, have you got no reply to make?" asked I. “He b’leves in de debil,” was the reply, “and dat’s do reason lie sends me sicli word. He thinks de ole club-footed sarpent is waiting for liim right now. wid his iron pitchfork. Jes let him get well, an’ lie'll be as bad as ever. I don't spec lie'll bother me, though, ’cause lie’s ’fraid of master. ’Twant for you all, he’d be after me with a sharp stick.” “I think,” said my father, “you are mistaken. The old xnan will hardly be as wicked here after.” “ May be not.” “At least, then, you’ll forgive him, till you see he’s no better.” “’Twouldn’t do no good for me to forgive him. I can't forgive without I bleve his repent ance is ginnyu'ine, and I don’t hardly bleve dat vet.” “ Why, you old reprobate, you are too vin dictive.” “ I don’t know what dat is; but I tries to do right and serve you, ’cause you’ve been a good master to me. I likes dem what ’specs my ' fcclins, es I is a nigger.” Juba seemed incorrigible, and was dismissed. That night, at supper, my mother received an account of our day’s adventure. She turned pale at the recital, but —she was a woman of great spirit—gave expression to her indignation, when she heard *of the great insolence of the canaille with whom we had been engaged. Wlien, however, she learned how repentant and subdued the old man was, she gave utterance to words of womanly sympathy. “ But, Jack,” said she, after we had disposed of this subject, “ I hear nothing of the western tour you were so anxious to make. Has your ardor abated?” “ Not in the least; but I knew that a difficulty was pending lietween those Warlocks and father, and I wished to see the end of it." “ Well, it is surely all over now, and you can go.” “ I am very anxious to do so, but am afraid the embers may be still smouldering in those men’s breasts. I know father is able to take care of himself but I hardly feel satisfied to leave home now.” “The feeling is natural,” said my father, “but I think it hardly necessary for you to stay now. Had you .not better go to college ?” “Oh,” interposed my mother, “do let his wlnm about this trip be gratified.” “Why, Mrs. Hopeton,” said her husband, “you are the first woman I ever knew to be so anxious for her son to take a wild goose chase like this.” “ Well, I am aware it is a little unusual] but I know how fully Jack has his heart set on this, and I believe he has sense enough, or good im pulse enough, not to do anything very wrong.” “ I believe Jack to be as good as most boys; but I assure you none of them have much idea of right and wrong. Now. I think if this young one goes oft’ on the kind of jaunt he speaks of, he had better have some old head with him. # lf I could only persuade Charley to go now. ’ “Why, father,” said I, “he will hardly wish to go my gait. I’d be more than glad to have his company, only I am sure he would not be willing to pursue as eccentric a course as I wish to take.’’ “ A nice business you would make of it, sir; and a good 'way you take of reconciling me to your fancy.” “Why, I will be perfectly candid with you, father. I want to shirt out, I hardly know to ward what point, and come back, I know whence. lam willing to be limited as to time, but hardly anything else. If you have confi dence enough in me to give your consent to this scheme, I shall feel very grateful; if not, I shall not indulge in dark thoughts about it, but com mence my college course when and where you think best” “ And so, sir,” said Mr. Hopcton, after some moments’ thought, “you are unwilling for'Char ley to go with you?" “ I am sure this objection of yours is foolish, Jack,” said my mother. “Charley’s presenco will bo no restraint, even on a youth like you. He is too fohd of pleasure himself to wish to curtail yours.” “ You both misunderstand me,” said I. “ Un cle Charley’s company would be very agreeable; but I know he would not be willing to endure the inconveniences and even hardships to be en countered jn the round I contemplate. He is too luxurious—too fastidious. He hasn’t got the same warm blood coursing in his veins that I have.” “How can you expect a matured, sensible man to have such ?” “ Why, I think you have a little of it, your self, father,” said 1, “in spite of your apparent coolness.” “ I’erhapa you are right,” was the smiling re ply. “I shall write to Charley, nevertheless, and ask him if ho will go with you, understand ing fully what it is you propose to do.” “ Tell him, then, father, if you please, that if at any time he is too lazy to take any proposed route, because it is a little ‘ hard to travel,’ I shall not