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1). W. GEL.WICKS Is. co., Publishers,
VOLUME 1. THE EMPIRE CliliM MS. I>. W. GELWIIKS cSi Co., 1M HLISIIKRS AM) EDITORS. Published every SATURDAY at COLOMA, Coun ty seat of El Dorado County. ''et' 1 » a ■ a va Dno year, invariably in advance $6,00 !Six months, “ “ Sdioo Three months, “ " .f2j.50 ■Single Copies ’25 RATES OF ADVERTISING—TEX LIXES OK LESS JIAKE A SQUARE Cne square, first insertion f3.00 livery subsequent insertion $U50 One square three months 15,00 “ “ six months 25,00 “ “ one year 40,yO One-quarter column tliree months 25,00 “ six months 145.00 “ one year 50,00 Ono-half column tliree months 40.00 “ six months 75,00 one year 100.00 B5J" All commitment ions, whether on business or intended for publication, should be addressed, post-paid, to 1). W. GELW1CKS & CO. The Ordeal of the Statesman. —The memory of her great men is the noblest treasure of a great country; to preserve it is an act of duty, to honor it is an act of justice, and to vindicate it is an act of virtue. But the memory of her statesmen de mands the exertion of those honorable impulses in a more vivid and vigilant degree than those of any other class of eminence. The monument of a poet is in his works ; all the world has there the living evidence of his claims on posterity. The soldier has precluded all doubt by the brilliancy of achieve ments which speak to the universal conviction. The orator, like the poet, is to be judged of by the tri umphs of his appeals to the hearts and heads of mankind. But the leader of national councils has a peculiar ordeal to undergo. His career must be through the ordinary circumstances of life, not like the man of imagination, above them ; his materials must be the common influences of mankind, not the noble facul ties of exclusive genius, dazzling courage or pro found philosophy ; his renown must grow out of a long struggle against the difficulties of public events, the opposition of ignorance, the stubbornness of popular prejudice, the selfishness of individual feel ings, and the thousand commonplace casualties of all things subject to the caprice, frivolity, or vices of man. lie must be content to be misunderstood, and of course maligned, for a time: to have his most honorable motives arraigned, bis clearest views pronounced too problematic, and his profoundest policy ridiculed, even in proportion as it is profound: for few men will praise that which they cannot pen etrate. The general result being, that the greatest statesmen in our annals have been compelled to wait for the tardy vindication of the tomb. Exam ples of this moral injustice, yet almost natural ne cessity, will recur to every reader of English history. In proof of both the partial judgment and the slow vindication, for nearly his whole administration 1'itt was assailed with every outcry of popular hos tility. That stately tree, the noblest product of the intellectual soil of England, was stripped of branch and leaf for year after year, by the blast of popular indignation. His fame now flourishes in a verdure which-gives the promise of an imperishable luxuri ance. The severest names of faction were flung on Burke —pensioner, partisan, tool and knave. The nation now approaches his monument only to bow down to the majesty of his wisdom. We shall not quarrel with this law of public life, however we may regret its injuries to society, but we feel that it forms a stronger obligation to do justice to those to whom we can do no more than lay our tribute on the grave. Industry is Talent. —Wo often hear persons ex plaining how one man succeeds, while another fails ( in the same pursuit, by attributing to one a talent , for bis business, but refusing it to the other. \ without denying tha t some individuals have a great- ; er aptitude for particular avocations than others. J we think that the problem in question could be \ easier solved, by saying that the successful man was industrious, while the other was not. Bulwer, for example, is considered as a man of the highest abilities as a novelest. Yet, when Bul wer began his career, lie composed with the utmost difficulty, often writing his fictions twice over, He persevered, however, and now stands almost at the head of his class—his latest productions, moreover, j being regarded as tiio best from his pen. Every school-hoy is familiar with tire fact that Demosthe nes became au orator only by pursuing a similar plan. Nor arc illustrations of the great truth, that industry is talent, confined to the higher intellectu al pursuits. When Girard trusted the customer without an endorser, who carried his goods home on his shoulders, the shrewd uld Frenchman was acting on this truth, deduced from his own experi ence of mankind. All eminent persons, whether mechanics, merchants, lawyers or statesmen, were industrious, from Watt and Norris down to Thur low and William Pitt. Washington, Franklin, Marshall and Madison, and every