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IS PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY MORNING, BY GEO. E. NEWMAN, E H i « • r and Proprietor. Office in north entl of Piute's Rlote, third story, corner o 1 Front and Broad Streets. Term*. If paid strictly in advance—per annum, * If payment is delayed 6 mo*., “ “ If not paid till the close of the year, z,uu o- No paper will be discontmu.il until agi. arrearages are paid, unless at the option of the publisher. ET Single copies, fair cents—*» »le at the office, anil at Stearns’ Periodical Dei»t, Centre Street. rr All letters and communications to be addressed post PAID, to the Publisher, Batb, Me. g. m. Prmcwoit-L k Co., Newspaper Advertising Agents, N*. 10 State Street, ami V. B. Palmb, Scol lay’s Building, Court Street, Boston, arc Agents for this jmper, and are authorised to receive Advertisements and SuhscrijHions for ia at the same rates as required at this office. Their re ceijht* *« regards! as payments. Cite Storii Cdter. THE YOUNG REBEL. A Tale of the Carolina*. BY J. K. SANDERS. In a email farm house, towards the close of the year 17S0, sat as old man, his wife, and an only son. The face of the father appeared troubled ; at times he looked thoughtfully to tbe floor, and then he would gaze long and wistfully at his son, a fine, manly youth of twenty. At length he said : * David, this is disastrous news from Cam den. God knows what will become of the country now ! Congress needs every arm that is capable ; ah, me ! I wish this old wound I got in the French war had hot lamed me ; but for it, I should now be shouldering my musket and marching to defend my country.” Both son and wife looked up at these words. The old lady ceased knitting and looked in quiringly at her boy, aud it was evident from the expression of her face, that patriotism and motherly affection were at variance in her bo som. The son, however, after encountering his father's eye for a moment, turned con fusedly away. The old man's brow darkened, and he exclaimed warmly : 4 David, why do you linger about the village when your country needs your services so modi? Why, my son, I am ashamed of you. Twice before this have 1 spoken to you on this subject, but you appear to have no spirit!— What! will you see us trampled upon by the brutal mercenaries of Britain, and still lie here supinely ? For shame, David, for shame! 1 will not call you my son. Long since you ought to have been in the array.” ‘Joahua! Joshua!' interposed the old mother, 4 David is but a youth ; then do not speak so harshly to him. lie cannot yet feel what you feel, who have fought so often against your country's enemy. Joshua, he is but a boy. 4 A boy, indeed, Deborah! such boys as David have already gained imperishable lau rels since the war commenced. I could nsme a host of them ! why, were it not for the boys of this land where would be our army, which, 1 dare say, is one quarter composed of boys of David's age!’ The old man was excited, and it was the first unkind word he had ever used to his boy. David rose and left the house. He walked xsome distance, apparently in deep thought. ‘ What will not woman do?’ he at last muttered. 4 Here I have been lingering 4fcut the village when I should have been off long ago. And for what! why, to meet a pretty girl, and to listen to her musical vflice ; but , now I will be myself again ! What did he call me? was it not a coicarit1. Now. by Heavens, I will teach him that he has a son who posseses the spirit of his father. Away, then, with love, for I feel that I am called upontoact.no longer dream,! Ere another fortnight, my father shall hear ot me, or else I lose my life in striving for it.’ And with this resolution ho turned about and retracted bis steps. When he reached home he sought the sta ble, saddled his horse, and mounting him struck into a gallop, which continued lor sev eral miles. At length he stopped and looked up at the windows of a farm house, half hid between clustering trees. This was the resi dence of Mary Bunker, the mistress of his heart; the lights showed that the family had not retired, and he resolved to pay her a visit before his departure. She was alone when he.entered, and a few words made her acquainted with his determi nation. She burst into tears. 4 Nay, Mary,’ he said, 4 you must not un man me. At first I resolved to leave you without a farewell, for 1 knew how much you dreaded my taking an active part in this strug gle. But I could not be so cruel as to desert you without a word.’ 4 1 will compose myself,’ said the fair girl, with an effort to smile. 41 know I have been wrong to persuade you to stay, but you cannot imagine the anxiety I feel on account of my' brothers, atKt"t could not bear to have you en counter their danger. But since this dreadful defeat at Camden, I feel that every man is wanted for our country. Go, then, dearest, and may God be with you. My prayers shall attend you night and day.’ David pressed the now weeping girl to his bosom, snatched a hasty kiss at the sound of approaching footsteps, wrung her band and was gone. The next day he left the neighborhood of his father's house, armed with a musket and mounted on a sturdy horse. His destination was the American camp, then far northward ; but as the intervening country was filled with the enemy, he knew there would be considera ble address required to effeot his purpose.