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noi lire *i if vmi j.a.TDßNtit,editor.j ji fimnial:--grtoffit to literature, politics, Meligimi anl) (mi***#*™*. VOLUME I. THE INDEPENDENT PRESS. Published every Tuesday Morning. r wr jKß2Mm.mM.sm9 ffWO DOLLARS per annum; — in advance to all not residing in the County. ■Rates Os Advertising.-J>? ai advertisements inserted on the following terms: Letters of Citation, o 0 Notice to Debtors and Creditors, 3 00 Application for leave to sell land or negroes, 400 Sale of Personal Property, by Executors, Administrators or Guardians, 3 50 Sale of Lands or Negroes, by same, 5 00 Application for Letters of Dismission, 4 50 Yearly Advertisements — Professional and business cards, measuring twelve lines or less, will be inserted-at Twelve Dollars. Other Advertisements will be charged $1 00 for every twelve lines or less, for first insertion, and 50 ets, for every weekly continuance. Advertisements, not having the number of in sertions marked upon them, will be published till forbid, and charged accordingly. Job Printing of every kind executed with neat ness and despatch on reasonable terms. OF THE INDEPENDENT PRESS. rpiiE INDEPENDENT PRESS is published L weekly iu Eatonton, Ga., at the price of $2,00 per annum, invariably in advance; except where the subscriber resides in the county. As its name indicates, it is designed to be entire ly independent, being governed alone by such rules as deeenev, gentlemanliness and good morals im pose upon every press. It hopes not, however, to mistake licentiousness Tor liberty, nor scurrillous noss for independence.. Its politics are Democratic —of the school of Jefferson, Madison and Jackson. It, however, is subject to no party discipline which would compel its Editor to sacrifice truth and honor in behalf of liis political associates. He will speak what he thinks. One distinctive feature of this press is that it allows and invites a discussion in its columns of idl subjects whatever, proper to form reading mat te! for the popular mind. Communications from political opponents are admitted upon the same verms as communications from political friends. It is required of both, that they make their artc-il t-a brief to the point, and free from personality and all illiberal feeling. Religious questions, as well as political, and others, may be discussed. Much of the attention of this press is devoted to Literature and Miscellany. It is not entirely filled with political wrangling and party strife. — In addition to its literary and miscellaneous matter, it contains articles on Agriculture, Ac. And as Georgians and Southern people generally are fond of field sports, this subject also aids in filling the columns of this paper. Whatever can add to the prosperity of Georgia, and aid in developing her resources, moral, mental and physical, is considered peculiarly adapted to these columns. The causepf common school edu cation, especially, will br? upon the people of Georgia with all the ability we can command. All communications must be addressed, post-paid, to the Editor of The Independent Press, Eatonton, Georgia. April 18, 1854. J. A. TURNER. yrofesioit'dl ft |teira Carte. J. A. TURNER, «I TTORWE 1* a IT E.l IP, EATONTON, GA. RICHARD T. DAVIS, Ainroasiair Air saw* EATONTON, GA. OFFICE OVER VAN HATER’S STORE. mm wm&m* RESIDENT DENTIST. ' EATONTON, GA. May 16, 1854. S. W. BRYAN, BOTANIC PHYSICIAN, EATONTON, GA. OFFICE up stairs, adjoining the Printing Office, where he may be fimnd during the day, and at night at the residence of W. A. Davis, unless pro fessionally absent. All calls for medicines or atten tion promptly attended to. Reference ..TRY HIM. May 30th, 1854. 41y W. A. DAVIS, Wsolmk auir HUtail <sraer: Sells Country Produce on Commission: East corner Jefferson St., Eatonton, Ga. April 18, 1854. C. L. CARTER, FANCY CONFECTIONER, No. 4,Carter & Harvey’s Range, April 23, 1854. Eatonton, Ga. S. S. DUSENBERRY, FJtSUIOJY.IBL,E TJiIEOR W£ warrant to please all who wish the latest style of dress. Shop up stairs, adjoining the Printing "Office. April 18, 1854. HUDSON, FLEMING & CO, FACTORS & COMMISSION MERCHANTS, No. 94, Bay Street, Savannah, Ga. f RENDER their services to Planters, Merchants, Jl anddealers in the sale of Cotton and all other country produce. Being connected in business with Hopkins, Hudson & Cos, of Charleston, the establish ment of an office in this city will afford our lYiends choice of market? Strict attention will be given to business, and the uoual facilities afforded customers. J. R. Hudson, ) . Lambeth Hopkins, H. Fleming, Augusta. Savannah. j (J, J. Cohen, Cbarleivffi- COURT CALENDAR FOR 1854. REVISED BY TIIE SOUTHERN RECORDER. SUPERIOR COURTS. JANUARY. 