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For all marriages time printer fee 1is expeeled. Fron Arthur's Hone Gazelle. HOME SCENES. DY T. S. AtTnUlt. Xo. 2.-Only a few Words. Mr. Jamnes Winklenman shut the door with a jar, as he left the house, and mnbved down tite street, in the di. rection of his office, with a quick, firim top and the air of a mian slightly dis. turbed in minid. Things are ge'ting better fast," .aiid he, with a touch otf irony in hsis voice, as lie alimiost fluttr iitiuself itto his leather-cuAhioned chair. "mLjts rat her hard when a man has to pick his wordi inl his owin house, a4 carefully as if he n'ere picking diamonds, and trend as sofily as it' lie was stepping on egges. I~don't like it. Mary gets weaker and smore foolish every day, anid puts a breadth of iieaning oil imy words that I never intended thetm to have. I've not been used to this conning over of sentences aud picking out all doubtful expressions ere vetttring to speak, and I'm too old to begin now. Mary took me for what I atm), and she must make the most of her. bargaitt. I'm past tite age for learning new tricks." With these and many other justif3 ing sentences, did Mr. Winkleman seek to obtain a feeling of selfapproval. But, for mill this, lie could not shut ont the image of a tearful face, nor get rid of an annoying conviction that he had .acted thoughtlessly, to say the least of it, in speakiig to his wife as lie had done. But what was all this trouble about? Clouds were in the sky that bent over the house of Mr. WVinkleman, arnd it is plain that Mr. WVinklemana himself had his own share in the work of pro. dueing these clouds. Only a few uan. guarded words hiad been spoken. Onuly words ! And was that all ? Words aire little things. but they sometimes strike hard. We wield them so easily that we are apt to for. get their hidden power. Fitly spoken they fall like the sunshine, the dew, and the fertilizing rain- but, when unfitly, like thme frost, the hail, and time desolating tempest. Sonme menm speak as they feel or think, without calculatinmg the force of what they say; an1d then seem very much surprised if any one is huirt or oll'ended. T1o this class belonged Mr. Winklemnan. His wife was a loving, sincere wvoman, quick to feel. WVords, to her, were inideed things. 'They never fell upon lier ears as idle.' sounds. How often was her poor heart bruised by them ! On this particular morning, Mrs. Winkleman, whose health was feeble, round herself in a weak, nervous state. It was only by an effort that sh'Ocould rise above the morbid it ritability that afilicted her. Earnestly did site strive to repress the dibturbed beatings of hier heart, but she strove in vain. And it seemed to her, as it often does in such eases, that everything went wrong. The children were fretful, the cook dilatory amnd cross, and Mr. Witi kleman itmpatient, because sundry little matters pertaining to his ward. robe were not just to his mimnd. mm Eight o'clock, and no breakfast yet," said Mr. W~inikeman, as lie drew out his watch,'oen completing his own toilet. Mrs. Winklemnan was in children, all of whom had passed un. der her hands. Each had been captious, cross, and unruly, sorely trying the mother's patience. Twice had she been in the kitchen, to see how break. fast was progressing, and to enjoin the careful preparation of a favorite dish with which she had purposed to sur. prise her husband. " It will be ready in a few minutes," said Mis. Winkleman. "The fire hasn't burned freely this morning." "If it isni't one thing, it is another," growled the husband. "'m11 getting tired of this irregularity. There'd soon be no breakfast to get, if I were always behind time in business nat. ters." Mrs. Winkleman bent lower over the child she was dressing, to conceal the expression of her fice. What a sharp p:ain now throbbed througli.her temples. MA r. Vinkleman commaenceed walking the floor impatiently, little imagining that every jarring footfall was like a blow on the sensitive, aching brain of his wi'o. "Too bad ! too bad !" he had just ejaculated when the bell rung. At last !" he muttered, and strode toward -the breakfitst room. The children followed in considerable dis order, and Mrs. Winklenan, after hastily arranging her hair, and putting on a morning cap. joined them at the table. It, took some moments to restore order among the little ones. The dish that Mrs. Winkleman had been at considerable