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JOHN HENRY SEALS, ) and > Editors. L. LINCOLN VEAZEY, > NEW SERIES, VOL. I. TIMPIRAW - CRUSADER. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY, EXCEPT TWO, IN THE YEAR, BY JOHN H. SEALS. TERMS : SI,OO, in advance; or $2,00 at the end of the year. RATIOS OF ADVERTISING. 1 square (twelve lines or le.-s) first insertion,..sl 00 F/aeh continuance, 50 Professional or Business Cards, not exceeding six lines, per year, 5 00 Announcing Candidates for Office, 3 00 ST A N DING A DVEETIS EME NTS. 1 Square, three months, 5 00 1 square, six months, 7 00 1 square, twelvemonths, 12 00 2 squares, “ “ . .18 00 3 squares, “ “ 21 00 4 squares, “ “ 25 00 Advertisements not marked with the number of insertions, will bo continued until forbid, and charged accordingly. |sjT“Merchants, Druggists, and others, may con tract for advertising by the year, on reasonable terms. L EGAD ADVERTISEMENTS. Sale of Land or Negroes, by Administrators, Executors, and Guardians, per square,— 5 00 Sale of-Personal Property, by Administrators, Executors, and Guardians, per square, 3 25 Notice to Debtors and Creditors, 3 25 .Notice for Leave to Sell, 4 00 Citation for Letters of Administration, 2 75 Citation for Letters of Dismission from Adm’n. 5 00 Citation for Letters of Dismission from Guardi anship, * 3 25 LEGAL REQUIREMENTS. Sales of Land and Negroes, by Administrators, Executors, or Guardians, are required by law to be held on the first Tuesday in the month, between the hours of ten in the forenoon and three in the after noon, at the Court House in the County in which the property is situate. Notices of these sales must be given in a public gazette forty days previous to the day of sale. Notices for the sale of Personal Property must be given at least ten days previous to the day of sale. Notice to Debtors and Creditors of an Estate must .be published forty day?. Notice that application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for leave to sell Land or Negroes, must be published weekly for two months. Citations for Letters of Administration must be published thirty days —for Dismission from Admin istration, monthly. , sic mouths —for Dismission from Guardianship, forty days. Rules for Foreclosure of Mortgage must be pub li lied monthly for four months —for compelling titles from Executors or Administrators, where a bond has been given by the deceased, the full space of three > .t oaths. will always be continued accord ing to these, the legal requirements, unless otherwise -ordered. The Law of Newspapers, 1. Subscribers who do not give express notice to the contrary, are considered as wishing to continue, their subscription. 2. If subscribers order the discontinuance of their newspapers, the publisher may continue to send them until all arrearages are paid. 8. If subscribers neglect or refuse to take their newspapers from the ofiices to which they are di rected, they are held responsible until they have set tled the bilis and ordered them discontinued. 4. If subscribers remove to other places without informing the publishers, and the newspapers are sent to the former direction, they are held responsi ble. 5. The Courts have decided that refusing to take newspapers from the office, or removing and leaving them uncalled for, is prima facie evidence of inten tional fraud. so The Unites! States Courts have also repeatedly decided, that a Postmaster vv ho neglects to perforin his duty of giving reasonable notice, as required by the Post Office Department, of the neglect of a per son to take from the office newspapers addressed to him, renders the Postmaster liable to the publisher for the subscription price. JOB PRINTING, of every description, done with neatness and dispatch, at this office, and at reasonable prices for cash. All orders, in this department, must be addressed to J. T. BLAIN. PROSPECTUS OF TIIE TIIPIMI CRUSADER, [quondam] TEMPERANCE BANNER. ACTUATED by a conscientious desire to further C£l. the cause of Temperance, and experiencing .