4th Monday, Richmond 2d Monday, Chatham Museogoo 4th Monday, Richmond AUGUST FEBRUARY. 2d Monday, Clark Ist Monday, Clark 3d Monday, Campbell 3rd Monday, Campbell Walton Walton 4th Monday, 4th Monday, Baldwin Monroe Jackson Taliaferro Monroe Marion Marion . Baldwin Meriwether Jackson Sumter Meriwether Taliaferro Sumter. MARCH SEPTEMBER Ist Monday, Coweta Ist Monday, Paulding Chattooga Coweta Madison Madison Morgan Chattooga Paulding Morgan 2d Monday, Butts 2d Monday, Polk Cass Cass Crawford Crawford Elbert Butts Greene Elbert Gwinnett Greene Harris Gwinnett Polk Harris 3d Monday, Cobb 3d Monday, Cobb Fayette Twiggs Hall * Fayette Putnam Hall Twiggs Putnam Talbot Talbot Columbia Columbia Hart Hart 3d Thursday, Bulloch 4th Monday, Gordon Monday after, Effingham Newton 4th Monday, Gordon Macon Macon Washington Newton Wilkes Washington Clay Wilkes Last Thursday, Rabun Clay OCTOBER, APRIL Ist Monday, Cherokee Ist Monday, Cherokee Fulton Fulton Murray Randolph Randolph Murray Warren Pike Wilkinson Warren Taylor Wilkinson Tuesday after, Pike Camden 2d Monday, Forsyth Taylor Whitfield Thursday after, Rabun Dooly Friday after, Wayne 2d Monday, Forsyth Hancock Whitfield Montgomery Dooly Laurens Glynn Thrsuday after, Tattnall Habersham 3d Monday, Lumpkin Hancock Worth Montgomery Franklin Laurens Early Thursday after, Mclntosh Henry and Tattnall Stewart 3d Monday, Lumpkin Emanuel Worth £ Jones Franklin fy Oglethrope Stewart , Pulaski Early 5 4th Monday, Union Henry j Decatur Jones i DeKalb Liberty j Houston Oglethrope! Jasper Pulaski J Lincoln Emanuel j Scriven Thursday after, Brylm Telfair 4th Monday, Unioi j Catoosa Decatur , Thursday after, Irwin Dekalb Bulloch j- Houston Monday after, Effingham Jasper NOVEMBER. Lincoln Ist Monday, Scriven Kinchafoonee Telfair Fannin Catoosa Heard Thursday after. Jri-in Walker MAY Upson Ist Monday, Ist Tuesday, Bulloch \ Kinchafoonee 2d Monday, Bibb Fannin Gilmer Heard Chattahoochee Walker Baker Upson Jefferson 2d Monday, Bibb Dade Gilmer 9h Monday, Spalding ChatahoDclioe Pickens Baker Burke Chatham Camden Dade Calhoun 3d Monday, Spalding Troup Pickens Friday after, Wayne Burke ( 4th Monday, Glynn Oalhoua Thomas Troup Doughtery 4th Monday Thomas Floyd Dougherty Thursday after, Floyd. Mclntosh Monday after Luvndes, Monday after, Lowndes Monday af Lowrdes, and Liberty Clinch Thursday after, Bryan Thursday after finch, Monday after Lowndes, Ware. , Clinch. Monday after 1 ire, Thursday after Clinch, Appling. Ware. Wednesday afte , Monday after Ware, Charlton. Appling Friday after, Thursday after Coffee. Charlton JUNE. Friday after, Coffee Ist Monday, Jefferson DECEMBER. 2d Monday, 2d Monday, Lee Lee Carroll Carroll 4th Monday, Muscoogee *On the Ist and 2d Mondays in October next (for one term only.) ■(•Fall Term, 1854. j After Fall Term 1854. JVorth and South. In the city of Boston a few days since, a woman with aninfant in her arms, and three other children by her side, stood for hours at the street cor ner, asking for aid from the charitable. Two of the children were labelled with a placard, stating that there fath er was killed on the Lowell road, and that the orerseers of the poor of Som erville, where they had resided, had forced them into the streets roofless and friendless. On the same day, there were thousands of the people of Boston in dulging la pious grief for the sad con dition of the Southern slaves, who are in reality more comfortable and con tented tlan thousands of human be ings whpare barely allowed to breathe in the benevolent city of Boston; and not a fell charitable ladies passed by the shivering, weeping, cringing group, hurrying along to make a donation for the distant heathen. Whoever saw a similar i istance of human misery un relie ve| in any one of the slave States ? In jdfnnsylvania, a girl is legally tble at fourteen, and a boy at sixteen,®vithout the consent of their parontfl EATONTON, TUESDAY, MAY 30, 1854. Select f attqj. The Live Oak. BY JUDGE HENRY R. JACKSON. * With his gnarled old arms, and his iron form Majestic in the wood, From ago to age, in sun and storm, The live-oak long hath stood; With his stately air, that grand old tree. He stands like aiiooded monk, With the gray moss waving solemnly From his shaggy limbs and trunk. And the generations come and go, And still ho stands upright, And he sternly looks on the wood 'below, As conscious of his might. But a mourner sad is the hoary tree, A mourner sad and lone, And is clothed with funeral drapery For the long since dead and gone. For the Indian hunter beneath his shade Has rested from the chase Here, where he woo’d his dusky maid — . The dark-eyed of her