hesitate to leavoliim.” “Very well.” A very few days afterwards, my father showed me a letter he had referred, from which the fol lowing is an extract: “ You ask me if I will go with Jack out West, and you go on to givo me some idea of the method of his intended trip. Even without these hints, I should feel very little disposition to start out with so hair-brained a youth; and as it is, I declare to you I h&d # rather be con demned to follow the wanderings* of a young Ca manche, or the gyrations of a young Arab of the desert, than his mad careerings. Turn him loose on a prairie, and it will be easier for him who never saw a lasso to noose the wild horse, than to tame this youth again. The buffalo which he expects to hunt will not be more thor oughly impatient of the dominion of man, than he will boos the trammels of society. “No, Harry—pray excuse me. I did hope to teach your boy somewhat of the manners and customs of civilized life—the courtesies of soci ety—the potent art of dressing—the power of conversation; but when" you ask me to lend my aid in spoiling so promising a youth of fashiou, you ask me to do violence to the instincts of my nature —to act in direct opposition to my pro-' conceived notions of propriety; and I am com pelled to refuse. “ Seriously, though, I believe’ it a very good idea to allow Jack to travel a little —and, just as , seriously, I can’t go with him. My path now I lies in the haunts of civilization. You know very well that I loved adventure once, for you and I have had many a wild tramp together; but it is all over now. Let your boy find a com panion of his own age, or go alone.” [to be continued.] — The Blennerhassett Pacers. —Mr. W. H. Saft’ord writes to the Missouri Republican that he is in St. Louis, and has procured from the family of the late R. S. Blennerhassett, in whose pos session they were placed for publication, the pa pers of the famed, but ill-fated Blennerhassett, rendered conspicuous for his associations with Burr. The Blennerhassett papers are thus de scribed : They consist chiefly of his private journals, correspondence, essays, historical and political, letters in relation to the Burr conspiracy, from Burr, Alton, Tyler, Bollman, Meade, Floyd, and others implicated; also, the journal of the expe dition until arrested and broken up. I have also the letters, manuscripts, and fugitive pieces of poetry of Dady Blennerhassett, which of them selves would form a respectable sized volume. Those papers are voluminous, and afford a sat isfactory biography of the Blennerhassett fam ily, and a minute and complete disclosure of the objects of, and parties concern.d in the Burr expe dition. Mr. Safiord is about to publish those docu ments. The Cherokee Georgia Baptist Coxven | tiox. —Wo are indebted to some friends, who I have just returned from Dalton, for the following I particulars in relation to the action of that body. \ The convention convened on .Saturday last, ami | adjourned on Tuesday evening following. A large number of delegates were in attendance from various sections of this State, and several from other Strtes, among whom were Rev. Mr. Pendleton, of Murfreesboro’ College, and Rev. Mr. Dayton, of Nashville, Tennessee, and some from Kentucky. It was determined by the Con vention to use every effort to have the Cherokee Baptist College at this place, endowed and placed on a permanent basis, and to establish a paper to advocate their interests. It was not deter mined at what point the paper should be pub lished, but Cassville and Rome appeared to have the preference, and it is more than likely, if the enterprise succeeds, of which there seems to bo no doubt, that one of these places will be select ed. This matter has been left in the hands of a committee tej select the place of publication.— Rev. Mr. Daniel was appointed agent for tho fund to endow tho college. [Cassville(Ga.,) Standard, May 19. Vapor.—Dr. Dick, the celebrated philosopher, says there arises, every twelve hours, no less than thirty million cubic feet of water, which is more than sufficient to supply all the rivers on the earth. This immense body of water is form ed in clouds, and carried over every part of tho « continents; and again it is condensed into rain, snow or dews, which fertilize the earth. Should this process pause, we might wash our clothes, but centuries would not dry them, for evapora tion alone produces tliis effect; vegetation would wither; rivers would swell the ocean; the op erations of nature would cease. So closo is tho connection between this process and vegetable and animal life. •