pains to provide for hIe. husRbald, wasa met. Ieside is plate. It was his favorite among ina ny, and his wife looked for a pleased re co'gnition thereof; and a lightning tp of his clouded baow. lut he did not seem even to notice it. After sup. plying the children, Mr. Winkleman helped himself in silence. At the first mouthful lie threw down his knife and fork, and pushed his plate fioma him. " What's the matter ?" iniquired his wife. "You didn't trust Bridget to cook this, I hope," was the response. "What ails it ?" Mrs. Winkleman's eyes were filling with tears. "Oh ! It's (of no consequence," ala. swered Mr. Winkleman, coldly, "any thing will do for mae." .1 dines !" There was a touching sadi:ess blenled with rebuke in the tones -of his wife ; and, as she uttered his name, tears gushed over her cheeks. Mr. Winklenan didn't like tears. They always annoyed him. At the present time, ho was iaa no mood to bear with them. So, on the iiapuilse of' the moment, lae arose from the table, and taking up his ha1t, left the house. Self justificatian was tried, though not., as has been seen, with complete success. The calmer grew the mind of Air. Winkleman, and the clearer his thodghts, the less satisfi. d did lie feel with the part lie had taken in the morning's dramna. Hy an inversion of tholutlalit, not usual among men of his temperamieaat, lie had been presented \ ith a vivid realization of his wife's side of the questioa. The consegnaueance was, that, by dinner time, he felt a good deal ashamed of himself, and grieved for the pain lie knew his hasty words had occasioned. It was in this better state of Maisnd that Mr. Wiaakleman a'eturaned home. The house seemed still as lhe eaaterecd. As ho psroceeded up stairs, he heard the children's voices, pitched to a low key, in the anursery. ie listened. but could not hear the tones of hais w ife. So lie passed into the front chamber, which was darker~ed. As soon as lie could see clearly in the feeble Iigvht, lie perceived thant his wife was lying on the bed. 11er eyes were closed, and her thin fiaee looked ro pale and death-like, that Mr. Winklemnaa felt a cold shudder creep through his heart. Coming to the bed side, lie leaned over and gazed down upona her. At first, lie was in doubt wvhether she really breathed or not; and lhe felt a heavy weight removed wvheni lie saw that her chest rose and fell in feeble respiration. '"Mary !" lie spoke in a low, tenader voice. Instantl y the fringed eyelids parted, and Mrs. 'Winkleman gazed up into her husband's face in partial bewild. ermnent. Obeying the mnonment's impulse, Mr. Winklemani bent down and left a kiss upon her pale lips. As if moved by an electric thrill, the wife's arms were ilung around the husband's neck. "I am sorry to find you so ill," said Mr. Winkleman, in a voice of sym. pathay. "WVhat is the matter ?I" ''Only a sick head ache," replied Mrs. Winakleman. "But I've had a good sleep, and feel better now. didn't know it was so late," she added her tone changing slightly, and a look of concern coming into her counten. anco. "I'm afraid your dinnter is not ready;" and she attemipted to rise. uther husband bore her genthy back4 with his hiand(, savinig: "Never mind about dinner. It, will come in good time. If you feel better, lie perfectly quiet. Have you suffered much pain ?" "Yes." The word did not part her lips sadly, but came with a softly wreathing smile. Already the wan hue of her cheeks was giving place to a warmer tint.' and the dull eyes brightening. What a healing power was in his tender tones and consider. ate words. And that kiss-it had thrilled along every nerve--it had been as nectar to the drooping spirit. "But I feel so much beter, that I will get up," she added, now rising tfrom1 her pillow. And Mrs. Winklenan was entirely free from pain. As she stepped upon the carpet, and moved across the room, it was with a firm tread. Every mimuscle was clastie, and the blood leaped along her veins with a new and healthier impulse. No trial of Mr. Winkleman's patience, in a late dinner, was in store for him. In a few minutes the bell summoned the fami ly; and he took his p)ace at the table so trinquil in mind, that he almost wondered at the change in his feelings. Ilow dif. ferent was the scene from that pre sented at the morning mecal And was there power in a few sim. ple words to etllbt so great a change as this ? Yes, in simple words, fragrant with the odors of kindness. A few glerns of light shone into tihe immnd of Mr. Winkleman- as he retorned musing to his office, and he saw that lie was often to blame for the clouds that had darkened so often over thle sky of home. 