-roat disadvantage in being too narrowly limited in ppaee, by the smallness of our paper, for the publica tion of Reform Arguments and Passionate Appeals, we hate determined to enlarge it to a more conve nient and acceptable size. And being conscious of the fact that there are existing in the minds of a large portion of the present readers of the Banner and its former patrons, prejudices and difficulties which can never be removed so long as it retains the name we venture also to make a change in that par ticular. It witi henceforth be called, ‘‘THE TEM PERA N0 E GiIUSADER.” This old pioneer of the Temperance cause is des tined yet to chronicle the triumph, of its principles. It has stood the test —passed through the “fiery fur nace. ’ and, like the “Hebrew children,” re-appeared unscorched. It ha3 survived the newspaper famine which has caused, and is still causing many excel lent journals and periodicals to sink, like “bright ex halations in the evening,” to rise no more, and it has eve q heralded the “death struggles of many contem poraries, laboring for the same great end with itself. U “still fives,” and “waxing bolder as it grows older,” is how waging an eternal “Crusade” against the “In fernal Liquor Traffic,” standing like the “High Priest” of the Israelites, who stood between the people and p, e phn-nc that threatened destruction. “We entreat the friends of the Temperance Cause to give us their influence in extending the usefulness of the paper. We intend presenting to the public a she-d worthy ‘of ail attention and a liberal patronage; for while it is strictly, a Temperance Journal , we shall endeavor to keep its readers posted on all the current events throughout the country. K®=Pree, as heretofore, sl, strictly in advance. ** ’ JOHN H. SEALS, Editor and Proprietor. Pen Hold, Ga., Dec. 8, 1855. Sttetdr to ‘fmptfaatf, Puralilj, fifcratow, inttral JntoUipce, fa. THE NEW MOTHER. BY VIRGINIA F. TOWNSEND. “Well, now, dear, which will you have, the white, or the pink cainelias? You know you can take your choice, Alice ?” and Aunt Maggie lifted the large blossoms and laid them against the little girl’s rich yellow curls, as she spoke. The blue eyes of Alice Field wandered doubtfully from one to the other. It was very hard to decide, for the flowers seem ed equally beautiful, as they lay among tiie long green leaves, one white as the snow on the mountain tops, the f>ther wearing that deep, rich flush which the little country children see in the June sun rises. At last anew thought brightened into Alice’s face. “I’ll take one of each kind; you know, Aunt Maggie, I am to wear them on either side of my hair, and it will be just the thing.” . “So it will, dear child. Just pull the bell wire, while I pay the man;” and Aunt Maggie drew her pearl porte-monaie from her pocket. While Mrs. Field was counting the sil ver another little girl put her head in at the door, whom the lady ordered to bring a glass vase, half filled with water, for the cainelias. As the flower man departed, the little girl returned; she was about Alice’s age, and yet, what a contrast was there in the two! Lucy Hunt had lived with Mrs. Field but a short time. She was an orphan, without any friends in the world. This was the most the family knew of her. She had a pale, wistful face, with large, sad eyes, and her thick, brown hair was cropped short in her neck, around which loving fingers had once twined curls bright as Alice Field’s. * “There, Lucy! just see what you’ve done, now ! What a careless child you are! you’ve nearly spoiled Alice’s new skirt!” said Mrs. Field, as she almost rude ly brushed Lucy away, for tlve child had stumbled as she presented the vase of wa ter, and several drops had spilled over, and fallen on the skirt the lady was trimming. “I didn’t mean to, ma’ma,” stammered the little girl; “but somehow my head felt dizzy.” “Well, do look out, and be more careful next time;” rejoined. Mrs. Field, who thought frequently hasty, was not a hard hearted woman. Alice looked np as the child left the room. She saw the tears washing stilly out of Lucy’s eyes, and creeping down her cheeks. Her heart was touched with pity, and though Aunt Maggie continued to talk about the new dress, and the birth night party, the child answered in dreamy monosyllables, for she hardly heard her, because of the little pale, wistful face, witU the tears flowing down it, which seemed standing right before her. Atlast she noislessly slid out of the room, and went down to the kitchen door, and peeped softly in, but Lucy was not there. “I guess she’s upstairs in her own room.. Maybe she’s gone there to cry, poor little girl ! I’ll try and find her. anyhow.” And she went up four pair of stairs, and through the narrow, dark passage that led to Lu. c.y’s room, at the back of the bouse. ‘flie door stood a little ajar, and