race; And the tree is red with the gushing gore, As the wild deer panting dies; But the maid is gone, and the chase is o’er, And the old oak hoarsely sighs. In former days, when the battle’s din Was loud amid the land, In his friendly shadow, few and thin, Have gathered Freedom’s band; And the stern old oak, how proud was ho To shelter hearts so brave! But they all are gone—the bold and free — And he mourns above their grave. And the aged oak, with his locks of gray, Is ripe for the sacrifice; For the worm and decay, no lingering prey, Shall he tower towards the skies! He falls, he falls, to become our guard, The bulwark of the free, And his bosom of steel is proudly bared To brave the raging sea! When the battle comes and the cannon’s roar Booms o’er the shuddering deep. Then nobly he’ll bear the bold hearts o’er The waves with bounding leap. Oh! may those hearts be as firm and true, When the war-clouds gather dun, As the glorious oak, that proudly grew Beneath our Southern sun! Savannah, Ga., 1852. Salts. FOR THE INDEPENDENT PRESS. The Mrutality of Mfrutiken ' ness. A TRUE TALE. It is well known to every intelligent, and close observer, that the class of men most vulnerable to the vice of in temperance, is composed of those who inherit from their Creator, in an emi nent degree, the qualities and attributes which do most ennoble and exalt the nature, and character of man. In pro portion as the system is delicately and exquisitely strung, the heart and mind are sensitive and impressible. The man who combines in his nature an ardent temperament, with a fruitful imagina tion—those sentiments of greatness as well as of goodness—is ever the most inclined to court excitement, however deleterious in its nature, and to be sway ed by its influences. The more yield ing and confiding his disposition, the more open and generous his nature, the warmer and richer his fancy, the more readily is his will subjugated, and his judgment unhinged, and conse quently the more liable is he to fall in to temptation, indulgence and excess. Hence the crime of Intemperance is rendered doubly odious, from the fact that those who arc most obnoxious to its evils are bv nature the most gener ous and noble-hearted. Then men are ever apt, through the curse of intem perance, to become the dupes and vic tims of the unprincipled, the calcula ting and the mercenary. How often is it the case that such men, after they have been robbed by the crafty and un scrupulous, become as it were, dead to all the finer feelings which they once possessed, and become knaves, swin dlers and misanthropes. Such was the case with the man of whom I intend giving you an account. I well remember having the circum stance related tome often, down at my mother’s knee, when she was trying to train my young mind to follow the path of rectitude, and I well remember: how it made my susceptible heart overflow with sympathy for the miserable wife, and the unhappy little son of the ine briate. They were for several years after marriage a happy pair. All was sunshine and There was noth- ing wanting to complete their happi ness. Charles, for so I shall call him, was prosperous and happy. His course began as that of most drunkards. He first took a social glass with his friend, then would venture to gentlemanly drunkenness. Afterwards* he went from one degree of degradation to another, until he arrived at the stag o which I am now about to describ \ The grey morning Avas already dawn ing when the miserable wretch turned into a dirty little alley, in one of our towns, and entering a low, ruinous door, groped through a narrow entry, and paused at the entrance of a room with in. That degraded being had once been a wealthy man, respected by his neighbors, and loved by his friends.— But alas! the social glass had first hur ried him to indulgence, and then to in ebriety, until now he was a common drunkard. The noise of his footsteps had been heard within, for the creaking door was timidly opened, and a pale emaciated boy, about twelve years old, stepped out, and asked in mingled anxiety and dread, “Is that you father ?” “Yes, wet to the skin—curse it,” said the man. “Why ain’t you a-becl, and asleep, you brat ?” The little fel low shrunk at this coarse salutation, but still, though shaking with fear, he did not quit his station before the door. “What are you standing there gap ing for?” said the father: “it’s bad enough to hear a sick wife grumbling all day, without having 3'ou kept up at night to chime in, in the morning—get to bed you imp,—do you hear ?” The little fellow did not answer; fear seem ed to have deprived him of speech; but still holding on to the door-latcli, with an