'iary is' foolish," he said, in par tial selfjustification, "to take mv has. ty words so much to heart. I speak sften without kmaningr half what I. say. Shte ought to know mie better. And yet," he added, as his step be came slower. for he was thiinking closer than usual, "it may be easier for ic to choose my words more carefully, and to repress the, unkindness of tone that gives then a double force, thani for her to help feeling pain for their Right 'Mr. Winkleman ! That is the common sense of time whole mat. ter. It is easier to strike, than to help feelinig, or showing signs of pain, under the infliction of a blow,. Look well to your words, all ye mem bers of* a ho.nao circle. And especially look well to your words, ye whose words have the most weight, and f(ll, if dealt in passion, with the heaviest From t-he 11lhick Rtiver Watcehman. Revi~onisaiossary MessueorasIn.41. From the collec4tion of the late Judge Jamn. NO. IV. COLONEL JOSEPII KESI1AW. Col. Kershaw was an Eiglish nier chalnt, and was the fir.st to see the ad vantages ofCaiden as a place of coi inerce, and settled it. Camden was first called Pine-Tree, from a pine log. by which the Indians crossed the creek near it, which name has since belen transferred to the creek. There Col. Kershaw engaged in commerce upon an enlarged and liberal scale; and eijoyed, in tihe highest degree, the confidence of the people of that part of' the country. At the commence' nment. of tihe dispute with Great lit' in, lie declared himself in fiuvor of his adopted country. lie was thien a Colonel of militia, and soon after served under G3ov. Richardson in the expedition againist the Tories. In the y'ear 17~99 lie acted under Lincoln and Moultrie. Butt his severest trials wereyet to comec. At the time ofi the fall of Chiarleston, lie and his bro' thmer, Capt. Eli Kershaw, were exten si vely engaged in trade at, Caimden, Cheraw, Ilocky Mount aind Gr'anby, anid had large possessions and much money due them in the conntry. Wheni Lor'd Coi'nwalis marched up to Camden, lie sent Major' Pitcairn, one of hits aids, ahead to ch< ose a house f'or him; and lie selected Col. Kershaw's, the best in the town. Thle Col. was then iminmed iately compel led to move out of it with his wife and family. But this was not the worst of his Lordship's proceedings. lie sent Ma' jor Pitcairn with an order to deliver to him his plate; but Col. Kershaw had used the precaution of sending it off to Philadelphia. Disappointed in this object, his Lordship soon af'ter sent him and his brother orders to repair, byr way of banishment, to New Providence, or Ilermudas; as being men too dangerous to remain in a con' quered county. And notwi thistandIing their possessions, so disappointed was the enemy at the tine, they were obliged to comply with that order, under the greatest pecuniary embar' rassipents. Capt. Kershawv Ieft home sick and died on his .passage to thme Biermudas. Lord Cornwallis built forts at every one of' Col. Kershaw~v's establishments, and his property was wvasted in the most w~ant'un manner. Finally Lotd 1lwdon, when retreat ing, burnt his valuable Mill, near Cam den; and set fire to his house, but it was extinguished by his friends 'after the British had retreated. At the end of the war Col. Kershaw returned from exile; but it was only to see, in the decline of life, his fortunes destroyed, his hopes blasted and .himself and family left to stiuggle ith a state of insolvency. The district where he lived is now imined after him. N4)1 a Fictiona, SKETCH OF EDOAR A. PoE. -It was a weary tale to tell how often he repented mid was forgiven; how lie passed fiom the editorship of one magazine to another; how lie vent from city to city, and State to State an energetic, aspiring, sanguine, brill. iant mnan -bearing ,the curse Of irreso. lution-never constant but to the se ductive aid dangerous besetments of dissipation and profligacy; how friends advised him and publishers remon. strated; how, at one time, he had con quered his propensity so as to call himself in a letter to a friend, a imodel of temperance and virtue; and how at another he forfeited the high occu pation (editor) which was the sole dependane If his amly byfeun relapses into his f'ormer dissolute