— Before his departure he saw a few of his old playmates, who promised to follow him soon as possible. iNight found him near a lonely farm house, to which he proceeded boldly, in pursuit of a lodging. At first the occupant received him coldly, but a chance expression convincing David that his host was a lory, he affected the pame political creed, and was immediately warmly welcomed. The royalist produced his cider after supper, and insisted that David should join him in his potations ; this the young man did, taking care, however, not to indulge too freely, while the farmer, over joyed to find what he supposed to be a new recruit for his party, drank without stint, and became more and more communicative. To his horror, David soon learned that a party of royalists, led by Major Wilson, celebrated for his toryism and ruthlessness, were to start early on the ensuing day on an expedition to seize and hang the two Bankers, who had made themselves particularly obnoxious to the royalist leaders. David knew enough ^>f this « % fmtrnal ®f political anir Central fldos-^n ^bbotate uf $<|ttal $U(jjrts. VQL- X.BATH, THURSDAY1MQRNIN G, JUL Y 19,1855. ^ ko. s. partisan warfare to be assured that no mercy would be shown his friends. He also knew enough of the character of the Major, to sus pect that some strong personal motive had led to the planning of so distant an expedition, when there were others nearer home. He ac cordingly set himself to discover from his half inebriated companion the truth. Nor was he long before success crowned his adroit cross examination.’ ‘ Why, you see,’ said the host, ‘ l believe there's a little revenge for a slight received from these fellows’ sister, mixed up with the Major's desire to catch the Bunkers. The girl is very pretty, they say, and the Major, when she was down here on a visit last year —before the war—wanted to marry her, but she would have nothing to do with him. Ev er since, he has vowed to make her rue the' day. Y ou may depend upon it, he will have her on his own terms now. Thank Heaven ! there’s no law any longer to prevent an honest royal isttrom doing as he pleases to theso ras cally rebels. But yonder is the Major now,’ suddenly said the host, starting up.' ‘ I will introduce you to him at once—a merry fellow you will find him. Lord love you, he's as brave as a lion.’ David, though horrified at the diabolical plot he had heard, saw the necessity of dis sembling in order to hear more of the lory 's plans, and find means, if possible, to circum vent them. He arose, therefore, and shook the Major's hand warmly ; pledged him im mediately in a bumper, and so contrived to make the loyalist believe that he was anxious to join a troop, and take part against the reb els. This induced the Major to be unusually civil, (or he wished to secure so athletic a re cruit himself. It was not long before a bar gain was concluded between the two. David refused, however, to sign the agreement that night, lie pretended that several others of his friends were dissatisfied, and desirous ot joining the royalists ; and his object, he said, was to secure a commission for himself by in ducing them to join. This tempting bait took ; the major promised a command in his troop in case of success, and David signified his intention of setting forth after ho had taken a few hours rest, in order to lose no time in gathering together his recruits. The dread of discovery had been constantly before our hero during the arrangement of his negotiation, for his person was well known to many of the Major's troops; and if any of them had come up, his feigned name would not protect him Irom detection. He wished to get olT that night, as he proposed, but to this neither his host nor the Major would hear, and he was forced to remain till morning. What was his anguish to hear that the Major had been gone some hours, and was already on his way to the Bunkers with his ftoops. Dis sembling his anxiety, David partook of a hasty breaklast, and,'mounting his horse, rode slow ly away. But when out of sight of the house, he struck into a fierce gallop, which continued till he came in sight of a cross road, where was a tavern. Here he stopped, and learning that the royalists had taken the high road, he turned into a more narrow circuitous by-road. ‘ It is my only chance to avoid them,’ he said, again dashing into a gallop. ‘ I pray God I may reach the settlement in time to col lect a few of our lads, and march to the Bun kers. There is other hope now left.’ Night had fallen in, as they had expected, before the tories were able to reach the vicin ity of the house they were in search of. At length, however, after a silent inarch through the woods, it broke upon their view. A light was burning in one of the windows, and when they arrived close to the premises, the lively notes of a violin reached their ears, proving that the brothers were not awaro of their presence, but were enjoying themselves in imagined security. ‘Now, men,’ whispered the leader of the tories,.1 when I give the word, fire a volley at the house by way of introduction ; we will then surround the house and enter it.’ At that instant the deep bay of a dog rang on their ears, and a large mastiff sprang from un der the house and rushed at the Major. 1 Fire !’ he cried. Twenty guns broke upon the stillness of the night—the dog fell dead—every pane of glass in the windows was shivered, and the tories yelled like savages. In an instant the lights in the house were extinguished—the violin as quickly ceased, and a noise was heard at the door. The tories immediately made a rush at it. But it was already barred, and being made of stout oak plank, resisted all their ef forts. A^-ifle cracked from one of the win dows, and one of the tories fell, desperately wounded. Another report succeeded, and another tory fell. Major Wilson was now fully aware that both, Bunkers were at home and wide awake. A shed turned the rain from the front of the house, and beneath this the tories, shielded from the fire of the Bunkers, went to work at the door. Suspecting some resistance,—perhaps from his knowledge of their character,—one of his men brought an axe, with which he commenced hewing at the door, and soon cut it into pieces. Here a des perate battle ensued. The brothers were pow erful men, and courageous as they were strong; and now with clubbed rifles they disputed the whole tory force. The door being small, they stood their ground for half an hour, felling during that time, some of those who had the temerity to enter first, but finally numbers overcome them, and they were flung upon the floor and bound. The tories, inflamed to mad ness at the resistance which had been made, and at their own losses, now seized the moth er and sister, and made preparations to hang the two brothers before their eyes. The ropes were already tied around the necks of their victims, when the Major addressed his men : • Now, friends, as soon as these villains are dead, we will set fire to the house_the old | woman there,’ he said, with a brutal laugh, • ‘ may bo left inside, but the young one I re serve for myself.’ ‘ Hist,’ cried one of the men in a loud voice. The Major ceased, and they heard a voice out side the House. Although the words were spoken low, tho listeners distinctly heard, * When I say fire, give it to them !’ A man with a blanched cheek rushed into the house, exclaiming :— ‘ The yard is full of men !’ • Fire,’ cried a deep voice from the yard.— A general volley succeeded, and so well had the aim been directed in the door, that several of the tories fell, either dead or desperately wounded. In turn the tories retreated up the stairs, when Uavid, our hero, rushed into the room they had just left, and cut the ropes of the Bunkers. 1 May God Almighty bless you for this,’ cried one of the Bunkers. The two men sprang up, seized their rifles, which had been left in the room, and prepared to retaliate the treatment _they had just re ceived. Long and desperate was the battlg. The tories (ought dor life, the whigs for re venge. But at length, the latter triumphed, tho' not until their enemies had been almost exterminated. The Major fell by the arm of our hero, who had sought him in the hottest of the fight, and engaged him single-handed. No language of ours can express the emo tions of David as lie pressed his betrothed wife to his bosom, and his heart went up in thank fulness to Heaven for his timely arrival, when he thought that a delay of half an hour would have consigned her to a fate worse than death. The gratitude of her brothers was expressed in many words, but her's was silent and tear ful, yet how much more gratifying. 1 1 almost called you a coward, son David, said his father to him, when they met, ‘ but you are a chip of the old block, and I did you wrong. Deborah, he is a boy to be proud of— is he net? You may founder one of my horses every day that you do such a deed—it beats anything I ever saw in the old French war.' David's gallantry in this act, drew around him in a few weeks more than a score of hardy young followers, who fought with him to the end of the war, when ho returned and was happily married to the heroine of our story. [ From the New York Atlas.] SKATING ON THE KENNEBEC. t __ BV FRED. PEVERLV. In the sweltering heat of this summer, when (he thermometer indicates ninety-two degrees below zero in the shade, it is delightful to think of the rigors of the Irigid zone. It seems almost impossible to imagine that there is such : a thing in the world as cold weather. In fact, | i do believe, although a native, and ‘to the manor born,' that this is about the most infer nal climate in creation. You may talk about the West or East Indies, or the tropical heats of Africa or Central America—there is no place on this blessed earth where the sun is so hot during the summer months, as in New York, (unless, perhaps, we except Boston, and the sunny side of a country meeting house) —Boston in particular, which is always three degrees hotter, in the hottest days, than New York. If 1 were now about to get up an expedi tion to the Arctic regions, in search of Dr. Kane, (the fate of poor Franklin is loo well