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PUBLISHED BT BAPGOOS &. ADAMS. E iriit BLOCK. VOL. 40, NO 8. il JBttklq amilq Stand, Drmrffb WARREN, ta mbam, Sgriraltarr, literature, (Bbnration, local TRUMBULL COUNTY, OHIO, WEDNESDAY Sntriligratr, anb tre 3kw OCTOBER 1 0, 1 855. of tjjt Datj. TERMS : ONE DOLLAR AND PUTT CZTNs rim AMWVM. 1ST ADVAHCK. WHOLE NO. 2036 Poetry. For the Chronicle. "HE IS DEAD." [The following lines were written after reading in [The following lines were written after reading in the Chronicle, a notice of the death of Mr. Freeman.] Again the deep-toned bell we hear. And the oft told tale lis telling; Again, again the bitter tear Front the moorner's cjre is welling. Again the lip of lore il mats. And hushed the TO ice of gladness; And e'en the notes of harp and late Are sadness, nought bat udnnss. Again, a man with tilTered brow. And noble, manly form. Who breasted every blaat till now. " ' " yielded to the ctorm. And Um sorrow cf the pater-by. Bis slow and measured tread. And the tear that glistens in his eye, Speak sadly, "he is dead. Another home is broken now. And other ties are rirea. To wrench onr hearts away from earth. And fix them nearer bearen. For though the tenement of dnst Is mouldering in the gran. The freed immortal part, we trust. Has flown to Him svho gar. Wo learn to lore a forest tree, Or none a gentle flower, And oft from daily care we flee To spend with them an hoax; Bat soon we And oar noble oak Is rudely rent in twain ; 'lis shirered by the thunder-stroke. Twill never bloom again. The flower we lored-Old Autumn's breath Too rudely, far, has blown; We find the shrunken, dying stem. It petals round it strewn. lis thus with eery earthly joy; " When brightest beams its ray. And least we dream of losing it. Tin quickly torn away. Then mourners, banish every dread. Ton hear his step no more,' But know, 'tis now a spirit tread. Heard an the other shore. Oberlin, Sept. 25th. 3 A. HEBREW REQUIEM. Go thou in peace," we would not have thee linger In the low mates of this tainted earth. When every joy is touched with sorrow's finger. And tears succeed the brightest hours of mirth. Thine upward gaze is fixed upon the dwelling Where sin and sorrow never more are known, Ard seraph lips, the loud Hosanna swelling. Have caught the music of celesttal tone. "60 thou in peace!" thy home on earth now leaving. In the lone chambers ofthe dead to dwell; Thou hast no portion In the sorrow heaving The heart whose anguish tears too feebly tell, A path of light and gladness is before thee. The hope of Israel in fruition thine. And thou hast gased upon the beams of glory Around the throne of Israel's God that shine. "Go thou in peace!" temptation cannot sever The tie that now unites thee to thy God; Ths voice of sin, of unbelief, can never Bnter the mates or thy low abode. We leave thee here. In mingled joy and sadness, Onr hearts are weak, our hopes are faint and dim. But to the Lord we turn with chastened gladness. And yield onr friend, our brothe;, up to Him. HEBREW REQUIEM. Choice Miscellany. A BLESSING IN DISGUISE. "But you are rich enough, Lauson. Let us leave this great city, and 6eek some more quiet home." "No, no, Lydia. Business is my very life. I must make a Utile more money before I give up." ' Will you tell me, my husband, how much you would have now ; if you were to settle your bmssiness up now ?" "Oh 1 perhaps two hundred thousand dollars !" "And think, Lauson, only think, how easily, how sumptuously we would live upon the interest of that, an 1 how much too, to bestow upon those who need our charity. Come tell me that you will leave your business at once. I can see what you cannot see. You are under mining your constitution, and your health is fast leaving you. "Pshaw ! Lydia you croak like a ra ven, I should lose my health were I to leave my business. Di-n't ssy any more now, for you see I am buisy." As the husband 6poke, he turned to the little ebony escritoire which he had kept in his parlor and commenced over hauling and studying the various papers which lay there. Lauson Watkins had seen his thirtieth year And young as he was, he had be come what the world calls rich. At an early age he had entered the mercantile business and fortune had si-iiled upon him. He had already amassed a com petency ; but while he had been doing this he lost his health. His organization was not one that would bear mental ex citement. His brain was large and ac tive, his excitability intense, and his mind easily worried and tortured; on the other hand his physical constitution was slight and of nervous temperament. For