other distinguish ed American, were busy men. Industry, in short, is talent nine times at often. Pretty Incident. —We heard a very pretty little incident, the other day which we cannot help rela ting. A young lady from the South, it seems, was wooed and won by a youthful physician living in California. When the engagement was made, the doctor was rich, having been very successful at San Francisco. It had not existed six months, however, when, by an unfortunate investment, ho lost his en tire “heaps’ This event came upon him, it should be added, just as he was about to claim bis bride. What docs he do ? Why, like an honorable and chivalrous young fellow, as he is. ho sits down and writes the lady every particular of the unhappy turn which has taken place iu his fortunes, assuring her that if theiact produced any change in her feelings toward him, she is released from every pro mise she lias made him. And what does the dear good girl 1 Why, she takes a lump of pure gold, which her lover had sent her in his prosperity, as a keepsake, and having it manufactured into a ring, forvarded it to him, with the following Bible in seriition, engraved in distinct characters on the insiui ;— h Intrcat me not to leave thee or to return from folloving after thee : for whither thou guest, will 1 go, aid whither thou lodgest, will I lodge ; thy people will he my people, and thy God my God : whereliou dicst will I die; and there will I be juried the Lord do so to me, and more also, if light kit death part me and thee.” The Lver idolized his sweetheart more than ever lieu hi received this precious evidence ofherdevo t>n to lun, both in storm and sunshine. We may ml thntfortunc soon again smiled upon the young pysiciai, and that he subsequently returned to the Hth to.vod the sweet girl he loved, and who loved In with such an undying affection. Nay, more, thhappj bride and bridegroom passed through our citnot loig since on their way to the home ot the la*r in tie golden State. Header, this is all true. Yog Jades who road the Bible as closely as the htsr>o of the incident seems to have done, are prei sun to make good sweethearts and better win- B<’tnn paper. COIOMA. EL DORADO COUNTY, CAL., SATURDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 10,1853 Beautiful Extract.—I saw the temple reared by the hand of man. standing with its high pinna cles in the distant plain ; the stream beat upon it; the God of Nature hurled its thunderbolts against it; and yet it stood as firm as adamant. Revelry was in its hall: the gay, the young, the happy and beautiful were there. I turned and the temple was no more; its high walls scattered in ruins, the moss and ivy grass grew wildly there, and at midnight hour the owl's cry added to the desolation of the scene ; the young and the gay, who had reveled there, had passed away. I saw the child rejoicing in his youth : the idol of his father. I returned and the child had become old. Trembling with weight of years lie stood, the last of his generation ; a stranger amid the desola tion around him. I saw an oak stand in all its pride on the moun tain, the birds were caroling on its boughs. I re turned—the oak was leafless and sapless-- the winds were playing their pastime through the branches. “ Who is the destroyer?” said I to my guardian angel. It isThue,” said he. “ When the morning stars sang together with joy over the new made world, he commenced his course, and when he shall have destroyed all that is beautiful on earth ; plucked the sun from its sphere; veiled the moon in blood : yea. when ho shall roll the heaven and earth away as a scroll, then shall an angel from the throne of God come forth, and with one foot upon the land, and one upon the sea, lift up his head towards Heaven and Heaven's eternal, and say: ‘ Time is, Time was, Time' shall be no longer.' ” Home's Bright Star —A correspondent of the Knickerbocker thus writes: —Though helpless and dependent, a little child has enough brightness in his eyes and gravity in his nrattle to fill a house hold with Joy. When lie awakes first at the ‘peep of day,’ and imprints kisses on his parents' lips, their fragrance is sweeter than that of morn. The music of his voice is like the song of birds at the approach of light; his smile more sunny than the first entrance of sunbeams into the room. His little arm chair, on high stilts, is scrupulously placed when the fast is broken, and ho is np unimportant member at the family board. During the day, how pleasant the pattering of his feet on the staircase, his voice in the court-yard, hi.s frequent bursting into the room with some new tale! At night he kneels down whitely clad, as before some holy altar, at his mother's knees, and bis little prayer goes straight to heaven from a child's heart.—‘Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings Thou hast or dained praise.’ Not unfrequent, when lie sleeps, are the mother's pilgrimages to his couch, while ! under his long lashes and sealed lids, the spirit of a cherub seems to dwell. But O, if God, in His wise providence, should change that repose into the sleep of death, and the white flowers arc placed upon his breast, in his little clasped hands, the tears which sparkle on hi.s brown are bright, but perhaps the bitterest ever shed. Dear little C. is dead! I remember the last time f saw him was on a beau tiful evening in autunm. We all sat in the sum mer-house. The moon arose, and the stars twinkled, and were reflected in the waves which beat below the clifl's. The child looked up to the brightest star of all, and said : “ Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wowlcr whnt you are, I j> above the world wj liigli. Like a diamond in the sky.” His seemed like a prophetic voice. But a few moons have waned, and little C. is now a star in heaven. Before ho died, ho sang the very strains which had delighted him. and ho now sleeps in peace near the river's brink, where in spring-time the flowers shall bloom above him which he so much loved, and where they will not cease to bo watered by a parent's tears.” How many a bereav ed heart will be touched by this! t)or> Bve.— The editor of the Albany Register ■thus comments upon this simple phrase, so common and yet so full of solemn and tender meaning: •• How many emotions cluster around that word. How full of sadness, and to us how full of sorrow it sounds. It is with us a consecrated word. We heard it once within the year, as we hope never to hear it again. We spoke it on an occasion such as we hope never to speak it again. It was in the chamber of death, at. the still hour of night's noon. The curtains were all closed, the lights were shaded, and we stood in the dim solemn twilight with others around the bod of the dying. The damps of death were on her pale young brow, and coldness was on her lips, as we kissed her for the last time while living. “Good-bye. my daughter," we whispered, and “Good-bye, father,” came from her dying lips. We know not if she ever spoke more, but “ Good bye” was the last ever heard of her sweet voice. Wo hear that last sorrowful word often and often as we sit alone busy with the memories of the past. We hear it in the silence of night, in the hours of nervous wakefulness, as we lay upon our bed think ing cf the loved and lost to us. We hear it in our dreams, when her sweet face comes back to us as it was in its loveliness and beauty. We hear it when we sit beside her grave in the ccmetry where she sleeps alone, with no kindred as yet by her side. She was the hope of our life, the prop upon which to lean when age should come upou us and life should be running to its dregs. The hope and the prop are gone, and we care not how soon we go down to sleep beside our darling, beneath the shadow of the tree in the city of the dead. T knew the old man: ho was rich, and his riches were his God. 1 rode in company with him a con siderable distance through his possessions 1 sought means to turn the conversation from his groves and his orchards, his fields and his taresurc to something more serious and profitable. But no bis heart was on these things; they engrossed his thoughts and his affections. He was between eigh ty and ninety years of age, and yet 1 could not bring him for a moment to speak of leaving liis earthly inheritance. To the sabbath and the sanc tuary, and all the tilings of God, ho was an utter stranger. It was painful to see a man just ready to close his eyes on all that belongs to earth, refusing to admit into his mind a single thought of death, and that eternity so shortly to he his home. With a kind of melancholy satisfaction, I saw him take a different road from myself, thus releasing mo from my fruitless efforts to direct his mind toward that world where his real interests lay. Not long after this interview, diseases attacked his mortal frame, giving no doutbtful intimation that the machine which had been moving more than fourscore years was about to stand still. As ho lay struggling with death, he spoke of fields of corn and then said “ Bring m my bundle of notes.” Inspecting one of them, he said with earnestness “I believe wo shall not lose it,” or to that effect. While he thus lay holding his notes and obligations before his face, in his withered hand- lie died ! The individual who broke the ico with his ‘mai den speech,' was ‘drowned by applause.’ in a certain town in Illinois, there was but one birth during the past year. This may ho called p cuse of soli*ary confinement. OFFICES—IVXAZBT STS.EZ3T, COROTBR OF ESUXfCS-E. For tlio Umpire Comity Argus. HENRY IS COMING HOME! (Had words ! How full of thrilling emotions to thn.se around the dear domestic hearth who have a loved one absent. Coming home! How sweetly fall those words on the mother's heart, as she hears ol the returning stops ot her absent son. The fath er. too, feels a double thrill of joy as they are re peated to him, and the loving sister and affectionate brother wait with anxious looks and throbbing hearts. Coming home! oh, who has not listened to the sound with enchanting rapture ! Coming homo! That brother who has long been absent, and has grown familiar with the long-tom, pick and shovel, in the distant land of gold, and for years lias been faithfully laboring to acquire a pile of the shining oro, is coming homo. lie has lived long enough in the country to find many a warm friend, and as they take him by the hand to say adieu, a tear unconsciously falls, and can only say God bless you, and turn away. Yet lie is going home, to spend the winter among the dear ones, around his native hearth. _ Coming homo ! The host room is set apart for his chamber. Again and again have loving hands folded back the curtains and shook out the white drapery. Every evening loving voices whisper, ns they gather around the cheerful fireside, where the fire blazes bright and warm, lie will be here to-mor row perhaps. At each meal the table is set with scrupulous care, the porker is in the siv fatted, ready to take bis last gasp when he arrives. The chickens crow as usual little dreaming that the sound of rejoicing within the household is but the notes which proclaim their death knell. Surd Home! I hippy greetings await him there; and glad hearts soon will welcome him. All! he M ould almost leap the waters could ho but know how anxiously so many loving hearts await his Coming home, already a smile lights his face as the ship glides briskly through the waves while lie thinks of his distant home and in fancy sees loving hands stretched out, and bright eyes peering to catch the first sigh of his well known and cherished form. lie has been absent more than three long years and passed through most of the vicisitudes and many of the hardships incident to life in a new and unsettled country, and has learned by sad experience that “ there is no place like home." Coming home, the very words are rapturous. They bear import of every thing sweet and holy in domestic life, nay more, they are stamped with the seal of heaven, the angels say of the dying saint, “He is coming home.” Too soon, alas too soon we parted, Much too soon the trace willjjfade, Which a brief and ardent friendship, On thy mind and heart have made. Other thoughts will soon possess thee, Older friends thy heart engage, And those who were so lately rished, Will be erased from meim page. Yet, sometimes think of tin so whose friendship To thy hosom late was dear, M ho would share thy joy if present, And at parting dropt a tear. M. M. B. A Cl uiovs Sort op Preacher. —Rev. Dr. Bylcs was t!io most original compound of religion and mirth, conspicuous in the latter half of the last cen tury, in New England. With a good heart, a mind of stable principles, and a decent reverence for his holy office, he nevertheless possessed a buoyant and gonial liew of spirits, constantly running over with puns or with conceits. Hd maintained his connec ton with his (the Hollis street) church for forty three years, lie was a hale yet aged man when the Revolutionary war began ; and in his political pre dilections leaned toward the royal side. In May, 1, » 7. it was deemed necessary to arrest him as a Tory. He was condemned to lie placed on board a guard-ship, and sent to England. Subse quently the sentence was changed to confinement in his house. A sentinel was kept before liisdoor day and night, whom he was wont to call Ids observe-u tonj. At last, the vigilance of the board of war re laxed. and the sentinel disappeared; after awhile ho was replaced, and a little after removed altogether. The Doctor used pleasantly to remark that he had been ‘guarded, regarded and disregarded.' Once the Doctor tried to have the sentinel let him go after some milk for his family: but lie was firm and would not; lie then argued the case with the honest hut simple fellow, and actually induced him to go after the milk, while he, the Doctor, kept guard over him self! The neighbors were filled with wonderment to see their pastor walking in measured stripes be fore hi.s own door with the sentinel's gun at his shoulder : and when the story got abroad it fur nished food for town gossip and merriment for sev eral days. The Doctor had rather a shrewish wife: so one day he called at the old distillery that used to stand on Lincoln street, and accosted the proprietor thus : ‘Do you still V ‘That is my business,’ replied Mr. Hill, the pro prietor ‘Well, then,' said the Doctor, ‘I should like to have you go and still my wife !’ He served rather an ungallant trick upon this same good lady at another time. He had some cu riosities which people occasionally called to see. One day two ladies called. Mrs. Ryles was ‘in the suds,’ and begged her husband to shut her closet while he exhibited his curiosities, lie did so. Af ter exhibiting everything else, lie said, ‘Now, ladies, I have reserved my greatest curiosity to the last,' whereupon he opened the closet dour and exhibited Mrs. Ryles to the ladies! _ There was an unseemly ‘ slough of despond' before liis door, in the snape of a quagmire, which he had repeatedly urged the town authorities to mend. - At last, two of the town authorities in a carriage, got fairly stack in it. They whipped the horse, they hawed and goed, but they Cuiild not get out. Dr. Ryles saw them from his window, lie stepped out into the street, “ 1 am delighted, gentlemen, ” said he, rubbing his hands with glee, •• to see you stm ing in this mutter at last!” The ’ sore in the ground’ was ‘ healed' soon after. doing along the street one clay lie found himself in a great crowd near the old North Church. * What is the matter ?' inquired he of a by-stand er. ‘ Why, sir, there is a man going to fly from the steeple.’ 4 Toll, poh!’ said he, 1 do you come here to see a man fly f why l have seen a horse fly!’ A learned lady of Rostou dispatched a note to him on the ‘ great dark day’ —May 19, 1780—in the following style: 1 Dear Doctor, —how do you account fur this dark ness V His reply was: 4 Dear Madam, —I am as much in the ilurk as you aro.’ The immorality of the age is a standing topie of complaint with some men. liut if any one likes to ho moral wo can see nothing in the age to prevent him. Affection, like spring- flowers, breaks through the most frozen ground at last; and the heart which seeks but for another heart to make it happy, will never seek in vain. THE HONEST BEGGAR BOY [from the Gkrmaj;.] A pc or boy about ton years ago, entered tbe ware-house of a ricli merchaut, Samuel Hitcher, in Dantzic, and asked the book-keeper for alms. 1 You will get nothing here,' grumbled the man, without raising his head from his book —‘ be oil'.’ Weeping bitterly, the boy glided towards the door, at the moment Herr liichtcr entered. ‘ What is the matter hero V he asked, turning to the book-keeper: ‘ A worthless beggar boy,’ was tbe man's answer, and he scarcely looked up from Ins work. In the meanwhile, lierr Richter glanced towards the boy, and remarked that when close to the door ho picked up something from the ground. ‘ Ha, my little lad, what is that you picked up V lie cried. The weeping boy urned and showed ldm a needle. ‘ And what will you do with it V asked the other. 1 My jacket has holes in it,' was the answer : ‘ J will sow up the big ones.’ Herr Richter was pleased with the reply, and still more with the boy's innocent, handsome face. 1 Rut arc you not ashamed,’ he said in a kind though serious tone, ‘ you are so young and hearty —to beg ? Can you not work !’ ‘ Ah, my dear sir,' replied the boy. ‘ I do not know how: and I am too little yet to thresh or fell wood. My father died three weeks ago, and my poor mother and little brothers have eaten nothing these two days. Then I ran out in anguish and begged for bread. Rut alas, a single peasant only gave me yesterday a piece of bread : since then I have not eaten a morsel of any kind of food.’ It is quite customary for beggars by trade to con trive tales like this: and this hardens many a heart against the claims of genuine want. Rut this time the merchant trusted to the boy's honest face, lie thrust his hand into Ins pocket, drew forth a piece of money and said : 1 There is half a dollar; go to the baker's, and with half the money buy bread for yourself, your mother and your brothers : but bring back the other half to me.’ Tbe boy took the money and ran joyfully away. 1 Well,’ said tbe surly book-keeper, 'he will laugh in bis sleeve and never come back again.’ • Who knows V replied Herr Richter; and as he spoke lie beheld tbe boy returning quickly, with a largo loaf of black bread in one hand, and sc one money in the other. 1 There, good sir, ho cried, almost breathless: ' there is the rest of the money.' Then, being very hungry, lie begged at once for a knife to cut off a piece of bread. The book-keep-1 ei reached him in silence his pocket knife. The lad cut off a slice in great haste : and was ! about to take a bite of it. Rut suddenly lie be-i thought himself, laid the bread aside and folding his arms, rehearsed a silent prayer : then he fell to j his meal with a hearty appetite. The merchant was moved by the boy's unaffected piety. He enquired after his family and home, and learned from his simple narrative that his father had lived in a village about four miles distant from Dantzic, where lie owned a small house and farm : but liis house had been burnt to tbe ground, and much sickness in his family had compelled him to sell his farm lie then hired himself to a rich neighbor: but before three weeks were at an end he died, broken down by grief and excessive toil. And now his mother, whom sorrow had thrown up on a bed of sickness, was with her four children suffering the bitterest poverty. He, the eldest, had resolved to seek for assistance, and had gone from village to village, then had struck into the highway, and at last, having begged everywhere in vain, had come to D.m./.ic. The merchant's heart was touched. He luid but one (child, and the boy appeared to him as a draft at sight, which Providence had drawn upon him as a test of his gratitude. ‘ Listen, my son,' he began, ‘ have you really a wish to learn !l ‘ Oh yes, I have indeed,' cried the boy ; 1 1 have read tbe catechism already, and I should know a ; good deal more, but at home I luid always my little brothers to carry, for my mother was sick in bed.' Herr Richter immediately formed his resolution. ‘ Well, then,' lie said. • if you are good and hon est and industrious, 1 will take care of you. You shall learn, have meat, and drink, and clothing, and in time earn something besides. Then you can support your mother and brothers also.’ The boy's eyes flashed with joy. Rut in a mo ment he cast them to the ground again, and sadly said, ‘ My mother all the while has nothing to eat' At this instant, as if sent by Providence, an in habitant of the boy's native village entered Herr Richter's House. This man confirmed the lad's story, and willingly consented to carry the mother tidings of her son Gottleib, and food, and a small sum of money from the merchant. At the same time Herr Richter directed his book-keeper to write a letter to the pastor of the village commending the widow to bis care, with an additional sum enclosed to the poor family, and promising further assistance. As .-oon as this was dune, Herr Richter furnished the bey with decent clothes, and at noon led him to bis wife, whom he accurately informed of little Gottleib's story, and of the plans which he had formed for him. The good woman readily prom ised her best assistance in tire latter, and she faith fully kept her word. During the next four years Gottleib attended the schools of the great commercial city : then his faith ful foster-father took him into his counting room to educate him for business. Here, as well as there, at the writing-desk as well as on the school bench, the ripening youth display ed himself, not only by bis natural capacity, but by the faithful industry with which be exercised it.— Witii all this, bis heart retained its native inno cence. Of his weekly allowance, he sent the half regularly to his mother, until she died. She luid passed the last years of her life, not in wealth it is true, but by the aid of the noble Richter and her faithful son, in a condition above want. After the death of bis dearly beloved mother, there was no dear friend loft tu Gottleib in the world except his benefactor. Out of love to him, he be came an active, zealous merchant. lie began by applying tbe superfluity of his al lowance, which he could now dispose of at hi- pleas ure, to a trade in Hamburg quills. When by care and prudence be had gained a hundred and twenty dollars, it happened that he found iu ids native vil lage a considerable quantity of flax and hemp which was very good, and still to be had at a reasonable price. He asked his foster-father to advance him two hundred dollars, which lie did with great read iness : and the business prospered so well that, in the third year of his clerkship, Gottleib had already acquired the sum of five hundred dollars. \\ itliout giving up liis trade in llax, lie now trafficked in linen goods; and the two combined made him in a couple of years, about a thousand dollars richer. This happened during the customary five years of clerkship: at the end of that period, Gottleib continued to serve bis benefactor for five years more, with industry, skill and fidelity : then he took the place of the book-keeper, who died about this 1 ERMS—fKJ per Aumim, tinx'. Three years after, lie was taken as a part ner by his benefactor, with a third part of the profils. 1 Soon an insiduous disease cast Herr Richter on a ! , , <lf sic^nc as, and kept him for two years confined to las couch. Gottloib. redoubling his exertions, became the soul of the whole buisness. Herr Rich ter closed his eyes in death in the sixty-sixth year of .. In T ‘"' r LS28 > *n years after, the house 01 ! 3 , urn own cd three large ships, and the care of 1 rovidence seemed especially to watch over flic of their owner, lie married the daugh ter ot Ins benofactor. ® It is but a few years since tills child of poverty, ol honest industry, and of misfortune, passed awav in peace from this world. J ‘- Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright • tor the end of man is peace/ 7 Heroism and Cruelty.