known,) this is the season of the year in-which 1 would like to enlist my men—everybody is willing to go to the North Pole now. It is impossible to imagine anything like cold weather here. I will just ask any sensible, well-informed man, if he would not like, at this very moment, to be transported to the Arctic Ocean, and be placed a straddle of an iceberg, with a segar and a hot whiskey punch. No one cares about friends on such an occasion—one's own company is so much better than any cne else's. There is nothing like absolute solitude in this world, for then you are sure not to be importuned by friends, nor bored to death by talking, meddlesome women. (May the dear sex forgive me)— there are angels among them, and thero are —s too. (There is nothing in God's blessed world so bad as a bad woman—there is noth ing so lovely as a pure aud true-hearted one.) An intelligent parenthesis, that. It is just about this season of the year, now, when the heat is intense, and the sun is glar ing right down upon you through a clear, transparent atmosphere, hotter than a black smith’s forgo at white heat, that my memory fondly travels back to the days of my juvenili ty, (that is not more than a hundred and fifty years agone,) when I wallowed in the snows of New Hampshire and Maine, (not ‘naked in December's snow') and chopped wood and felled trees during the entire winter, standing in the snow up to my waist, and with cow hide boots on that used to freeze to my feet. But all this matter of preface has nothing.to do with skating on the Kennebec ; so let us at once proceed to our original intention to tell something which may not be interesting to anybody. With the thermometer as it is at present in New York, it is pleasant and refreshing to write about a winter in the State of Maine— such a winter as we have seen, when the ther mometer positively ranged but ten degrees less than it does at the coldest point of the Arctic winter ; for Dr. Kane has himself said that the coldest weather he ever experienced in the Northern Ocean, was during the month of March, 1851, when his spirit thermometer, placed on a hammock of ice, away from the influence of the ship, indicated fifty three de grees below zero. The Doctor considers this the average coldest point ever known in the Arctic regions. I shall never forget that winter’s night 1828 -9, when the snow lay, with a deathly cold and white, to the depth of four feet, and the moon, tall-orbed and brilliant, gleamed down as chastely as icicles upon the scene below.— The atmosphere was 50 intensely cold, that the ice in the river sent off reverberations like the reports of musketry, and under our feet, as we trod along the pathway, the snow lay as crisp as potato-starch (excuse the homeli hess of the similie.) I had made arrangements that afternoon to meet a skating party in the evening, on the Kennebec. There were to be about fifty in the party ; and we were to have a bonfire, and lots of refreshments, and I had been importuned to invite my cousin Kate. It was a New \ ear's Eve, and wo were bound to have a frolic. It took me some time to get Kate to consent to go, but she was at last prevailed upon in consideration that Arthur Kingland's sister would go too. Arthur's sister consent ed, but finally did not go. It was late in the evening before Kate and I got started from home. Sbe had to bundle up in all her flannels, and furs and bearskins —for loxes and bears were plenty in Maine in those days—to keep her blessed self from catching cold, for it was ‘an eager and a nip ping air,’ and as I have said before, the snow was eight feet deep on a level, and the roads unbroken across the fields. Over the fields of snow, however, it was not so difficult to trav el as one might im'agine, for there had been a drizzling rain the night previous and a crust had frozen almost hard enough to bear a yoke of oxen—consequently we got along merrily—1 could skate on it, and draw Kate after me in a hand-sled. I had on a good stout pair of moccasins, and was otherwise amply protect ed lrom the inclemency of the weather, as was also my cousin Kate-—poor Kate ! in those days the only friend I had on earth in whom I could confide all my sorrows and trust all my jovs ! dear Kate ! who was always so tender and kind to me when I was chid by others— who was my mild and pleasant companion in all my walks in the woods or by the river's margin—to whom I read books, and made pres ents—she whom I worshipped with a boyish veneration, like one who adores the" moon and knows not why, except that he can never win her. With what glee we slipped away from that lonely fireside, and out into the keen air—and how I seated Kate upon the sled and started for the river—only half a mile distant. It was no load for me to pull, and I sped over the frozen plains at a rapid rate, and in a few minutes we were standing by the ice-bound margin of the Kennebec, and as I glanced up the river to my right, a red glare of light met my eyes. A big bonfire had been kindled on the ice, the flames of which illuminated the country for some distance around. At the same moment my cars caught the sound of voices shouting in high glee, while dim and spectral