Alice distinctly heard a sob creeping out of it. She went in bravely, then. “Lucy.” siie said, in her sweet, low tones, “I came to find you, and to tell you not to cry be cause yon spilled the water on my dress, i don’t care anything at all about it, you see.” Lucy sat on the low bedstead, and the setting sunlight, as it pushed through the half open blinds, struck rich and golden into the child’s brown hair. Alice went softly, and put her arms round her. Lucy iooked np, and tried to smile, but the tears came instead, and great sobs shook her frame t hough she clung to Alliee all the time—Alice, whose bright eyes were brimmed witli sympathy. “Oh!, it seems so good to have you here, I do cry*,” at last whispered Lucy. “Does it? I’m really glad! But you musn’t teel bad any more. You’re lone some, I guess, because yon don’t have any body to play with yon.” ’"iNo, it isn’t that,” shaking her head mournfully. It’s because mamma’s dead, and I haven’t anybody to love me. “Poor Lucy! is your mamma dead, too?” her voice and her face were very full of touching pathos us she drew still nearer to the child, for Allice could just remember her own beautiful mother, as she lay in the coffin with the white roses strewn about her cold cheeks. God had never given any children to Mr. and Mrs. Field, so Alice had lived with them ever since; and they loved her quite as tenderly as if she were their own daughter. “Yes,” Lucy answered, in a broken voice. “Oh, she was such a sweet, gentle, loving mother! We lived out in the coun try too, where tiie sunshine used to lie bright on the meadow grass, and the gold en dandelions grew like stars along the road-side. But mamma grew sick, and”— Lucy’s voice failed her here, and when she dared trust it again she only added i “The next w r eek they buried her by the old, PENFIELD, SA, SATURDAY, MAY 17, 1856. mossy wall, where they laid papa when 1 was a baby.” , “lam very, very sorry for you, Lucy,” whispered the tremulous voice of Alice. “Don’t call me Lucy, please, but Lilly. It was what my mamma called me. *Mj darling Lilly!” she used to say it so sweet ly.” “Well, Lilly, wasn’t there anybody to take care of ydn after your mamma died?” “No, nobody. They brought me to the city, and placed me in that washerwo man’s family, where your aunt found me: Maintna told me she was going home to the angels, and that sometime she would come for me. Every week I call to her come come, come, for her neck again. Oh ! I wish she would make haste !” “Well, Lilly, don’t say again nobody loves you, because I do dearly,” said Alice, stroking the short brown hair. “Do 3 on? Do you really?” What a tide of light flowed over Lucy’s face as she clasped her arms around Alice. And far above them, where the winds murmured softly through a sea of white blossoms, the angels laid by for a moment the crown they were wearing, looked down on the two children asffhey sat there in the little room on the low bed, and smiled. Two days had passed. Alice had atten ded the birth-night party of her friend, ta ken a severe cold, which had settled into a fever, and now the family stood in the darkened chamber, by the Tittle couch with its pink loopings and lace hanging, on which the child lay dying. Heavy sobs broke the silence. The death coldness was on Alices’s soft cheeks, the death dimness in her blue eyes. Suddenly they opened, and the last life light gathered into them. “Oh, Alice, my darling, how can I let. you,go!” wept out the child’s aunt, as she clasped the little, cold hands. Alice’s eyes wandered to the foot of the bed, where Lilly stood, almost convulsed with grief. She beckoned her faintly to her side, and Lilly came, and Alice feebly placed the child’s hand in that of her aunt. “I give her to you,” she said. “It is my dying gift, Aunt Mattie. Promise me you will take her to your heart, and she shall be all to yon and Uncle Charlie that I have been, when I am up there /” Mrs. Field looked at Lilly a moment, and then drew her to her heart. “I promise you, Alice. She shall be to me another daughter.” “There, Lilly, you have mother now,” cried Alice, with joyful triumph. And then, the light went out from her-face, and the lids dropped gently over her eyes. She had gone home , little children to wear the crown which the angels had fin , ishedfor her. —<4* * -*ty~ e NEGRO STEALING. On Mon da}” morning last through the attention of a friend in Sumterviile, whose communication appeared in