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worth from 12 to 1800, and the worst, or those procured after fledging, 150 to S2OO per picul. The majority of the best kind are sent to Pekin for the use of the court. It appears, therefore, that this curious dish is only an article of expen sive luxury amongst the Chinese. The Japan ese do not use it at all; and how the former peo ple acquired the habit of indulging in it, is only less singular than their persevering in it They codsider the edible bird’s nest as a great stimu lant, tonic, and aphrodisiac, but its best quality, perhaps, is its being perfectly harmless, The labor bestowed to render it fit for the table, is enormous; every feather, stick, or impurity of any kind is carefully removed; and then, after undergoing many washings and preparations, it is made'Jnto a soft, delicious jelly. The sale of bird’s nests is a monopoly with all the govern ments in whose dominions they are found.— About 250,000 piculs, of the value of $1,400,000, are annually brought to Canton. These come from the islands of Java, Sumatra, and those of tho Soloo group. Java alone sends about 30,000 pounds, mostly of the first quality, estimated at $70,000. Mr. J. H. Moor, in his notices of the “Indian Archipelago,” published at Singapore some years ago, states that “One of the principal and most valuable articles of exportation is the edible bird’s nests, white and black. These are found in much greater abundance in and about the Coti, more than any other part of Borneo, or from what we at present know on the subject, all parts put together. On the western coast they are scarcely known to exist; about Ban jermassin and Bagottan, there are none; at Ba taliching and Passier they are found in consid erable quantities. At Browe there is abundance of the black kind of a very superior quality, but little of the white. At Seboo, and all the parts to the north of Borneo, we know there is none, as I have seen many letters from different Rajahs of those countries averring the fact, and begging the Sultan of Coti to exchange his edible nests for their most valuable commodities, and at their own price. Nor ought this to create surprise, when we consider not only the large consump tion of this article by the Cambojans, who almost exclusively inhabit some of the largest Sooloo islands, and the northern parts of Borneo, but the amazing demand on the whole coast of Cam bodia, particularly of Cochin China, the principal inhabitants of which countries are as partial to this luxury as their more northern neighbors, tho Chinese, There are in Coti and adjacent Dyak countries perhaps eighty known places, or what the natives term holes, which produce tho white nests. I have seen the names of forty-three.— There can, however, be no doubt there are many more likewise known to tho Dyaks, who keep the knowledge to themselves, lest the Burgis should dispossess them, which they know from experience is invariably the case. “According to the accounts of the Sultan, ren dered by Saib Abdulla, the bandarree in 1834 yielded 134 piculs. The usual price in money to the Corti traders is 23 reals per catty from the Dyaks, and 25 in barter. The black nests may be procured in great abundance. The best kinds come from Cinculeram and Baley Papang. Tho latter mountain alone yields 230 piculs, (of 112 1-2 pounds.) Cinculeram gives nearly as much. There are several other parts of Coti which pro duce them, besides the quantity brought down by the Dyaks. Last year 130 piculs paid duty to the Sultan; these left the large Coti river.— Those from Cinculeram and Bongan were taken to Browe and Seboo. The bandarree’s book averages the annual weight of those collected in tho lower part of Coti at 820 picuto, (about 1025 cwts.) “The Pangeram Sierpa and the Sultan say they could collect 2700 piculs of black nests, if the bandarree and capella-campong would be have honestly. The Sultan, however, seldom gets any account of what is sent to Browe, Se boo, and the Sooloo Islands, the quality of which is far superior to any sent to European ports.” The exports of birds’-nests from Java, between 1823 and 1832, averaged about 250 piculs a year; in 1832,• 322 piculs; but of late years the exports have not averaged half that amount; and in 1853 and 1854 there were only about thir ty-five or forty piculs shipped. — [Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.] MY UNCLE BILLY’S FIRST LOVE. BY HIS PET. One evening last winter, my Uncle Billy, cou sin Henry, and myself, (I am 14, Harry 2 years older,) were sitting around a cheerful fire—the rest of the family being out. I had been reading aloud from Reade’s story of Peg Woffington, and having concluded it, my cousin and self began to dispute tho character of Mr. Vane, the leading male person in the book. Harry of course sided with the gentleman, while I denounced him, as I thought his conduct deserved—the argument was waxing warm when Uncle Billy interposed, and agreed to tell us his love experience, pro vided we’d discuss Mr. Vane and Peg Woffing ton no more. I eagerly assented; the love ex perience of old bachelors are generally interest ing, and I had always been anxious to learn something of