imploring look, he stood right in the way by which his father would have to enter, the room. “Ain’t you going to mind?” said the man with an oath, breaking into a fury ; “give me the lamp dr I’ll breaTT ev ery bone in your body.” “Oh! father don’t talk so loud” said the little fellow, bursting into tears — “you’ll wake mother, she’s been worse all da}-, and hasn’t had any sleep till now”—and as the man made an effort to snatch the lamp, the boy, losing all personal fear in anxiety for his mother, stood firmly across the path and said, “you mustn’t—you mustn’t go in.” “What does the brat mean?” broke out the inebriate angrily—“this comes of leaving you to ay ait on your mother until you have become as obstinate as a mule—will you disobey me?—take that, and that, you imp,”.—and raising his hand, he struck the little sickly be ing to the floor, kicked aside his body, and strode into the dilapidated room. It was truly a fitting place for the home of such a A r agabond as he. The walls were low, covered with smoke, and seamed with a hundred cracks. — The chimney-piece had once been Avhite, buUwas now of a greasy, lead color of age. The ceiling had lost most of the plastering, and the rain soaking thro’, dripped Avitli a monotonous tick upon the door. A few broken chairs, a crack ed looking-glass, and a three legged ta ble, on which Avere a few rimless cups and broken plates, Avere in different parts of the room. But the most strik ing spectacle Avas directly before the drunkard. On a rickety bed lies the Avife of his bosom, the once rich and beautiful Emily Languerre, Avho thro’ poverty, shame and sickness had still clung to the lover of her youth. Oh! woman, thy constancy the world can not shake, nor shame, nor misery sub due. Friend after friend had deserted that ruined man—indignity after indig nity had been heaped upon him, and deservedly—year after year he had fal len lower in the sink of infamy—yet still through every mishap that saint ed woman had clung to him—for he was the father of her boy, and the hus band of her youth. It Avas a hard task for her to perform; but it was her du ty, and when all the Avorld deserted him, should she too leave him ? She had borne much, but alas! nature could endure no more. Health had fled from her cheeks, and her eyes Avere dim and sunken. She was in the last stage of consumption, but It was not that which was killing her ,—slie was dying of a broken heart. -> The noise made by her husband aAvoke her from her troubled sleep, and she half-started up in bed, the hectic fire streaming along her cheeks", and a wild, fitful light shooting from her sunk en eyes. There was a faint, shadowy smile lighting up lief face, but it was as cold as moonlight upon snow. The sight might have moved a felon’s bos om, but what can penetrate the seared and hardened heart of drunkenness? — The man, besides, Avas in a passion. “Blast it woman,” said the wretch, as he reeled into the room ; “is this the way, you receive me after being out all day in the rain to get something for your brat and you ? Come don’t go to whining I say”'—but as his wife utter ed a faint cry at his brutality, and fell back senseless on the bed, he seemed to awaken to a partial sense of his condi tion, reeled a step or two forward, put his hand on his forehead, stared wild ly around, and then gazing almost va cantly upon her, continued, “but why, what’s the matter ?” His poor wife lay like a corpse be fore him, but a low voice from the other side of the bed answered, and its tones quivered as they spoke— “Oh ! mother’s dead.” It was the voice of her son who had stolen in, and was now sobbing violently as he tried to raise her head in his little arms. He had been for weeks her only nurse, and had long since learned to act for him self. He bathed her temples, he chaf ed her limbs, and invoked her wildly to awake. “Dead!” said the man, and he was sobered at once—“dead! dead!” he continued in a tone of horror that would chill the very blood in a man’s veins; and advancing to the bedside, with eyes starting from their sockets, he laid his hand upon her marble brow, “then, oh my God! I have murdered my wife. Emily, Emily, you are not dead, say so—oh! speak and forgive your re pentant husband !” and kneeling by her bed-side, he clasped her white, thin hand, watering it with his hot tears, as he sobbed her name. m Their efforts, at length, partially re stored her, and the first thing she saw upon reviving was her husband weep ing by her side and calling her “Emily.” It was the first time he had done so for j T ears. It stirred old memories in her heart, and called back the shadowy visions of years long past. She was back in