our columns, we gave information that a merchant resi ding in Sumterviile had been arrested on the charge of negro-stealing. The annexed details of the theft and the tragedy of the miserable criminal, Win.F. Byrd, we copy from the Sumter Watch man. Byrd has only anticipated the sen tence of the court which would be pissed upon him after his trial. Crime and Suicide. —Since our last is sue, a case involving circumstances of deep and exciting interest has been developed in our very midst—exciting in every de tail from the beginning, but doubly more so in the tragical issue. Our readers will remember to have seen, some time since, an advertisement in the Watchman, by our townsman Col. F- J. Moses, of two slaves who were missing from his premises. Their long absence, which could not be accounted for on the score of any provocation or indignity of fered them, or of expressed dissatisfaction on their part, taken in connection with the mysterious disappearance, some time be fore, of a negro boy of another one of our citizens, soon induced the belief in the minds of most persons that they were sto len. Various circumstances fixed the sus picions of the community upon a particu lar individual. The matter was kept still, however, for some time, until at last, after finessing, a sufficient clue was obtained to the whereabouts of the negroes, to warrant a gentleman of our town in taking a trip to the town of Amerieus in the lower part of Georgia. Arrived there, he was not long in discovering the person to whom they had been sold, and in ideutityifig the ne groes. The purchaser, Mr. Hooks, upon being convinced that he had been victim ized, readily yielded them up, and upon the suggestion of the gentleman who had gone in quest of them, consented to return with him to this place. They arrived here on Tuesday evening, the Bth lust. After some delay in making out the ne cessary papers, Mr. Hooks, accompanied by our efficient sheriff and others, strolled by the new store of Byrd and Louis. It was brilliantly lighted up, and was filled with a jolly company. Immediately, and without hesitation, Mr. Hooks declared,, that, in the person Wm. Friendly Byrd, he recognized the individual from whom he had purchased the slaves. The sheriff then en tered she More* accompanied by a friend of Mr. Hooks. Tell ing him, that there was some dissatisfaction about the titles to cer- -fain property that, he’had sold, he was easii} persuaded to make a confession of judgment. It is said that he understood tne allusion to be to another transaction ; but of that we cannot speak. This accom plished, the sheriff produced a warrant, yiTosted him on the charge of negro-steal mg, and lodged him in jail. The Grand Jury returned a verdict of “true bill” on the indictment on the next day, and the ••prisoner was at once arraigned. But at the ivquevr. of his attorneys, the trial was post poned Until Monday. meantime, Capt. Frierson, tire sheriff, observed every precaution for the safe-keeping of the prisoner. He was con fined in a dungeon and chained to the floor. There are no iron cuffs for the ank les in the jail, and accordingly it was ne cessary to bind a common chain about Iris ankles,and secure it with a padlock. It will be seen at a glance, that it is impossi ble to adjust the unpliant links very close ly to the limb without injury to it—still, he was thought to bo securely bound. This was deemed necessary at first, from sever al considerations, but especially so after wards, when there were good reasons to believe that he meditated mischief upon himself. A note to his wife, written in pencil on the margin of a newspaper, was intercepted. In it, he implored her to send him strychnine or laudanum, saying that he wished to die; that the whole world was against him; the sheriff had confined him so closely that he eould seb no one out of his presence. He was found hanging by a sheet, which he had twisted for the pur pose, to the grating of the window—dead. His feet were bruised by the force necessa ry to get them from the chain.