my Uncle Billy’s early life. I therefore hailed this offer with gratification, par ticularly as I was getting the worst of the Woffington argument. I shall endeavor to con fine myself to Uncle Billy’s own words, to write as he talked, and without further introduction install you one of the family party. Draw a chair, and now for Uncle Billy’s Story. At my time of life it is expected I should look back with some degree of coolness at the weak nesses of my younger days; yet, with all my complaisance , a shadow \kill cross my heart when the image of my early and only love comes back with the vividness it sometimes does, in my solitary moments—and while memory recalls nothing of her faults, it throws in bold relief all of those fascinating charms of mind and person, which held me so long, like “Some rapt devotee” at their shrine, fit for the worship of a prince. Imagine a form just budding into womanhood, with the promise of some slender and graceful lily, a head set upon shoulders whose dazzling whiteness and fair proportions would have crazed a Cleopatra with jealous rage; and eyes, oh! Heaven, such eyes! Memory revives too plainly to an always tender heart, those beaming orbs, and kindles in my inmost soul something much akin to those fires which once consumed me. But I wander in forbidden paths—let me cease a rhapsody which exposes an old man’s weakness; and to the story of how I became enslaved by “The dear star-light of those haunting eyes.” ’Tis many years since when, something of a beau, I paid my addresses indiscriminately to the dear charmers, and endeavored to bo agreeable (they said successfully) to all alike. I was ma king some progress in a desperate flirtation with a charming little coquettish brunette, with raven curls, sparkling eyes, and all the etcetera which are indispensable to tho making up of a coquet tish brunette, and was fast approaching that pe tss ioifiiu vxs&a us ix&msxn&e culiar dreamy state which precedes the danger ous stage in a flirtation, and was beginning to fear I was getting the worst of an engagement where I had entered to gain an easy victory— when, by mere chance, at the house of my dark eyed friend, 1 met Silencia. Her grace, her modest, girlish air, was calculated to inspire a heart less susceptible than mine. We entered in to conversation, and as formality gently thawed, her beaming, sparkling eye completed the con quest, and I yielded a willing captive without a struggle. And here let me say to you, my con duct now assumed a phase, for which, though at that time I had no scruples, to-day I am inclined to blush. V ithout the honesty to express to one the sentiments of affection inspired by the other, with a reckless villainy paying the most assiduous and heart-felt homage to Silencia, I continued the same attentions as formerly to her friend. But my double hypocrisy received, as the sequel will show, a severe, yet merited re ward. Years have passed since then, some, too, ofbitter sorrow, a few of happiness, and now, with age creeping upon me, walking with steady gait the downward path of life, without the fire and passion of youth, I view, I trust, with pro per severity, the unprincipled behavior which, wounding the spirit of an innocent girl, lost me a friend, whilst I gained nothing as a recom pense. Let me warn you, my children, to be ware of what young people, girls particularly, are so fond of calling flirtations. Learn to re gard the human heart, and its affections, as something more than mere toys for the amuse ment of the hour, to be thrown aside as soon as broken—and learn from one of cool head and advanced years, that such things always end in future sorrow and unhappiness. How many blast in early bloom, those attributes placed by Heaven in the human heart, which, cultivated, are the richest blessings of youth, and the cer tain and sure solace and support of the evening of life! Well, to bo brief, the woman's nature of the young girl perceived the emptiness of the attempts I made to be agreeable, and with an effort at calmness, which ill-suppressed her real feelings, slie begged a discontinuance of atten tions which she was assured had no foundation in a tender regard. With but little compunction I received my dismissal, and though I endeavor ed to dispel such ideas from her mind, and sub sequently and often used every effort to regain her lost confidence, my arguments were wasted, my efforts useless. She met every advance with that killing, freezing politeness, so impossible to overcome. She afterwards married. I fre quently meet her, and though we pass each other without sign of recognition, I cannot but think she still regards mo as one who first cast a shadow upon her girlish love. Our coquettish brunette received my address es with more favor than I had dared to hope. With the most delicate attentions, I began to win her regard—our almost daily intercourse carried me from earth to Heaven—at all times, awake or asleep, the name of the dear chosen of my heart was ever on my lips. It is no wonder, then, with love like this, little short of infat uation—l should have forgotten all else and all others In the struggle to obtain so sweet a prize. Without the courage to make a