years he had applied himself to business with out taking a reipiie, and the faster mon ' ey came in upon him, the more anxious and nervous did he become iu his labors. Night arid day he labored over his ship merts and invoices, and gradually, but euiely the joy of he&ith wa. departing Poor Lydia Walking saw all this. Sbej saw the fearful disease marks growing upon her husband's countenance, but he could not peisuade him to feel as she felt. He laughed at her for her fears, and yet while he laughed he felt the disease growing at his viuls. As the merchant sat at his work, his anxious wife watched him with painful interest. His face was pale in the extreme, and the blue veins stood staring 7 out upon his huge white brow and temples. His eyes were large and brilliant but their brilliancy was not natural it was a false nervous ligrht gleamed there. As he poured over a complicated invoice, redu cing to his own currency large amounts of foreign money, his long, white fingeis worked nervously through his bair, and his wife heard him breath hard. 0, she knew he could not live long so. When at a late hour he complained of headache, but he had cleared ten thou sand dollars by the cargo he had been disposing: of, and he was pleased. That ten thousand dollars did not help to give him content it only served to spur him on to new exertions. "Lydia," said Mr. Watkins, after he had closed his etcritoire, "have you seen your Uncle Langrave to-day ?" "No." "I am afraid he is going rather deep ly into a dangerous speculation. For a week back I have been endorsing paper for him to a considerable amount. He helped me without stint when I commen ced bnsines, and I suppose I must help him now ; but I hope he will be care ful." " Adam Langrave is a careful man," replied Lydia, "and I am sure he would not do that whica would cause you to suffer." "0 no, I don't think he would," said Watkins, and here the conversation drop ped, for the young man's mind became buried in his business. Adam Langiave was an old man, aud had been the foster father of Lydia. The girl had been left an orphan at an early age, and her husband had com menced his career as Langrave's clerk, and thus he became acquainted with the fair and virtuous girl whom he made his wife. Langrave had lately entertained a project for making money, and it was in pursuance of this that he had called on Watkins for assistance. On the day following the scene describ ed above, Mr. Langrave called at Wat kin's store, and opened to the young mer chant more fully his project. It was a vast -one, but it promised a golden har vest, and after much deliberation, Lou son entered into it. It looked feasible to him, he promised himself a rich return for his adventure. "Lydia, I am a ruined man !" This was the exclamation of Lauson Watkins, as he entered the parlor one evening about a fort-night after his inter view with Langrave. He was paler than usual, and every nerve was shaking with agitation. "Ruined 1" repeated the wife. "Yes. Langrave has failed ; he has entirely, completely sunk. Every cent is gone." "But you are not all lost. Something can be saved." " No, not a dollar. Fool that 1 was ! I went in with him to the amount of two hundred thousand dollars. I trusted to his ton " The young man did net finish the word. He wasexcited,buthad judgment enough not to hurt the feelings of his wife by speaking harshly of her uncle. He was for the whole completely prostrated. The blow had come upon him with a crush ing weight, and he felt it keenly. "Do not blame my uncle too much," she murmured. "Everything is not lost, I am left to you. In your business tri als I could not help you, but in your lile trials you will find that I am not useless. Do not despair, dear Lauson, something may turn up to assist you." The young gentleman did not speak. He returned his wife's embrace, and at that moment she saw more real grateful joy in his eye, than she had 6een there before for months. At the end of the week the young merchant's business was settled up, and he found himself the possessor of just the amount of personal property which the law allowed him. Everything had been swept away every cent. Yet there was one thing that remained within his grasp. His wife held by her own right, a small farm in the country. It was her birth place the old home of her childhood and her unele had secured it to her in such a manner, that no misfortune of her husband could fall Uj-on it. Lydia beg ged of her husband to find a home upon that farm. He hesitated a while and then consented. He had at first thought of procuring a clerkship, and