— Sumter Watchman. From the Nashville Journal of Medicine. A DOCTOR’S LIFE, The following are some of the sweets of a Doctor’s life. If he visits a few of his customers when they are well, it is to get his dinner; if he don’t do so it is be cause he cares more about the fleece than the flock. If he goes to church regularly, it is because be bas nothing else to do ; if he don’t go, it is because he has no respect for the Sabbath or religion. If lie speaks to a poor person, he keeps bad company ; if lie passes them by he is better than oth er folks. If he has a good carriage, he is extravagant; if he uses a poor one on the score of economy, he is deficient in neces sary pride. If lie makes parties, it is to soft-soap the people to get their money ; if ho don’t make them, he is afraid of a cent! If his horse is fat, it is because helms nothing to do, if lie is lean, it is because he isn’t taken care of. If he drives fast, it is to make people think somebody is very sick; if he drives sloWj he has no interest in the welfare of his patients. If he dres ses neat, he is proud; if he does not he is wanting in self-respect. If he works on the land, he is fit for nothing but a farmer; if he don’t work, it is because he is too lazy to be anything. If he talks much, “we don’t wan’t a doctor to tell everything he knows,” if he don’t talk, we like to see a doctor social.” If he says anything about politics, lie lmd better let it alone; if he don’t say anything about it, “we like to see a man show his colors. If he visits his patients every day, it is to run up a bill; if he don’t, it is unjustifiable negligence. If lie says anything about religion, he is a hypocrite; if he don’t, he is an infidel. If he uses any of the popular remedies of the day, it is to cater to the whims and prejudices of the people to fill his pockets; if he don’t use them it is from profession selfishness. If he is in the habit of having counsel often, it is because be knows noth ing; if he objects to hav’ug it on the ground that he understands his own business, lie is afraidof exposing his ignorance to his superiors. If* _ he gets pay for one half his, service, he has the reputation of being a great manager. Who would’nt be an M. D. ? ONE OF ROGERS’ REMINISCENCES, The Rev. John Mitford says that in the last drive he ever took with Samuel Rog ers, when returning by the City road, the poet pulled the check string opposite to the Bunliill fields burial ground, and then told his friend to go out. ‘You see that little chapel opposite; go and look carefully at the house which stands there to the left of it, and then come back and get in.” This duty performed, Rogers said, “When I was young man in tiie banking house, and my father lived at Newington, I used every day, in going to the city, to pass by this place. One day, in returning, I saw a number of respectable persons of both sex es assembled here, all well dressed, in mourning, and with very serious look and behaviour. The door of the house was opened, and they entered in pairs. I thought that without impropriety I might join them, so we all walked up stairs, and came to a drawing room, in the midst of which was a table; on the table lay the body of a person dressed in {a clergyman’s robes, with bands, and his grey hair sha ding his face on either side. He was of small stature, and his countenance looked like wax. We all moved around the table, some of the party much affected, with our eyes fixed upon the venerable figure that lay before us; and, as we moved on, others came up and sficceeded us in like maimer. After wo had gone the round of the table in our lingering procession, we descended as we came. The person that lav before us was the celebrated John Wesley, and at the earnest request of his congregation, they were permitted to take this pathetic und affectionate farewell of their beloved pastor.” SHOOTING STARS. There was a man in this city, who of clear nights, used to rig up a telescope where with to study astronomy at a sixpence a squint. One night as he was getting under way I saw two Irish gentlemen taking an obser vation ot his movements. Both were po lice— men. Jamey, said one, what in the worried is yon fellow after with his machine] y! Whist, ye spalpeen, whispered the other sure and can’t you see that it’s air gun can non that he’s got. lie's afther sho..tin stars, he is. Hadn’t, we better be getting out of the way, thifi? inquired his friend. Sure, and it’s not us, was the answer Didn’t ye ever hear of shooting stars ? By this time the telescope man iiafi ar ranged his instrument and squinted thro’ it up at the stars. The policeman gazed up likewise in wonder. Just then by an odd chance a large meteor shot down the sky. Bedad, he hit—he’s fetched it down! cried both of the paddies, iu a breath. Sure and that’s the greatest shooting I iversaw