formal decla ration of my love, I still feasted on her beauty, and “at last I dared to pour the thoughts that burst their channels into song, and sent them to her—such a tribute as beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest.” This was her answer— who would not be happy with such language from his mistress ? “As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean, Sweet flowers ore springing, no mortal can Bee ; So deep in mv heart the still prayer of devotion. Unheard by the world, rises silent to thee. As still to the star of its worship, though clouded, The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea, So, dark as I roam, in this wintry world shrouded, The hope of my spirit turns trembling to thee - ” I remember how for hours I sat in a delicious day dream, how every word seemed to spring into life, and assume some delicious shape to complete the transcendant happiness of the mo ment. But why dwell on thoughts like these ? they only tend to make you romantic and mo unhappy. lam well aware that at my age any thing like sentiment is absurd, and that my talk will only appear as the foolishness of an old man, and I know too, that all of us treasure the pleas ing remembrances of earlier life, though we have entered the “sexe and yellow leaf.” You have marked that I had said nothing to the lady, of what my heart was pleading for my lips to tell, but if eyes can speak—if flowers ever told to “lady fair” the fondness of a loving swain, she knew too well how I worshipped her. Her con duct led me to hope I was not regarded with in difference, and one day I received from her a note, which, from its peculiar tono and language, so sudden and unlooked for, was rather startling, and while it pleased, occasioned some misgivings. She wrote in excited, passionate language, of her undying and unchanging love, and begged I would pardon her apparent forwardness, as •ircumstances of a domestic nature, terrible to her, had compelled her to the confession. She •nclosed a souvenir, and begged my accept ance as a remembrance of one whoso constant prayer would be for my happiness. Tho trouble which threatened her was an old friend of the family, which they desired her to marry, she afterwards told me of all the circumstances of the case, and I afterwards discovered, but pa tience, lam nearly to the end. In answer to her note, I offered myself, and what of worldly goods I possessed, if, by accepting, she could be relieved from the oppression at home. She glad ly accepted, and asked mo to hasten our nuptials, as her affairs required prompt and decisive action. I made every preparation for the consummation of the act xyhicli was to make her mine and at the same time relieve her from her embarrass ing position. You will perceive, and if you do not, I must tell you, I was influenced at every step of the proceedings, as much by a deep sense of sympathy for her troubles, as by any other more selfish motive. Yet with all my preparations, and when I told her all was ready and everything in waiting for her reception, she hesitated, and by various excuses and pretexts delayed our marriage, till I very naturally began to entertain some distrust, that I had been the victim of a misplaced sympathy, that love, honesty, and Silencia had no identity ono with the other —that I had been the miserable play thing of a trifling, heartless woman. I was, how ever, re-assured, and my doubts removed by her solemn promise upon a Sunday evening, that the following Tuesday should witness our union. Her word was an empty sound, she failed to keep it, and this time I was subjected to mortifi cations it galls mo to remember. I returned home with my feelings but illy smothered when I found from her, as usual, a note. It told of tho sudden determination of her family to leave the city, which they had done at the very hour I was expecting her appearance at place appoint ed for our meeting; she begged mo to write to her, repeated all her vows of constancy and de votion, asking me to believe the separation was to her a terrible blow, and with tho sincerest affec tion begged me to pray for my broken-hearted friend. You will say I was certainly infatuated to believe all she wrote, but yet I did, and loved her more at that moment than at any other pe riod of our intercourse. I wrote her several let- ters, but from the day of her departure, till that of her return, from herself directly I received not a syllable, though with other, members of her family, I was in constant correspondence. And during those long weary months I waited and waited, and like a blind fool, expecting the let ter that never came, and while I was suffering all the pangs of doubt, uncertainty, love, hope and a thousand conflicting emotions, she, in the midst of frivolous enjoyments, was boasting of her conquest and giving myself as the lover of whom her arts had made a slave. Here was a woman I had clothed in all the radiance of sim plicity and innocence, one whom I liad chosen out from all the sex as uniting beauty of form and face with a corresponding loveliness of mind and disposition, blending, as I thought, all the choicest traits we so admire in female character in her charming