— A most touching in stance of heroism, and one of the most atrocious acts ot cruelty, the truth of which is voucliod for by the most respectable authority, occurred during the Co lumbian struggle for independence, 'll]c Spanish General Murillo, the most blood-thirsty and treach crous tool of the Spanish King, was created Count of tarthagema and Marquis do la Rueria. for ser vices which rather entitled him to the title of butch er and hangman. While seated in his tent one day, Jie.saw a boy before him drowned in tears. The chief demanded of him for what purpose lie was ’•7 re I , l* C( ] *-hat he had come to beg tho hie of Ins lather, then a prisoner in .Morilie's camp. ” " ilt < ; an J ou do to save your father ?" asked the general. " 1 can do but little, but what I can do shall bo done. ’ Morillo seized the little fellow's ear. and said, • U ould you suffer your ear to be taken oft' to pro cure your father's life?" 1 certainly would, was the undaunted reply. A soldier was accordingly called, and ordered to cut ot the ear with a single stroke of the knife. 1 lie boy wept, but did not resist while the barba rous order was executed. “ Would you lose your other car rather than fail ol your purpose ! was the next question. - i have suffered much, but for my father I can slider still," was the answer of the boy. . 1 be other ear was taken off piecemeal, without flinching on the part of the noble boy. ■ And now go 1 exclaimed Morillo untouched by tins sublime courage, •• the father of such a son must die!" In the presence of his agonized and vainly suffer mg son. the patriot father was executed. ‘ Never did a hie picture exhibit such truthful lights and amides hi national charade r! such dcop, trencher ousvillainy, such lofty, enthusiastic heroism. There is more truth than imagination in the fol lowing remarks of the Argus, giving reason why that paper would not advocate the •• Maine Liquor Law." 1 M e are told that liquor is the cause of drunk | enness. It is no more so than powder and steel are the cause of war. If we admit it to he, we must also admit that a good name, that gold, beauty, ivory, and religion are the cause of the other vices i cleiic.1 to. No. gentlemen : the cause lies deeper i than tho surface—it lies in tiie uneducated, ill : regulated heart of man, and not in any inanimate thing without it. \\ bile you wage exterminating ; with the tempting thing, you neglect the tempted .heart. You are commanded to resist temptation, not to remove it: for it is placed and permitted in the world by One who knows the human heart and ! its abilities better than abstinence societies. it jou dare not trust your own hearts, your own resolutions, how iu the name of sense can j-ou im 1 part confidence to others '! Is there intrinsically | any more harm in sitting down in a bar-room, than in silling down in a church ? If tho former is fro fluently u .scene of disturbance and brawls, is not the latter lull as often made a place of assignation! il liquor tempts j'ou to madness in one place, docs not beauty tempt you to perjury in the other 1— Educate then yourselves, j-our children and j’our neighbors in tho practice of self-control. Light your lamps hy the mild and steady light of j-our Master, and remember that ‘gin-slings' and ‘brandy cocktails’ are not comprised in the Decalogue—and that the power of doing harm docs not lie in the strength of the liquor, but in the weakness of the mind that is not trained to resist this or any other temptation. '• SouT.'.nv and Ai-ont..’'—The Philadelphia In i/iiiirr says Col. Benton is now seventy-one years old and adds : We saw him the other day on the pavement near his house in \\ ashington. He is the youngest look ing inan of seventy we have overseen; rather fuller in habit and broader than he used to appear, lie wears his hat with a knowing expression a little on the loft side, walks with a deliberate and meas ured tread, having something like pride in its seem ing --something that bespeaks a consciousness that be is Thomas llart Benton. He feels his powers, and so does his country, and so will it ever. His mark will be left upon the era of his life. Few men of equal intellectual power and knowledge havo appeared on this stage of action. A minister approached a mischievous urchin about twelve years old, and laying his hand upon his shoulder thus addressed him : My sun, I believe the devil lias hold of you.’ ‘1 believe he lias too,' was the significant reply of the boy. ‘Where have you been this week !’ ‘Fishing.’ ‘Catch anything !' ‘\ cs j a cold.’ ‘Where were you last night?’ ‘Ducking.’ ‘(let any !' ‘Yes: one.’ ‘Where !’ ‘In the river.' ‘How !’ ‘Tumbled in.’ A e.itemporary, after the most laborious research, says the “ navy" of Mexico consists of two smacks and a raft—the former being mounted with twelve marines, and the latter with a hen coop. Hills in the journey of lifo are like the hills which alarm travelers upon their road; they both appear great at a distance, hut when wo approach them we find that they are far less insurmountable than wo had imagined. You rarely, if ever see a politician, with smooth hair, a great scholar with fine hair, an artist with red hair, a fop with coarse hair, a minister with long hair, or an editor whose hair is carefully ad justed. “ My dear,’’ said an Irish gentleman to his wife, “ I would rather the children were kept in tlio nursery when 1 am at home, although I sholnd not object to their noise if they'd only keep quiet.’’ NUMBER 4.