figures flitted hither and thither, and their forms thrown into wierd outlines by the red light of the fire/ (It would be superflu ous, of course, to tell my readers that tha: same fire was kindled upon the ruins of about forty lengths of cedar post and rail fence—but it was.) rjager 10 join me sporis as soon as possiuie —for we were ther^ an half hour behind our time—Kate took my arm, and we stepped on the ice. In spite of all the light which the moon shed upon the scene, the glare of the fire, shining so directly in pur faces, almost blinded 11s, so that we had to shade our eyes with our hands in order to escape the danger of air-holes—for the river is always full of them—although the ice, at the time was from two feet to thirty inches thick on the average. We proceeded along very carefully, I being the pilot, and Kate slipped her hand from my arm to my hand to give me more freedom of action. In her heart, I am sure, there was not a tremor of danger, but i must confess that I began soon td experience serious symp toms of alarm, although I did not communi cate my foelings to coz; but at the same time, I would have sacrificed one-half of my exis tence, if by wishing to do so, I could have transferred her to the quiet fireside at home. We had not proceeded more than ten yards from the shore before my right foot broke through the ice, going in up to my knee.— Kate uttered a sharp cry of alarm, and a freez ing terror ran through my whole system. Yet my presence of mind did not desert me ; and not wishing to communicate more fright to her than possible, I threw myself full length upon the ice. At this Kate shrieked just a little— the least bit in the world—an#, as a natural consequence, the next'momenl was by my side the act all my own, for I had purposely pulled her down as I fell, feeling and believing that it was our only chance of safety. Great Heaven ! shall I ever forget the hqrror of that moment ! 1 knew 1 was over the the most dangerous part of the river. The current made boldly in shore, and was running like a mill-race beneath us. To have got in would have been certain destruction to us both •; but I kept my own impressions to myself, and at tributing the accident to a crack in the ice, into which my skate iron had got and thrown me, I regathered myself as carefully as pos sible upon my feet, and assisting Kate to arise, I began once more my progress towards the skating party on the west side of the river. ricking our way as carelully as 1 could, we proceeded a short distance further, when, to my utmost consternation, I found that we were crossing arthin field of ice, so fearfully trans parent, that I could see, by^the light of the moon, the dark and swiftly rolling waters be neath, and felt the ice spring and crackle un der us like canvas. Kate shrunk back in ter ror, and cried out with deep and fearful ago ny, that we were lost. • Oh, Fred !’ she exclaimed, ‘we are lost! Mother—oh, mother ! God in mercy save us !’ Trembling with affright, she clung to my side, and at that moment seemed like a ton of lead hanging upon my arm. I tried to reas sure her. I told her there was no danger, al though 1 knew that each moment's hesitation was at the peril of our lives, for the ice was bending under us, and cracking, star-like, in every direction. ‘ Kate, dear Kate!’ I said, ‘bo assured, be calm, be cool. Our safety depends opon it. Here, take my hand ; quick, quick ! Don't look back. Come quickly forward, as fast as we can. Go you ahead. You are lighter than 1, and may pass over in safety. Make directly for the fire—I will lake this direc tion,’ intending to make a circle to the right, and yet to be near enough to her to save her —or endeavor to—in case of accident. ‘No, no!’ she exclaimed. ‘Do not leave me ! For Heaven’s sake stay by me, or 1 shall die. 1 cannot move ! I cannot! See, we are breaking through.’ Indeed it was so, for the water was already overflowing the ice, and Kate was at that mo ment standing up to her ankles in the water. Knowing that there was not one instant to spare, and perceiving at once that Kate, from affright, had become incapable of action, 1 ut tered an involuntary exclamation of despair. Death was certain, if we remained in the same situation a minute longer, and there was no alternative but to dash ahead—to turn back was impossible ! What should I do ? It is beyond my power to tell the horrors of that moment, what dreadful, Perce thoughts possessed me, at one moment resolving to die with my dear cousin, the next to shout for as sistance to the boys on the opposite side of the river. It did not take me long, however, to decide, for a loud report in our immediate vi cinity, and the while and foaming water that curled up over the broken ice in our rear, so terrified Kate that she fainted, and would have fallen, had I not caught her in my arms. One desperate effort alone remained, and not one second's time was to be lost in putting it into execution. Quickly lifting Kate in my arms—for she was light as a feather, or seemed so then, at any rale, 1 made a desperate push forward to wards the opposite side of the river, for I knew all hopes of our mortal salvation de pended on the swiftness