person; this goddess of my idol atry was a living palpable falsehood—false to me, and, as I afterwards discovered, slanderer of her friends, and nearest and dearest relations; for the story of her persecution was trumped up to excite my sympathies and hasten the offer of marriage. Upon her return she sought again to entangle me in her wiles, but she had calculated too much even from a blind passion like mine. But while I struggled against her arts, it requir ed a strong effort to overcome the feelings the sight of her lovely face excited. Little remains to be told; she like myself is unmarried; we some times meet but always friendly, she apparently having forgotten the past—as I have forgiven it—a sure evidence that there still lurks in some quiet corner of my heart a small portion of my old feeling for her. I almost regret having told of this, my only love experience, but, as I have, let jt not go without a lesson; and let this, my children, be the moral to both of you—just en tering as you are the broad theatre of life: “that Honesty” in love, no less than in all things else “is the best policy.” My Uncle concluded, and gazing for some time vacantly into the fire, drew a deep sigh and muttered half to himself and half aloud, these lines: “We mourn In secret o'er some buried love In the 6ir past, whenfe love does not return, And strive to find a [tons its ashes pray, Some lingering spark that yet may live and burn; And when we see thovainness of our task, We flee away, far fro»i the hopeless scene. And folding close our garments o'er our hearts, Cry to the winds, ‘OH God ! it might have been!’ i 111 [For the Southern Field and Fireside.] THE LITCHFIELD LAW SCHOOL A REMI NISCENCE. 20th August, 1859. Mr. Mann : Tho letter which I herewith hand you was not written for the press. I take the responsibility, however, of its publication, be lieving that it may be read with pleasure by many persons, besides those who, like myself and the writer, wero students of Law at Litch field. My friend, lam sure, will not object to it, always, I know, willing to contribute to the gratification of others, and especially solicitous for the success of the Field and Fireside. Respectfully, Ac., &c., • Litchfieid, Conn., 20th July, 1859. My Dear Friend : When I informed you some weeks since that I proposed to visit Litchfield and revive tho memories of the past, you exact ed a promise that I would give you my impres sions of men and things about this ancient seat of Law learning. I comply. The Christian pilgrim, as he stands upon the summit of Mount Moriah, and surveys the scene where the Saviour taught, and toiled, and died, finds but little in what is visible, which responds to his long cher ished impressions of that sacred locality. So, if small things may be analogised to great things, as I stand upon Litchfield hill, I find little, very little, which is true to the memories and associa tions of the days when you and I, in the hope fulness of student life, wore familiar with the scene. I am a stranger, where onc3 I felt at home. Progress has changed the face of this once quiet village. What a destroyer it is ! It spares nothing in its desolating march. Would that it would leave some nook or comer of this American world sacred to the beauty and re pose of the olden time! Railroads and tele graphs, and daily papers, and mercantile enter prise, and Anglo-Saxon pluck and hardihood, have worked wonders. I scarcely thank them for the exercise of their miraculous power. I sigh, in the midst of the roar and rush of this great new world, for a moment’s pause, inviting to contemplantion—for “a lodge in some vast wilderness” where quiet reigns. Tho children that I knew in the pleasant families of our day, are grown up men and women—the adults are among the aged, and the aged—why, they are dead. All dead. That is a brief tale, but truthful, and full of food for reflection. You and I were younger once, my friend. Don’t, howev er, be discouraged—we occupy still the merid ian point of life. How that point is surrounded with cares, responsibilities and triumphs, and how we look out still thence, hopefully, it boots not now to tell. Those things which men make —such as houses, streets, farms, cemeteries, and the like, have suffered here the common destiny, that is, mutation. Somo relics remain, like fos sil mementoes of aby gone world—yet Nature, in her grand and beautiful outlines, is still the same. I find here still the summer sky of 18—, clear, deep, and cerulean. The same invigorat ing atmosphere, fresh from the hills, or quick from the sea—the glorious moon, shedding more than Italian beauty upon the scene—farm houses and hay fields —elms that rival the classic trees of Now Haven —undulating landscapes, and lowing herds. I can almost hear the hoarse thunder of tho Atlantic —and as well, the heav ing and surging of that tempestuous human sea, New York. Would you believe it ? tho Bantam is still hero, and so are the lakes of the vicinage. They still sleep peacefully, in their hill girded beds. Do you remember —I am sure you do — when, w-earied with a fishing excursion, we called at the door of a cottage on the border of the lake, and asked for a glass of cider ? And do you not re member her who gave it ?