trying once more to set himself in business; but the way looked tedious to him it seem ed too hard to gain the place from which he had fallen, and he gave it up. It was too much for his pride to occupy a men ial position now, and he turned away from the great city, weary and heartsick The home that Lauson Watkins reced ed at the hands of his wife, was in trutjr a lovelv abode. The farm was an exoei- lent one, bearing the choicest of fruit, and capable of the most productive culti vation. The dwelling was a sweet little cottage surrounded by great elms, with cherry and plum trees in front, while at a little distance, sparkling like silver in the sunbeams, lay a lakelet, into which a hundred bubbling brooks poured their crystal tributes. Lydia sold her jewels, and thus she realized enough to pur chase a choice stock for the farm, besides having enough left to hire n trusty man to take charge of the grounds. While Watkins was taken this step, Adam Langrave went out South, but where, no one save himself knew. It was early spring when the fallen merchant moved upon the quiet farm, and the work must soon begin. He was not a man who could remain idle, and he took hold to help his man do the work. It was new to him, but he found it by no means disagreeable. His appe tite grew sharp, and he began to have a keen relish for food. The milk that came from his own cows tasted sweet to him. And then to see his little wife making and mixing bread, all with her own hands it was novel to him, but it pos sessed a charm too, which was grateful. Then he saw his children, a little boy and girl, playing upon the green sward in the garden, and he knew they were growing healthier. By-and-by he set his children to studying, and he himself heard them recite their lessons. Before winter set in the ex-merchant had become a real farmer. His ciops had been good, and he experienced a strange pleasure in realizing that he had gather ed to his granary more than provision enough for the year to come. But who shall paint the happiness of the devoted wife, when she saw her hus band thus returning to himself. The bloom of health was upon his cheek, his step was firm and elastic, his spirits were buoyant and free, and his soul had be come centered in his home. Three years passed away, and the pale, trembling, feverish merchant, had become a stout, heaLhy, rugged man. His home the abode of every joy a heaven upon earth. It was in the evening. Mr. Watkins had heard his children recite their les sons and say their prayers, their mother had blessed and attended them to bed. They had just sat down alone the hus band and wife, when some one rapped at the door. Lauson arose and ope ted it, and Adam Langrave entered the apart ment. Lydia sprang to the old man's embrace, and she wept tears of joy to see her kind uncle again. Langrave looked about hm with some thing like surprise depicted upon his countenance, as he shook hands warmly with Lauson, he seemed almost doubt ful about trusting his own senses. Could it be possible that the dying merchant had become such a living man t The change to him was more surprising than it was to Lydia, for she had watched each slow developmenlofreturningheallh while he saw it all at once. It was in truth a very wonderful change. Quickly did Lydia prepare a simple repast for her uncle, and the old scenes wete talked about. Lausou told how he had succeeded on his farm, and Lan grave told where he had been in the South. The evening wore away pleas antly and agreeably. At length the old man remained silent for some moments, and Lydia began to tremble. " Lauson," said he, " how would you like to go back into the city and enter in to business again.'' "I couldn't think of it," said the young man with a shudder. " But I thing I could raise the means." "No, no I am not fit for a merchant. Mine is a constitution that cannot live in such business. 0, 1 would not give up this sweet home for any establishment in the city. Ah, sir, I learned a great les son when I came here, a lesson of life. I know that I should have been in my grave had I remained in the city. I did not see it then, but I see it now. At first I iho't the loss of ray property a calami ty ; but, sir, it was a blessing in disguise. Look at us now and see if we are not hap py. And to-morrow morning you shall see my children. You will have to rise early if you would hear their first shout of joy, and sec their first smile of glad ness." " Thank God, Lydia," murmured the old man, as he turned towards his niece. your plan has been blessed." Lauson Watkins gazed first at his wife, and then upon her