iii all my life ? But a sense of duty prevail ed, and one of them at once rudely accost ed the man of science. Ye’ll jist stop that now, mister, av ye plase. The night is dark enough now and if you go on snooting stars at that rate, sorra the man’ll find his way about the strata. And the telescope man had to pick up and be off. THE BETTER DEED. s—o BY S. A. WENTZ, — o — young wives sat laughing and chat ting in a large front porch, shaded in by fresh green vines and delicate honeysuckle .blossoms. The lawn swept down” to the white gate, and beyond the road lay the sea, dimpling in the sunshine, as it it were a re flection of the young wives’ faces. “Ah 1” said little May, shaking her head, “I laugh to myself to see how Charlie gives in to me—you know he is very firm i oh. dreadfully firm ! Whenever I want to do anything he don’t want me to do very much, I look so meek and submissive, and say with a sigh, ‘Wed, Charlie, I’ll do as you think best.’ You see, l know he’ll think it best for me to have my own way in the end. lie looks at me two or three times out of the corner of his eye, and in a few moments he says, ‘May, the more I think of it, the more I think you had better do as you propose.’ And then,” continued little may, with a flourish of her snowy hand, “I fall in his arms, etc., etc.” “Yes, that is the way !” responded the two wives, laughing untii the tears came. “I do so!” “But still,” said May, as her childlike ex pression gave place to a look all womanly and full ot soul, “I try so hard to act rightly; I pray every night and morning that I may learn to link Charlie’s heart to heaven. And it does seem to me that he grows sweeter and kinder every day, as if heavenly blos soms came to lodge in his heart; making it springtime in his soul all the time. But who is that?” and May turned an eager look to wards an old womqn who entered the gate. The woman went to the kitchen, while one of the wives related her present history to May. She had a deerepid, helpless hus band, and a daughter lying at the point of death—she was steeped to the lips in pov erty, and had suffered greatly before her situation was found out. “Oh, it’ 1 had known it in time!” said May, as the tears rose in her eyes. When the woman came from the kitchen, May glided from the porch, and handed her a half-dol lar, all she had with her, saying, “Won’t you take that ?” As May ran back to the porch, she heard one ol her friends say, “Isn’t she the sweet est, the most generous creature that ever was?” And May thought suddenly within herself, “I suppose I am 1” ##*#### May had gone back to her own lovely cot tage at nightfall. Her husband was not at home; a friend had come from a distance to see her—an old lady. May tossed aside her straw bonnet, and sat down beside the matron, striving to devote herself to her en tertainment. It occurred to her suddenly to ask if her guest had been to tea No, she had not.; so the young wife stepped to the kitchen, and said, “Ann, make a fire and set the table for two, will you ?” May thought that Ann looked ill; she felt sorry for her, but murmured to herself, “It seems to be a necessity that she should work just now, al though she does not look able to. I must en tertain Mrs. Potter, and then I have my white dress on. It is insufferably warm.” She went back to the parlor, but even while she talked, it kept passing through her mind. “Is it generous or kind for me to al low poor Ann to work now ? She looked as if she would drop down, dear, faithful girl. Which is the greater charity, to give a little money to a poor woman, or to relieve my girl when she is sick ? As far as lam TERMS: #I.OO IN ADVANCE. JAMES T. BLAIS. ‘eis.mTKjs. YOL. XXII,-NUMBER 19. concerned, that which costs me the greatest effort is the best deed. But. oh, dear. lam so selfish, J hate to go in the kitchen just now.” Still she talked to Mrs. Potter, in wardly musing the while. At length she said within herself. “ This hestanev about performing a plain duty will never win hea ven.” She rose abruptly, saying. “Excuse me a lew moments, Mrs. Potter Upon entering the kitchen the second time, she saw poor Ann slowly kindling a fire as she sat on the floor, with one hand pressed on her forehead. “Does your head ache so!” she asked, in sweetest tones, laying her soft hand upon the flushed brow of the girl. “You had bet ter go to bed, Ann, I’ll get tea, and if you are not better in the morning. I’ll get break fast