their youthful days, before ruin had blasted her once noble hus band, and when all was joyous and bright as her own happy bosom. Woe, shame, poverty, desertion, even that brutal language was forgotten, and she only thought of him as the lover of her youth. *Oh ! that moment of delight: she faintly threw her arms around his neck, and sobbed there for very joy. “Can you forgive me Emily ? I have been a brute, a villain—oh ! can you forgive me? I have sinned as never man sinned before, and against such an angel as you. Oh! God, anni hilate me for my guilt.” “Charles !” said the dying woman in a tone so sweet and low that it float ed through the chamber like the whis per of a disembodied spirit—“ I for give you, and may God forgive you too —but oh! do not embitter this last moment by such an impious prayer.” The man only sobbed in reply, but his frame shook with the tempest of agony within him. “Charles!” at last continued the dy ing woman—“l have long wished for this moment, that I might say some thing to you about our little Henry.” “God forgive me for my wrongs to him too !” murmured the repentant man. “I have much to say, and but little time to say it in—l feel that I shall never see another sun.” And a violent fit of coughing interrupted her. “Oh! no—you must not, you will not die,” sobbed her husband, as he supported her sinking frame—“ you’ll live to save your repentant husband. Oh! you will.” The tears gushed into her eyes, but she only shook her head. She laid her wan hand on his, and continued feebly: “Night and day, for many long years have I prayed for this hour, and nev er, even in the darkest moment, have I doubted it would come ; for I have felt that within me which whispered that as all had deserted you and I had not, so in the end you would at least come back to your early feelings. Oh! would it had come sooner— some hap piness then might have been mine again in this world—but God’s will be done—l am weak—l feel lam failing .fast —Henry, give me your hand,” The little boy silently placed it in hers, she kissed it, and then laying it within her husband’s continued— “ Here is our child —our only born— when I am gone he will have none to take care of him but you, and as God is above, as you love your own blood, and as you value a promise to a dying wife—keep, love, cherish hirn. Oh ! remember that he is young and ten der—it is the only thing for which I would care to live”—she paused, and struggled to subdue her feelings; “will you promise me Charles ?” “I will, as there is a Maker over me, I will,” sobbed the man; and the frail bed against which he leaned shook with his emotion. “And you Henry, you will obey your father, and be a good boy; as you love your mother —you will.” “Oh! yes!” stammered out the lit tle fellow, flinging himself wildly on his mother’s neck, “but mother, what shall Ido without you ? Oh ! don’t die!” “This is too hard,” murmured the dying mother, drawing her child fee bly to her; “Father give me strength to endure it!” and she prayed fervent ly. For a moment all was still—and nothing broke the silence but the sobs of the father and boy, and the low, death-like tick of the rain dripping through upon the floor. The child was the first to move. He seemed in stinctively to feel that giving way to his grief pained his mother, and gently disengaging himself from her, he hush ed his sobs, and leaning on the bed, gazed anxiously into her face. Her eyes were closed, but her lips moved as if in prayer. “ Henry, where are you ?” faintly asked the dying mother. The boy answered in a low mourn ful voice. “Henry—Henry,” she said, in a louder tone, and then after a se cond added, “poor boy he doesn’t hear me.” The little fellow looked up amazed. He knew not yet how the senses grad ually fail the dying; he was perplexed; the tears coursed down his cheeks; and his throat choked so that he could not speak. But he placed his hand on his mother’s, and pressed it. “Come nearer, my son—nearer —the candle wants snuffing—there, lay your face down by mine—Henry, love, I can’t see—has the wind blown —out — the—light?” The bewildered boy gazed wildly in his mother’s face, but kneAV not Avhat to say. He only pressed her hand again. “Oh! God,” murmured the dying Avoman, her voice growing fainter — “this is death !