uncle. He was puz zled. His wife caught his eaer "aze, and with a convulsire moement she sprang towards him and threw her arms around his neck. "O, forgive me, my husband for give me !"' she uttered, while tears streamed down her cheeks. "torgive you? for what? Whri does this mean ?" gasped the young man, as he disengaged his wife's arms from his neck, and looked into her faje. "Why said Adam Langrave, "she wants you to forgive her for saving your life. Sit down, Lydia, and I'll tell him all." The wife sank into a chair, and then the old man resumed. "I'll explain the mystery to you in a few moments Lauson. You know how deeply you were absoibed in harrassing business and how unceasingly you devo ted your time to mere acquisition of mon ey. Your wife saw you were losing your health and strength, that you were be coming entirely lost to her children, in the mazy depth of money m?king. This latter burden she could have borne with out a murmer but when she saw that you were surely making your passage to a premature grave, she thought to arrest your steps. She spoke to you and told you of her fears but you heeded them not. She saw that the hands of the de stroyer was on you ! In this extremity she came to me and begged me to assist her in saving you. I knew of but one way, I told my child that. She made me promise that I would carry it into execution. I went to work. It was a severe tak, but I determined to perform it. I drew all your monej away from you and then when I knew I had your last dollar in my possession, I pretended to fail. When I saw your misery upon that occasion, I was tempted to disclose to you the plot, but I resolved that I would go through with what I had be gun, at the same time earnestly praying that it might all end in your benefit. " And now," continued the old man, drawing his hand from his breast pocket "the deception has lasted long enough. Here are two hundred and three thousand dollars. I took them to save your own life, and make my own child happy. 1 re turn them to you believing that you will not blame me for what I have done. Lauson Watkins was bewildered at first but gradually the cloud dispelled from his mind. " O, Lauson my husband can you forgive me !" ' - o The redeemed man strained his wife to his bosom, and while the warm tears rolled down his cheeks, he cried : " Forgive you ! No, no, my love, my angel of life I have nothing to forgive. I can only bless you bless you with my whole heart and soul. And you too, my generous friend," he added extending his hand to Langrave, " I must bless you al so, I cannot tell you how I feel." That was an evening of joy and thank fulness. On the next morning, Uncle Langrave was up early, but not early enough to catch the first smile of the children ; for he found them just coming from the garden, with their hands full of flowers for their father and mother. The children, the two eldest, had a faint recollection of Uncle Langrave but they soon learned to love him ; an 1 so well diil he love them, and all else about them, that he determined to make the cottage his home. L mson Watkirfs was once more a rich man, but he did not leave the home where he had so learned the great lesson of life He enriched it with rare fruits and pleas ing ornaments, and then from out his bounty he sought to do good For others. She was a happy wife and they had happy children, and all of them had one of the most joyful, mei ry, laughter-loving old uncles in the world. THE WAY TOWNS GROW UP OUT ON THE PRAIRIES. Mattoon, a little wide.awake town up on the Illinois Central Railroad, at th- crossing of the Alton and Terre- Haute road, 274 miles from Chicago, is an il lustration of the rapid growth of towns on the prairies. Last April there was not a stick of timber on the ground ; it now has a large hotel, where every com fort may be enjoyed, and the frame of another was raised on Saturday. In ad dition to these there are a post office, dry goods store, a drug sUre, two gro ceries, and other stores going up. Ljts 46 by 140 are selling at S30 to $500. The town is delightfully situated on a high, rolling prairie, with wood on all sides, at from three to six miles distant, There has not been much wheat raised in this neighborhood the present season, for the reason that, until a few weeks since, there was no communication to market; but there arc endless fields of corn upon the ground. The country around is thickly settled, with no town nearer than Charleston, twelve miles distant. Chicago Democatie Press. Tub Telegraph im France. In Par is the telegraphs are laid under ground, no poles being seen