lam sorry you feel so badly. Let me put a wet cloth on your head.” The girl took a chair, and submitted her self to the tender cares ot her young mi - tress. Tears gushed to her eyes, and ran in torrents down her cheeks. . “Oh. but I think of my mother when lam sick ! she was so good !” broke*from the lips of the poor Irish girl. “Oh. yes, Ann. our hearts will yearn ib>’ our mothers in sickness. I know what it is! 1 was sick once away from home.” And May gently the girl’s hair, then laid her hand on her shoulder, saying, “Go lie down, and don’t trouble yourself about the work. You are so faithful, Ann, I know you will he anxious to do all you are able to.” An sought her room, soothed to the very centre of her heart; May’s kind manner had prevented an hour of passionate weeping ; she fell asleep quietly. Little May put on an immense check a pron, and flitted about the kitchen with the blithest heart in the world ; she felt so joy ously grateful t hat her attendant angels had pressed her to be merciful to her servant. Ever and anon, as she was setting the,table in the dining room, she would put her bright face into the parlor door, with a cordial, laughing word to Mrs. Potter. Jf the truth must be told, May was not glad right down in her heart when she found that Mrs. Pot ter was her guest, but now there arose a new, dear leeling of warmth towards the .good oid lady. When they sat down to ttjeir cosy littie meal, and talked and drank their fragrant tea, May thought she had looked for the first time beyond the aged ex terior of Airs. Potter, and had caught glimpses of spiritual youth and beauty. A blessing fell on May that day. VALUE OF THE OEXW.A TREE BSRKY. They makegood manure, when put in the hill with corn. They are a preventative to ants injuring cabbage or other young plants when sown in the drill with the seed. They also make a dark colored soap which an swers the purpose for washing coarse cloth ing. One fact in relation to the China tree is worthy the attention of every housekeep er. A gentleman living in the pinewoods near Augusta, on the Carolina side of the Sa vannah river, was for several years very much annoyed by ants. They were so nu merous as to get in every portion of his house, among his provisions, in his beds. &c. Every method suggested was tried to get riil of them, but to no purpose, until he was told to plant China trees in his yard, and around his dwelling. This was done, and in three years from the time he had drilled the berries, they had disappeared and never after troubled his household. We may add that the cold winter of’3s killed the China trees in our yard where we had resided a number of years. The year following, and never until then, were we troubled with the ant. Another fact in relation to this tree. A gentleman owned a valuable plantation on Beach Island, near Augusta, which had growing upon it a kind of grass that pre vented his working it in a proper manner, and doing great injury to his cotton crop.— Determined to get rid of it, .in some way, he drilled China berries, which were suffered to grow three years, completely destroying the grass. They being of quick growth were cut down and hauled to Augusta for firewood. We would suggest to the own ers of old fields around Memphis, to drill the berries in rows ten feet apart and they will reclaim from the foliage of the tree it plow ed in every season.— Ex . SHE NEVER LEAVES HIM. Look at the career of man as he passes through the world ; of man. visited by mis fortune ! How often is he left bv his,fellow men to sink under the weight of bis afflic tions, unheeded and alone ! One friend of his own sex forgets him, another abandons him, a third, perhaps, betrays him ; but wo man, faithful woman, follows him in his af fliction with unshaken affection; braves the changes of his feelings, of his temper embit tered by the disappointments of the world, with the highest of all virtue; in resigned pa tience ministers to his wants, even when her own are hal'd and pressing; she weeps with him, tear for tear, in his distress, and is the first to catch and reflect a ray of joy, should but one light up his countenance in the midst of his sufferings ; and she never leaves him in his misery while there remains one act of love, duty, or compassion to be per formed. And at last, when life and sorrow comes together, she follows him to the tomb, with the ardor of affection which death it self cannot destroy.