—a rustic maiden, with the figure of a Venus, and the face of a Madon na. They had good cider and pretty girls in Connecticut, in those days. I became fond of fishing in that neighborhood—very. But where is she—the sweet vision of the lake —what has been her life experience ? Alas ! I know not Do not expect coherence in this letter. lam not demonstrating a theorem in mathematics — or a legal proposition before the Supreme Court of Georgia. Do let me roam at will —a charter ed libertine—for once in my life. Speaking of roaming, reminds me of our pedestrian ramble over the country hereabout. We were then exul tant in youth, hope and healthfulness. Our equip ment was simple enough: a change of linen, a few dollars in our purses, buoyant spirits, and tackle for trout. You had a passion for picking up speci mens, being mineralogical in your tendencies— whilst I had a passion for nature and pretty faces, being prone to fall in love with all things beautiful. Do you realize, now, the joyous aban don .of that rural ramble ? Those wooded hills and cultivated slopes—tangled dells and dashing brooks, and flowers that bloomed by the way side—the homes of the people—the neat ap- pointments of the farmyards—the wain heaving, deep-breathing ox—the fragrance of the new mown hay—the laborers’ honest toil —the hos pitality that greeted us, and the smiles which beguiled us—ah ! all these things were very beautiful! We saw not, felt not, the element of disquietude, which experience has taught us is mingled with all the good of earth. Fancy, free and as yet uncurbed by much of thought or philosophy, colored everything with the hues of the rose. We avoided the villages and ignored the inns. By the by, there are no inns now-a-days like that at which} old Izaak Walton had his trout dressed, and slept in sheets that smelled of lav ender. Wo had our piscatorial successes, too— at least you caught one small trout—they are all small in these clear hill streams, but the finest flavored fish known to the gourmand. I learned then to respect the industry, and thrift, and moral training and generous hospitality of the New England farmer, in spite of his class and hereditary peculiarities. That Puritan stock is a noble stock, after all, and we of the South are not sufficiently prompt to admit it. From it has sprung the Websters and Winthrops and Choates and Lawrences—to say nothing of the men of the revolution. They (the people) did chatcchise us, it is true. I answered freely, and promptly, and truthfully—did I not? Whilst you, curtly evasive—thinking, as you said, that your self-respect was involved, and their right, not at all. In those days I kept a journal, from which I make a short extract for your delectation. Here it is: “Before breakfast we started for a tramp along a small stream, which we were told head ed among the neighboring hills, purposing before noon to drink at its fountains. The air was sweet, and like a bath, refreshed and invigora ted the body. The mind, as we imagine Adam’s was, when awaking from sinless slumber, he went forth to survey the morning glories of Para dise, was elastic and searching and excursive. Whilst the heart—our hearts—beat with the pulsations of universal love. We desired to penetrate the wildest recesses of the valley. So, on wo passed, first traversing an enclosed mea dow, and then up—up the course of the descen ding brook. In half an hour we stood in a scene of almost primeval solitude—there are such, in this old country, still. Here, said I, let us rest, for surely it is a place to erect tabernacles—it is full of God. How it speaks to the heart of the all creating, all sustaining hand ! The sunlight is out upon the hills, but scarcely yet illumines this deep ravine. Listen to the concert of birds and insects and small creeping things. Do you not think that in tho diversity of sounds there is a graceful concord ? To my ear it is harmony divine. Here is a temple which God himself has reared, and this is nature’s hymn. These various notes are full of gratitude, these thousand forms of life are eloquent, and the burden of the an them is ‘the hand that made us is divine.’ All that we see or hear seems acquiescent in the appointments of the Creator, without selfishness and free from strife. Look up—to that far re ceding canopy—how noiselessly it heralds down to earth, the serene benignity of Him who spread it out as the imperial curtain of the uni verse! Does it not seem to be gentle, calm, and sweet as innocence. There is beneath it now no stormy cloud—no cleaving lightning—no fall ing flood. It speaks as distinctly of a reconcil ed parent, as the bow of promise. And this subdued light of the day reminds me of that moral light, which, emanating from the sun of righteousness, shines encouragingly upon the dark places of the human heart, when first touched with penitence. “True, all you say is true,” replied , in my heart I feel it to be so. There are times when the goodness of God re vealed in His works so overwhelms me, that it almostsbursts with emotion. Why is not man responsive to the will of heaven, like nature ? A time will come, when one only law will rule the universe, and that will be the law of love.