ot my flight, and I felt that the precious burden I bore in _my arms, was worth all the clTort that human strength and mental delerminrlion could effect. What man would not risk his life, and stand in the face of peril, to protect or save the woman that he loved. On we sped, as swiftly as the flight of a bird, and yet, all the time, so impatient was I, that 1 scarcely seemed to move at all. The ice w«s bending fearfully under us, and was scaling and cracking in every direction. It j was one of those places that never freeze to ■ nnv thickness—where the water runs swift and deep, and yet where all around was froz j en to a marble hardness. Poor Kate ! she lay lifeless in my arms, and she might nevrr again know what sorrow was. Hut she must he saved. Oh, how I wished that niv sinews were made of spring steel, and that 1 had the power of an hundred horses ! for I kiuw that if we broke through that thin crust of dark icc, no human power on earth could save us. On I sped. It was but a few yards, to be sure, but then it seemed leagues in distance. J thought I should never get over it, and Death himself seemed chasing us with furious mal ice, and I could hear the fearful current roll ing beneath my feet—the water rushed half way up to my Knee—anu then only out t can upon my friends to save Kate ! Of a sudden there was a terrible hissing in my ear. The world seemed to go round and round—1 thought of every action of my life. I felt my self sinking, and uttering a cry for mercy, I clasped Kate closer to my bosom ; kissed her cold, pale forehead, and in the next moment the world and my sorrow were forgotten ! The next that I recollect I was sitting lyr a huge fire, surrounded by my friends, and ray head resting in the lap of Kate. All was ex plained. Indeed the ice had broken through ; but at the moment when I supposed that wc were sinking, it seems that I threw myscll forward, in an effort to save myself, and for tunately fell where the ice was firmer and ' thicker. Almost instantly, my companions, who had perceived our danger, came to out relief. Kate was restored to consciousness by the fall, which, fortunately, did not hurl her ; w hile I, from over excitement, had faint ed. No sooner, however, had I recovered, and felt the assurance of my safety, and saw that Kate was also uninjured, than my usual good spirits returned, and having warmed my feet by the fire, I joined the party, and finished the evening with one of the merriest skating frolics that has ever been known on the Ken nebec ; and when our time came to go home, the reader may be assured that wc did not re turn by the way that wc came. We picked out the solid, thick, whits icct and reached the shore without alarm ; but never after wards could 1 get Kate on a skating party, ol a night, on the Kennebec., Effective Retaliation. A Quaker had a quarrelsome neighbor, whose cow being suf fered to go at large, often broke into the Quak er’s well cultivated garden. One morning, having driven the cow from his premises to her owner’s house, he said to him, ‘Friend T-, I have driven thy cow home once more, and if I find her in my garden again—’ ‘Suppose you do,’ his neighbor angrily ex claimed,‘what will you do?’ ‘Why,’ said the Quaker, ‘I’ll drive her home to thee again, friend T-.’ The cow never again troubled the Quaker. The man who lends an umbrella is a real philanthropist—sacrificing himself for the ben efit of his species. The life of a fool could no more go on with out excitement, than a pantomime could with out music. The confusion on a certain uncertain railway is such that there is scarcely a man that knows his own Station. IpsftHttng. Sam Winton’s Corn Speculation. [We do not mean, by inserting the following, to commend tho morality of Mr. Winion’s ‘corn speculation.’ It may serve, however, to make a laugh, and afford farmers a useful les son as to how the commission business is sometimes carried on ] *IJid I ever tell you,’said Sam Winton to me one day, ‘of that ’ere Corn spec of mine on the Wabash?’ I shook my head. ‘\ou see, Bob,’ began Sam, ‘tho way it came about was this—I got hard up.’ ‘W hich is not a very uncommon thing with a certain individual uf my acquaintance, Sam,’ I remarked. ‘Prezactly,’said Sam. ‘Well, I was hard up, and wondering how 1 could make the smallest amount of capilaklell to the tallest ad vantage, when, on taking up a -newspaper, I saw a windy parrygraph on the advantages of advertising. The article went to illustrate how many fellers had made their piles out of the meanest captitals simply by advertising, and I determined at wuncc, perticklerlv as 1 had raised an idea from the subject, that it was the way for me ter go about it.’ ‘What was the way?’ I inquired, not com prehending him. ‘By advertising,’ returned Sam. ' ‘Yes, well; you said sumething about going about it. Going about wl.at?’ ‘Raising a pile,’ returned Sam. ‘All right—I understand; go ahead.’ ‘I urged (lie matter in this way,' said Sam, ‘that an advertisement travelled wherever the paper travelled, and everybody knows they go into all the out-o'-way places in the Stalo. So, thinks I, a good adveliseinent will be sure to catch the eye of some of the softest of the in terior, and if it does, who knows but that they may give a feller a lift? Here goes (or atrial, at all everts. So I lake a store of a puke, w ho, because I talked up right didn’t want the rent in advance, run in a lot of truck that I had on hand, and which was so old and unmarketable, that 1 could neither sell it nor give it nway, j hung up my shingle of ‘Sam Winton, Con - j mission Merchant,’ put up a springin’ adver , tisement in the two papers published in the I town, and got a couple of firstrate puffs from the editors, to the effect that I was ‘respon sible,’ as well as some in trade, and then I sat down to abide the ishew of events.’ i ‘That is of the advertisement ?’ ‘Prezactly. Well, I hadn’t been ‘storing’ it long, when a planter in the interior of the State’ ‘What State, Sam?’ ‘ludianny, of course,—consigned ine four big boat-loads of corn, on commission, with instruc tions to sell it as quick as possible, and then write him, so that he could draw on me for the pewter. Thinks 1, as I hand the stuff" put in the store, there ain’t nothing like advertising. It’s the only way of making customers. And I laid myself out to sell the corn.’ ‘And that did not take you long, Sam, o( course.’ ‘Yer might bet a barrel of Monongyhely on that, Bub, with all the chances to win,’ re plied Sam. ‘Yer see, the other merchants in the town—and some of ’em drive a stiff" busi ness, I tell you—couldn't come within a ihous and miles of me in price. 1 could undersell llieir bouts off on ’em, and they couldn't help themselves. Some of ’em tried to back up against me, by putting their corn down to the I lowest market price, but it warn't no sorter of use. I run mine down to half the usual prices, and they had to knock under. They grumbled orful, and declared that 1 was roonin’ their business—but it didn't make no difference. 1 continued tu sell so much lower than any on ’em, that they at length gave up all idea ul competition with me, and 1 had the market all to myself, until the last bushel was gone.— To be sure,’ said Sam, with one of his expres sive smiles, ‘I had the advantage of the Pukes —they expected to pay the owners for theii com, when it was sold, whereas 1—’ ‘Had no such intention,’ said T. ‘Not the least on it.' said Sam. ‘It was agin my principles, and had always been. Well, my competitors, jealous of my success, commenced Mowin' agin me everywhere, hilt instead of hurling me, it did me good. In a short time I got my name up as the cheapest and quickest corn dealer on the Wabash, and the planters began consigning their com to me SO'fast, that I came to the conclusion they most have been mighty anxshus to git rid of it.’ ‘You never expect to pay them a dollar, I suppose, Sam ?’ ‘Not the first picayune !’ answered Sam. ‘But I went on selling. There's a large mar ket on the Wabash fur everything—even for corn, if you put low enough—and as I went in for the big market, and warn’t perlieklcr as about the prices, the way I naturally hanled in the pewter was ciiougu iu stnu h inrnt oi joy to the heart of a dying Christian ! When I was felicitatin’ myself on the luck which followed advertisin’, I received a letter from my first customer, wanting to know if I had sold his corn yet, and if so, ter let him know, so as he could draw on me for the tin. 'As his plahtation was away in the interior, I wrote to him that it warn’t sold yet, and that there was no telling when it would, as money was so orful tight and more corn in the market than there was any demand for. This shut him up for ■ month or two, when along came another letter, which I answered as before. ‘I didn't hear from him again for nigh on to eight months, when he writ me a sassy letter, staling that he was hard-up, and must have the money; and that I must sell the corn off at any price, deduct my commission, and let him know what the balance was, so that he could draw on me for the amount. This letter took me all of a heap, as 1 had been putting otf "jjg; ■ 1 ■-■■-L-I!.".. ■ 33ook nnb Sub printing, •-i < i atei - Having recently made extensive addititimt to 9QP foffcrtf vartlty of p3»aih Ana fahstt J°S TYPE, The proprietor »>f the f-™,. u — ecnte with xrats km -L,,1 T,mo* to tio# p«*ept>ed to ex Job Work, such ax n*^'>Tcn, every description of Circular*, Bill-l,rn«I„ r»*j « %u— * ITT Particular attention paid to isiii(3)ST22m imrsmsy®* All work entrusted to os will he iverfnrvTwvi tv. ■ manner, an.t M /w „ .on Ac ^VrtJZ^SdS. ■nd promptly answeredUKO. K. N MIMAS settling with all my correspondents, with tho intention of making a slide. How ever, thinks I, I’ll give this Puke a small sight, of a feller feeling, fur I’ve often known what it is (o ber hard-up myself. The Puke’s corn came, everr at the price at which I eold it, to $175, and I thought, seeing that I was doing a tall btssmess, that it was nothing more than fair that ho should h.ive part of the pewter; so I Set dowrr, made a statement of the account, and sent it to him. The dockyment run thus: ‘Mb. Browx fete, nrcvmUnjv lo yonf fr*toc. lions, made a forced sale of your corn, and rocetved for it Against which I have a commission :— For Boatage $125,00 j-2.00 Wheelsge 12.00 Storage 90,00 Katage • 30,00 Salage 45,00 -—^341,50 Leaving, as you perceive, a balance in - your favor of $160,50 You can draw upon me for that sum. Trusting you will honor me with still further consignments, I remain, sir, yours sincerely, Sam Wixfox.