in the streets. A trench is dug, in which the wires are placed side by side, but not so as to touch each o'her. l.imiiil bitumen is then poured on, which surrounds the wires, J and completely isolates them. It secures 1 them from damage by accident and de sign, aud from being deranged by at niospheiic influence. The same plan is to le adonied at Lvons. NEW YORK CORRESPONDENCE. NEW YORK, SEPT. 23, 1855, Editors Chronicle: Thin city has been in a fever of excitement since yesterday P. M , caused by the publication of the America's and Washington's news from Europe, announcing the important and too long looked for turning point of affairs iu the Crimea. Sebastopol has fallen! This cannot be mere idle rumor, as was the case nearly a year since ; the details are too painfully true. Let us glance at the news as ?ast received. On the 5th instant, the Allies having made extensive prepai ations, commenced the bombardment ; the French attacking the Malakoff, or strongest work of the enemy, while the English and S trdinian forces attacked the Great Redan. The French were six times repulsed, but on the seventh attack they succeeded, amid the shouts of "Vive 1' Empereur!" in planting their eagles on its walls. The British were alike successful, though with less loss; and on Saturday, the 8th Sep tember, the whole southern part of the town was evacuated by thi Russians, after having blown up and burned every thing possible. Their retreat was effect ed during the night, on bridges con structed of boats across the bay. These were immediately destroyed, together with the men-of-war steamers in the har bor, either by Russian orders or by fire of the Allies probably by Russian au thority, as orders were a year ago given that in the event of success by the Allies, the whole city and fleet should be de stroyed. This great victory has been achieved at an immense cost of life and treasure, but it was expected. No details of losses have reached us, but it is probable the loss on both sides must reach thirty thou sand men ! The French loss, according to the Moniieur, in killed, will probably exceed 2,000, among them 240 officers, including Generals Bosquet, McMahon, and Frocher, and some 5,000 wounded. The British loss, according to the London Poat, was 50O killed, including 141 offi cers, and 1,400 wounded. The Russian loss is supposed to greatly exceed these figures. " The first prize of this glorious victo ry, belongs of right (says the London Times) to our gallant allies, the French, since the Malakoff Tower, the key of the main position, fell before the vigor of their assault ; but, with that chivalrous feeling which i3 the noblest bond of men who have fought and conquered together, the names of those who carried the rug ged defences of Sevastopol deserve to stand side by side on one page, and no invidious distinctions shall sully or lessen their common renown." All despatches agree as to the terrific natuie of the battle, and the indomitable courage and bravery displayed by the Allied troops during these three days of "infernal firing." Large numbers of guns one report says 2,500 fell into the hands of the besiegers. But little ammunition was secured, an immense quantity having been destroyed by the ' Russians in their precipitous retreat. A large party has been stationed in such a position as to cut off the retreat, and prevent Gortschakoff from joining Lip randi. An order has been sent to Gen. Pelissier, that should Russia offer to ca pitulate, to demand that she shall sur render at discretion, lay down her arms, and give up all the fortified places in the Crimea, including Odessa and all her munitions of war, without doing them any previous damnge. This will not be done. Russia has too many resources near at hand, to submit to such terms, especially after only their first important defeat. History tells us that after the burning of Moscow, and when the reign ing Czar was avked by Napoleon I. to capitulate, asserting "the war hps now at an end," the Emperor replied, "The war is just begun." Those who imagine the present detailed battle will c!o;ie the campaign, will please remember this re ply, and also the declaiation of the pres ent Czar: "May my right hand wither before I sign terms of peace dishonorable to Russia!" All Paris wa illuminated on the night of the news, and Queen Victoria sends her congratulation to General Simpson, and through him to General Pelissier and the French army. The British seem to take but little of the credit to themselves, notwithstanding thty share equally in the glory. Another abortive attempt was made on the evenin" of