— This little brook at our feet—it looks like it would speak to us. It both dances and sings— it is the harp of the waters, touched by the Great Master of melody. If it could indeed speak, what would it say! I will tell you what I imagine it would say to me, be pure—rejoice as you go, and trust in God, for He will guide you as He does me, safely into the ocean of his love.” Allow me to congratulate you, and myself, my friend, that such sentiments as these have not been weakened or chilled by intervening years. Among the first things I did after coming hero, was to secure a seat in the Congregational Church. It stood in the middle of the square, where we place our Court houses. A plain, wooden structure it was, yet not without a tower and a spire rising somewhat ambitiously towards Heaven. Without that, it would not have been orthodox. A spire was once a part of the reli gion of New England, as indispensable to Puri tanism as a confessional to Catholicism. Spires are as little regarded now, however, as that to which they point, whilst Catholicism holds, and will ever hold, to its ancient forms and agencies, of fraud and error. For myself, I love these graceful emblems of a high civilization —material declarations of the paramount sovereignty of God. The pulpit was high and narrow, but quite capacious enough to hold one evangelical minis ter of the gospel. The name and the thing are now well nigh obsolete. Pulpits have given place to platforms, quite large enough to accom modate some scores of Doctors of Divinity.— Pray tell me what great moral ideas does the word platform represent? None whatever.— With the politician, it means a convenient sum mary of delphic statements. With the Christian, it is a theatre for the perpetration of speeches and the propagation of isms. The people who worshipped in that house, struck me as being common—yet among them, were the Woolcots, the Goulds, the Traceys, and the Trumbulls, all names of renown in the annals of Connecti cut —nay, of the Union. The preacher—don’t you recall him l A badly dressed, middle-aged, medium sized, sturdily constructed personage, with a large head, heavy brows, projecting fore head, and protruding bps. That was parson Beecher, now the venerated Lyman Beecher, D. D., distinguished for his learning, eloquence, and piety; and eminently as the father of a nu merous progeny, each and all of whom are noted for something. Henry Ward is, without demur, one of the celebrities of the nation, and so is Mrs. Stowe. Tho former has genius, brilliant genius, and eloquence, the most captivating eloquence. Would that he was anything but a preacher of the Gospel 1 We all know Mrs. Stowe, at the South. She is a woman, and therefore entitled to the charity of my silence. The Doctor had some eccentricities, but they were natural and innocent. He was, like Domi nie Sampson, sometimes oblivious. Among oth er things, I recollect that it was said of him that he started to lead his horse to the pasture, and as he went, the bridle, which was over large, fell off. The Doctor, howeve., dragged the bridle to the field, and letting down the draw bars, turned it in, and putting them up carefully, le turned to his study, without perceiving his lu dicrous mistake. I heard him preach many years afterwards, at the meeting of the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church at the West, where I had better capacity to judge of his merits; and he was at the height of his rep utation. The multitude thronged to his appoint ments. His manner was far from being faultless, but it was very impressive. He did not read nis discourses—he read the different heads of his argument, and throwing up his glasses, pour ed forth a flood of extemporaneous oratory, re markable, I thought, for its vigor and freshness, and the simplicity and aptness of its illustra tions. He was as free from claptrap, as his er ratic son abounds in it, and adhered as closely to the great theme, Christ and Him crucified, as Henry Ward departs from it. What do you think of the prevalent habit of reading sermons? I think that it is destructive of the effectiveness of preaching, and not according to the apostolic plan, and I intend to write an article about it, some of these days, lor the benefit of the Epis copal and Presbyterian clergy. Being a layman, I ought to know something about the matter. — The beginning and ending of sacred time in those days, struck me as remarkable. Sacred time commenced with the setting of the sun on Saturday, and terminated at sun-set on Sunday. The curfew, which, at the command of the Con queror, “tolled the knell of parting day” did not more effectually close the houses of tho Saxons, than did this Sabbatic sentiment those of tho Puritans. The week declined into tho Sabbath slowly.