* ‘Oil this statement of accounts,’ continued Sam’ 'ihe feller's hair musl have riz orful, fur he sot down anJ rit rite under the items,.this sentence;’ ‘“You infernal villain ! put in “stealage,” and keep the whole of it.’ ” Horses and Rats in Paris. A correspondent of the N. Y. Spirit of the Times gives an interesting account of the man ner in which the bodies of Parisian horses and rats are usually disposed of. He says : Four hundred horses die or are killed in Paris in one week. There is a common pound, surrounded by a stone wall, covering some ten acres. According to some municipal regulations (there is an ‘ ordonnanee ’ for every thing in France) all dead carcasses, ex cept human bones, must be brought to this general receptacle. The carcass of a horse is valuable for the bone, the hide, and the hair, to say nothing of the flesh, much prized, when fresh in certain sausage manufactories. But should yon wait until the horse has actually shuffled off his hairy coil, you might miss a bargain—another of the trade precedes and purchases. Hence it is important to buy the horse, as a dead horse, before he is dead. It is a regular business in Paris. You can tell these agents for the purchase of dead horses at a glance; the dress is that of an English groom, save the vignette on the visor of the | cap, representing a dead horse's head and cross-bones; a memorandum book, a pencil, ! stamp, and a piece of caustic complete his ac-. coulrements. With scrutinizing eye he travels the thoroughfares ot Paris; should a horse go lame, break a leg or neck, should he show symptoms of distress—in a word, anywhere or in any way evince signs of the many ills to which horseflesh is heir, Immediately is an offer made for the animal, deliverable when really dead. The bargain concluded, the ‘ signalement ’ of the horse and owner is care Ihlly recorded, and a private mark stamped on the inside of the fore leg with the caustic ; the horse goes, perhaps rejoicing, on his way for weeks, perhaps months, only to be met with and identified after death, at the public graveyard for horses. Now, in cases of fresh specimens, as mentioned above, the first oper ation on a dead horse is to take off the skin ; then the flesh, to get at the bones. The skin ning portion is easy, and performed with a dexterity and rapidity truly astonishing. I have seen in the enclosure spoken of, at one time, over one hundred horses skinned, or being put through that process. The next point is to divest the bones ot adhesive and j often putrid flesh. Bones are valued in pro portion as they are clear, neat, and free from i other matler. To take oil the flesh by hand is I a tedious and dilflenlt operation. An ingen | ions Frenchman solved the difficulty. He no ticed that rats were very fond of horse flesh ; he advised the authorities to colonize the dead horse pound with these animals ; the cata combs of Paris furnished them by thousands. It was done, and now-a-days a dead horse's carcass, put in over night, is literally nothing but a neat and beautiful skeleton in the morn ing. The pecuniary saving to bone dealers from the voracity and gnawing propensities of the rat family, is, I was told, very considera ble. Our Yankee Frenchman did nol, however, stop there. It was natural to suppose that rals, so well fed and provided for, would rap idly increase and multiply ; hcnCe the necessi ty of regulating the matter. Every three months a grand ‘ battue ' is made upon the aforesaid colony of rats, and all caught above ground die the death of rats. The manner of doing this amused me. Horizontal and cyl indrical holes are bored all around, in and at ths foot of the enclosing walls—the depth and diameter being respectively the length and thickness of the rat's body. PprCi the morn ing of the ' haltnc,’ men drifted with kettles,, tin pans, drums, Vc., rush irf at tho peep- off day and ‘ charivari ? the poor rats, frightened to death, poke their heads into tho first open ing. Of course, ail those in the wall Holes have tails*sticking ouf. The rat collector, with bag over his left shoulder, now makes a tour of the premises, and the scientific and rapid manner wun which they are seized by the tail and safely (to both rats and operator) transferred to the bag, challenges admiration. It even surpasses the ‘ CoifTonnier's ’ rag picking. Perhaps you wish to know what becomes of the rats. These, also, are sold before they are caught or killed. The privi lege of gathering rats on the ‘ battue ’ days is farmed out by the authorities, and a profitable business it is. Thfese rats, sleek and fat as they necessarily are, fetch a highly remuner ative price—the fur, the skin, and the flesh, meet with ready sales. A man much addicted to snoring, remarked to his bedfellow in the morning, ‘ that he had slept like a top.’ * I know it,’ sail the ulber, ‘ like a hamming top.’ [y Hon. Dennis L. Milliken was recently elected preeident ot the A. & K. Railroad, •ice A. P. Morrill, resigned.