the Cih ult., to assassinate the Emperor of the French, at the door of the Opera Ilaliene. The assassin, named Bellemare, was promptly arrest ed. The carriage attempted to be tired into, however, though one of the Impc rial equipage, contained only MaiJs of Honor, tii Emperor being in the car riage following. Great excitement was of course the result, and congratulations were offered to Napoleon by the Piipal Nuncio anil ethers, but when it became generally known that the assassin was believed to be insane, ad idea of a gene ral demonstration of sympathy was aban doned. I had intended writing you some ac count of the visit of the thousand Sabbath School teachers of Boston, and their pu pils, to our city; how they wer received and fed at the Crystal Palace ; how they went sirht-se:eing over on the Islands and looked at our Institutions; how they were spoken to, and what they spoke in reply; how the publishers and authors of the country met and enjoyed a most delight ful dejeunier last evening ; what nice things were eaten and witty things said, and how your correspondent had a good time among such a galaxy of the bright est stars of the literary firmament; what I saw at the Horticultural Fair, and the big squashes and pumpkins I tried to lift and couldn't; the beautiful display of dahlias and flowers generally; of pears weighing a pound and a quarter; grapes, one cluster of which filled a common sized dinner plate ,of the poetical ad dress of William Cullen Bryant, dec. eke, but I fear you are already wearied. Some other day you may hear from me again. Yours, eke, F. W. J. PAYNE AND PATIENCE. Puns on people's names are the pas time of small wits, and half the plays of this are to be set down to the invention of the would-be-witty, rather than to the facts of actual history. Thus it is very doubtful whether the good deacon in this story ever had an existence except in the brain of the punster. He had lost his wife, consoling himself by very pri vate but particular attentions to Patience: Pierson, a smart young woman in the parish. One day he was bewailing his loss iu the ear of his kind pastor, of whose sym pathy he was very sure ; and the minis ter said to him, in a tone of deep condo lence : " Well my dew friend, I cannot help you ; you had better try and have pa tience." What more he would have said the deacon did not wait to hear ; but think ing the minister had found out his secret, he put in : " Yes, Sir, I have been trying to get her, but she seems to be rather shy I" The followinr rests on no better au thority than the above : Mr. William Payne, a very good fel low, was a teacher of music, in a pleasant town in Massachusettes : and iu his school, one winter, was a pretty girl, some twenty years old, named Patience Adams, who having made a strong im pression upon Mr. Payne, he lost no time in ejeclaring his attachment, which Miss A. reciprocated , and an engagement was the result. Just as Mr P's attentions be came public, and the fact of an engage ment was generally understood, the school being still in continuance, and all the par ties of a certain evening being present, Mr. Payne, without any thought of the words, named as a tunc for the commenc ing exercise, "Federal Street," in the excellent collection of church music, " The Carmina Sacra." Every one loved Patience, and every one entertained the highest respect for Payne ; and with a hearty good will on the part of the school, the enliving chorus commenced : See gentle Patience smile on Paine, See dying hope revive again." The coincidence was so striking, that the gravity of the young ladies and gen tlemen could hardly be restrained long enough to get through the tune. The beautiful young lady was still more beau tiful with her blushing cheeks and mod estly cast-down eyes, while the teacher was so exceedingly embarrassed he knew not what be did. Hastdy turning over the leaves of the book, his eyes lit upon a well-known tune, and he called out "Dundee." The sons' bean as soon as 9 O sufficient order could be restored, and at the last line of the following stanza rose to a climax : " Let not despair nr fell revenge lie to my oaom known ; Oh. give me tear, for others' wues. And Patience for mv own. Patience was already betrothed ; she was in fact his ; and in about a year af terwards they became man and wife : Tben gcctle Patieoce smiled on Payne, And Payne hod Patieoce fur his own." Do you cast things?' inquired a Yankee the other day, as he sauntered into a foundry and addressed the propri etor. We do.' 'You cast all kinds of things iu iron eh ?' Certainly, don't you sec that is our bus'ness. 