— Gradually, on Saturday afternoon ceased the stir and bustle of the town. The lounger dis appears from the streets—the shopman has shut his door, and the loitering laborer is at length at home. The visitor takes his leave—the wheel of industry stands still—the help retires to her garret—the laughter of childhood is hush ed, and even dogs decline to bark. The sun haa gone down, and “Another six days' work fs done Another Sabbath is began 1” The stillest time of all was, between the after noon service on Sunday and sun-set. The village seemed to hold its breath, and silence, like dark ness, became palpable. The sun touches the horizon—it sinks behind the hills —it is gone. At once, the scene is instinct with life, and vo cal with shout, song, and revelry. What a bursting forth of pent up spirit—what explo sions of long suppressed hilarity—what freedom of locomotion, painfully restrained 1 It is a very carnival. The evening is not occupied with work, but devoted to visiting ; and at no time, does that most universally worshipped of all the gods, Cupid, do more mischief. The rascal damaged me just a little, one Sunday night in June. For the first time, I then met with Miss , the grand-daughter, you know, of one of Washing ton’s aids ; and lovely, yes, supremely lovely I Heroic blood—a queenly person—a bright, clear, strong intellect; with that gentle formality, without which I could not love either wife or sweetheart. But I did not love her, for I had no heart to bestow—mine I had left at home, in the keeping of a daughter of our own sunny clime. Shame upon his years, old fogie that ho is ; he writes like a moon-stricken boy, you ex claim. Now my friend, whatever may be my sta tus at home, civil, social, or political, rely upon it, I did not bring it with me. Indeed I came here to get rid of it. My Georgia identity is a myth.— I have recalled my boyhood. It is good to be a boy once in a while. Law schools and law professorships have multiplied greatly since we were students, but it may be questioned, whether the Union affords advantages superior to those we enjoyed under Judge Gould. As a practitioner, and a Judge, ho had few equals—as a Lecturer, no superior. He was, withal, an accomplished belles-lettres scholar, and like Murray, dined with the wits: calculated as well to grace the shades of Twick enham, as the halls of Westminster. His lec tures were the accurate results of intense labor and profound learning. Since his time, the Com mon Law has undergone modifications by legis lation and judicial decisions, in accommodation to the vastly augmented and diversified inter ests of labor, capital and commerce ; yet now, they would most admirably subserve the purposes of instruction, because they so fully develop the philosophy of the science. Os no one can it be said with more truth, than of the lawyer, "felix qui potuit, dkc." No man ever became great in the Law, without a thorough mastery of its principles. Is it not too bad that your shal low litterateurs , and flippant novelists will persist in saying that our profession has the effect of narrowing the mind, weakening the judgment, and impoverishing the imagination ? Is it not the science of Justice in its application to empires, municipalities, and individual men ? I should like to know what the God of the Universe is more occupied with, than the administration of justice ? Can you recall our eloquent lecturer ? Let me assist you. If to the heighth of Judge Wm. T. Gould, of Augusta you add three inches— elongate his face in the same proportion—give to his eyes an intenser shade of black, and to his back a gentle stoop, and substitute for his quick motion a grave carriage, and for his rapid speech a more measured utterance, you will have his distinguished father, at his age, repro duced. But, enough—at least for the present. Tours as ever, . hi —i A Guilty Conscience. —One of the finest passages ever uttered by Mr. Webster, was in vindication of the authority of conscience and of Providence, on a trial for murder. “The guilty soul cannot keep its own secret. It is false to itself. It labors under its guilty possession and knows not what to do with it.— The human heart was not made for the residence of such an inhabitant It finds itself preyed up on by a torment which it does not acknowledge to God or man. A vulture is devouring it, and it cannot ask any sympathy or assistance, eith er from heaven or earth. The secret which the murderer possesses soon comes to possess him ; and, like the evil spirit of which we read, it over comes him, and leads him withersoever it will. Ho feels it beating to his heart—rising to his throat —and demanding disclosure. He thinks tbe world sees it in his face, and almost hears its workings in the silence of his thoughts. It betrays his discretion—it breaks down his courage—it conquers his prudence. When sus picion from without begins to embarrass him, and the net of circumstances to entangle him, the fatal secret struggles with still greater vio lence to burst forth. It must be confessed —it will be confessed; there is no refuge from con fession but suicide—and suicide is confession.” University op the South. —Hon. Oliver T. Morgan, of Carroll Parish, La., who is now spend ing his third summer at Beersheba Springs, in Tennessee, recently gave Bishop Polk the large sum of forty thousand dollars to establish a Pro fessorship of Agricultural Chemistry in the Uni versity of the South. This truly munificent do nation completes the subscription required by the charter, $500,000, though the Trustees have no idea of stopping here. 123