—Charles —Henry —Je- sus —re ” The child felt a quick, electric shiv er in the hand he clasped, and looking up, saAV that his mother had fallen back dead upon the pillow. He kneAV it all, at once. He gave one shriek and fell senseless across her body. The shriek aroused the drunkard. He started up from his knees, he gaz ed wildly on the corpse. He could not endure the look of that still saint ed face. He covered his face with his hands, and burst into an agony of tears. Long years have past since then : the little boy has grown to be a man: his father is once more a useful mem ber of society. But oh! the fearful price at Avhich his reformation Avas pur chased ! G. Eatonton, May 12tfi, 1854. Marriage at the Crystal Pa lace. —A marriage (not of the “coral stars,” however,) took place in the pic ture gallery of the Crystal Palace, in N. York, on Thursday. The parties were tAvo young people “from the country.” The clergyman Avho “bound their loving hearts together ” was the Rev. Mr. Marks, of the Methodist Church. The editor Avho Avrote his editorials Avith stolen chalk on the soles of his shoes, and went barefoot while the boys set up the copy, has purchased a ream of second-hand envelopes and engaged a girl to turn them inside out. ■ — Lord Holland told of a man remark able for absence of mind, who, dining once at the same sort of shabby repast, fancied himself in his own house, and began to apologize for the wretched ness of 'the dinner. Without a rich heart wealth is an ugly beggar. NUMBER 6. HuiiiroßS. FOR THE INDEPENDENT PRESS. Exercises in the School of u JYatur The first Class will take their seats for recitation. Teacher.—.[ohn.,Pippins, what Love ? Pippins.—Love may be denomina ted a complaint of the heart, growing out of an inordinate longing after something difficult to obtain. T. That’s correct. Rebecca, Avhat age and sex are most liable to be at tacked by this disease ? Rebecca. —Do not know sir. T. Can you answer it, Pippins? P. Yes, sir, I ’spect I can. lam told that the youth of both sexes are very liable to it, and that even the old and the Avrinkled are not unfrequentlv violently attacked by it. T. Pippins, you are right. Simon, Avhat are some of the symptoms by Avhich it is characterized ? S. Absence of mind, giving things wrong names, the saying of many very southings, in a very soft Avay; sighing, a sudden fondness for Poetry and Mu sic, gazing on the Moon and Stars, Toothache, Nettle-rash, Roseola, and a constant loathing of all things—save one, &c. T. Simon, that’s Avell said. You. always did know your lessons Avell though, I believp. John Pippins, what are some of its general effects ? P. Well, Heartburn, Pulse high, stupidly eloquent Eyes, Sleeplessness; Imagination bright, BoAvers of Roses, Avinged Cupids, buttered Peas; Oceans of Despair, and Hypo beyond all con ception. T. Rebecca, Avhat effect has Love on the Amice ? R. Considerable, sir, if not more ; for the tones of love are ahvays soft, tender, subdued, and insinuating, and in proportion to its intensity. T. What particular effect has Love on the voice of man, Rebecca? R. The tones of voice in men, be fore softened and subdued by this ten der passion, are seldom smooth or flex ible, being essentially deficient in both compass and expression. Yet Love doth most Avonderfully chasten and soften his voice, as I myself can abun dantly testify. T. Simon, what are some of the ef fects of love on Woman? S. Well, sir, its effects on Woman are Magic. Oh! that I could express to you in Avords, the languishing, in sinuating, beAvitching, and almost vo luptuous expression of the eyes, the exquisitely touching play of the lips, the modest blush, and all the other charms and beauties imparted to Wo man by this soul-melting, all-killing— T. Hold! hold! Simon. lam real ly afraid you will “injur” your consti tution. S. Well sir, Ido not care if you do knoAV that I love Rebecca, alias nay, I Avould not care if all the Avorld kneAV it —for our \ r ery souls do most sweetly mingle and commingle togeth er ; and this makes our bliss perfect and complete ; and I knoAV it, and I guess that she koAVS it, and I don’t care who else knows it, and T. Simon! Simon! lam astound ed at you. Don’t be so Avild and Aris ionary. S. Ah, ine! I guess you hain't nev-.* er seed the lihi-noc-e-hoss. T. You are all dismissed for the present. B. Scarcity oe Common Sense.*— Barnes, formerly editor of the London “Times,” said to Thomas Moore, that the great deficiency he found among his Avriters, was not talent but common sense. Not one of them he said could be trusted to Avrite often or long on the same subject, as they Avere sure to get bewhildered Avith it, and he includ ed himself in the remark. What is Aristocracy ? —ln reply to this question, Gen. Foy, a distin guished orator in the French Cham bers, gave the folloAving ans Ayer: “Aristocracy in the 19th century is the league, the condition of those av Jio Avould consume Avithout producing, live without aa wrking, know Avithout. learning, carry all honors without de serving thorn, and occupy all the pin