'Ah ! well cast mo a shadow, will you ' 9 'Yes ! come here, Jim, Sam, and Dick and cast this Yankee into the furnace.' The Yankee cast one look, one linger- ing look behind, and made tracks for parts unknown. COON HUNT IN A FENCY COUNTRY. Really, its astonishin' what a mon strous sight of mischief there is in a pint of rum ! If one of 'em was to be sub mitted to analyzation, as the great doc tors call it, it would be found to contain all manner of devilment that ever entered the head of man, from cussin and stealin up to murder and whippin' his own mo ther, and nonsense enough to turn all the men in the world out of their senses. If a man gets a badness in him, it will bring it out, just as sasafras tea does the mea sles; and if he's a good-for-nothin' sort of a fellow, without no bad traits in pertik- ler, it will bring out all his greatness. It affects different people in different ways; some it makes rich and happy, and some poor and miserable; and it has a different effect on different people's eyes some it makes see double, and some it makes so blind that they can't tell themselves from a side of bacon. One of the worst case of rum foolery that I've heard of for a long time, took place in the neighborhood of Pineville last fall. Bill Sweeny and Tom Culpepper are the two greatest old coveys in our settle ment for coon-huntin'. The fact is, they don't do much of anything else, and when they can't catch nothin' you may depend on't coons are scarce. Well, one night they had everything ready for a reg'lar bust, but owin' to some extra good fortin' Tom had got a pocket pistol, as he called it, of reg'lar old Jamaka, to keep off the rumalics. After takin' a good startin horn, they went out on their hunt, with their light-wood torch blazin' and the dogs barkin' and yelpin like forty thou sand. Every now and then stoppin' to wait for the dogs, they would drink one another's health till they began to feel very comfortable, and chatted away 'bout one thing and another. Bimeby they come to a fence. Well, over they got, without much difficulty. "Whose fence is this?" said Bill. "Taint no matter," sei Tom ; "let's take somethin' to drink." After takin' a drink they went on, wonderin' what on airth had became of the dogs. Next thing they cum to was a terrible muddy branch. After pullin' through the briars and gettin' on t'other side, they tuk another drink, and after goin' a little ways, they cum to another fence, a monstrous high one this time. "Whar upon airth is we got to, Cul pepper?" sea Bill. "I never seed such a heap of branches and fences in these parts." "Why," sea Tom, "it's all old Stur lid's doins; you know he's always build in' fences and makin' infernal improve ments, as he calls 'em. But never mind, we's through 'em now." "Recon we isn't," sez Bill; "here's the all firedest fence yet." Sure enough, thar they was, right agin another fence. By this time they begun to be considerable tired and lim ber in the joints, and it was such a terri ble high fence. Tom dropped the last piece of the torch, and thar they was in the dark. "Now you is done it," says Bill. Tom know'd he had, but he thought it was no use to grieve over spilt milk, so says he, " Never mind, old boss, cum ahead, "and I'll take you out," and the next minit, kerslash, he went into the water. Bill hung on the fence with both hands like he tho't it was slewin round to throw him off. "Hallo, Tom." sea he. "whar in the world is you got to?" "Heie I is," sea Tom, spouin' the wa ter out of his mouth, and coughin' like he'd swallowed somethin' "look out, there's another branch here." "Name of sense whar is we?" sea Bill; "if this isn't a feney country, dad fetch my buttons." Yes, and a branchy one, too," sea Tom, "and the highest and deepest and thickest that I ever seed in all my born days." "Which way is you?" sez Bill. "Here, right over the brancS." "Come ahead," says Tom, "let's go home." "Come, thunder, I in such a place as this, whar a man aint got his coat-tail unhitched from a fence, 'fore he's over his head and ears in water." After sreUin' out and feelin about in the dark, they got together again. After takin' another drink, they sot out for home, denouncin' the fences and branch es, and helpin one another up now and then ; but they handn't gone more'n twenty yards 'fore they brung to a halt by another fence. "Dad blame ray picture," sea Bill, "if I don't think we is bewitched. Who upon airth would build fences all over creation this way ?" It was about an hour's job to get over this one ; but after they got on the top the y found the ground on the other side without much trouble. This time the bottle broke, aud tLev cum monstrous near having a fight over the catastrophe. But it was a very good thing, it was; for, after crossing two or three branches, and climbin' as many more fences, it got to be daylight, and they found that they had been climbin' the same fence all night, not more'n a hundred yards from whar they cum to it. Bill Sweeny sea he can't account for it in any other way but that the licker sort'o turned their heads ; and he sea he does raaly believe if it handn't a gin out. they d been climbin the same fence and wadin the same branch till now. Bill promised his wife to jine the temperance society, if she would say no more about that coon-hunt. THE GREAT OCEANS TO BE MARRIED. The Washington Star learns from a reliable source, that some enterprising citizens of the United States and New Granada, have discovered and explored the long-sought-for route for connecting the Atlantic and Pacific oceans by means of a ship canaL This great de sideratum to the commercial world is certainly the most grand and important enterprise of this age, and worthy the attention and consideration of every civ ilized people and government The plan as the Star understands, is to go to the Atrato river, some fifty miles from its mouth, with a depth of from six to ten fathoms, and from thence to the Pa cific, a distance of some sixty miles more, without a lock or obstruction in the con templated canal. A liberal grant has been made by the government of New Granada to the persons engaged in this grand undertaking; and the whole route, from one ocean to the other, has been accurately surveyed, and the facts de veloped are beyond doubt or question, so Car as the feasibility of the work is concerned. DIMENSIONS OF THE AMERICAN. LAKES. The latest measurement of our fresh water seas are as follows : The greatest lenghth of Lake Superi or is 435 miles ; the greatest breadth is 160 miles; mean depth 988 feet; ele vation 627 feet; area 32,000 square miles. The greatest length of Lake Michigan is 360 miles ; its greatest breadth 103 miles ; mean depth 900 feet ; elevation 587 feet ; area 23.000 square miles. The greatest length of Lake Huron is 200 miles ; its greatest breadth is 160 miles ; mean depth 800 feet ; elevation 574 feet ; area 20,000 square miles. The greatest length of Lake Erie is 250 miles; its greatest breath is 80 miles; its mean depth is 84 feet ; elevation 555 feet; area 6,000 square miles. The greatest length of Lake Ortario is 180 miles; its greatest breadth 65 miles; its mean depth is 500 feet; eleva tion 272feet; area 6,000 square miles. The total length of all five is 1,585 miles, covering an area altogether of up wards of 90,000 square miles. A SUBSTITUTE FOR SILVER. A wonderful discovery is announced as having been made recently by an French chemist, M. Devilk to wit, a easy and cheap method of separating aluminum, the metallic base of common , clay, from the other constituents. This metal rivals in beauty pare silver and surpasses it in durability. Hitherto it has existed only in small quantities, and has been esteemed rather as a curiosity, the price in France, a short time since, being about the rate of gold I But by Mr. D.'s improved method it can now be produced in masses sufficient and cheap enough to replace copper and even iron in many respects, and thus place the 'new silver' into such common use as to suit the means of the poorest per sons. 1 ! : ! Americans is Australia. The Paris correspondent of the New Orleans Picay une contributes the following extract from a private letter written by an Englishman in Australia : You, who have been so much in Amer ica, will not be surprised when I say the Americans are by far the best men in this country. You know well their en terprise, but even you will be astonished at the following piece of statistical infor mation : At Balarat, according to tho late census commission, the populatioa is 22,000, of whom only 240 are Ameri cans. In order to drain the water from the deep sinkings, and also to wash the stuff, there are seven steam engines and machines; of these, four belonged and were worked solely by Americans. All the great contracts are taken by them : the lines of stages to acd from the dig gings that are accessible to wheels and tew aic not all are Yankee; the coach es e'uher Troy or Albany built; the har ness and all from the same country. In coming into the bay you will notice that all the fine ships are American ; the best hotels aro theirs in fact tliey are im proving our people out of the rl.icu alto, gt'ther. : 1!