hab its; how lie committed under the ex citemnent of intoxication, fiilts and excesses that were unpardonable, how lie forfeited the esteem of the.public, exue whiist his talents commanded admiration; how lie succeeded in bringiig many literary speculations into lif.e, which his vicious habits and inattention to business murdered in their youth; how lie became a firm inebriate, with only now and thlen a fitful hour or so with which to throw ofl on paper the vagaries of a miniid rich widlh learning and imagiiative fimeies: how his young and beautiful wife died, broken hearted, and how lie became so red-iced in appearance a io longer to be able -to -make his appearance among his friends; how his wife's mother, coistant to his irall en firtunes, and anxious to Conlcal his vices, went wisi his manuscript from oflice to ollic., an.1 fromi publisher to publisher, in search'of meams to slip port him; how, 1;r a little while lie shik off the lethargy of intoxication, and appeared in the gay, aristocratic aid wealthy circles of New York eity; how lie was caressed, and admired, feted and congratulated by the bpeauty, fashion. and elite; liow the ellrts of his miagic pen and towering genius were sought by rival publishers; how lie was engaged to be married the second time to ln) accomplished, weal thy and beautiful young lady; and how the engagement, was finally broken off through his return to his pernicious habits. It was a weary, melancholy tale indeed. The versatile, unhappy scenes of Edgar A. I'oe's life wk re soon to close -sapped rudely asunder by his own hand ! Ile had partly recovered f rom his dangerous curses, and was engaged in delivering lectures in different towns. The -e were unanimously at tended; and it was with something like reiiewed confidence that the ardent frieiids of the distinguished lecturer watched his conduct, which was now distinguished by extreme sobriety. ie eveni appleared to have renewed his vigor and yout. aiid it was with pleasuire and delight that his friends and acquaintances received hiim in to their society and homes again. At the brilliant parties given at the houses lie generous acquaintances-at which hwas the lion of the evening--i Poe met with a line aiid hovelyv wo nman; whomt lie had formerly kinown. Their friendship wvas renewed, an at tachmient was reciprocal, and they wereingaged to be miarried. Every higseemed to promise well; the dawn of thle better day appeared, and the w ish fl reformation so long com img, seemed to comec at lost ! On a suiiny atfterniooni ini October, 1849, lie started to fulfil a literary engagement., and prepare for his marriage, i~e arrived ini Baltimnore, where he gave his luggage to a porter, with instrue tionis to carry it to the railroad depot. in an hour lie would set out for Phil' adelphia. But he would just take a glass before lie started--for refresh' ment sake-that's all. Oh, fatal hour! In thme gorgeous driniking saloon he met sonme of his old acquaintance and associates who invited hima to join thoem in a social glas4.' "n a mnoiment all his good resolutions-homne, duty, honor, and~ intended bride wvere forgot ten: ere the night had man~ted the earth with its dark canopy, lie was ini a state of beastly intoxication. In sanity eiistied; hie was taken to the hospital and the niext morming lie (lied a miserable, raving maniac. Poor unf ortunate, misguided creature ! ie was thirty-fivo yeamrs old whemn this last seene of' his life's tragedy was ennacd. K ind rea'ler. this is no limaey sketch of drapery or fiction. No single cir cumstance here related nor solitary event recorded, but happened to Ej gar Allen Poe, the Editor, Critic and P0oct, one of the most popular and brilliant writers in America.-North er Organ. Oely Soseae Laborer's child. Diogenes sought, with a lantern in his hand, in open daylight, for an honest man. We are no Diogenaes, and carry no lantern-neither do we make it a point to hunt up embodied honesty. But we do look afier items, and, Sometimes find them where and when we least expect so to do. Passing down a certain street, a few nioons since, we overtook a lady evidently one who claimed to belong to the Iiristocracy..-accompn1anmie(d by what we took to be her nurs -or in fashionable parlance, her "companion," T hey had just reached an unpretend Ing cottage, in front of which a sweet little lump of a girl was drawing her doll in a toy sleigh. Her thubby face was as bright as a new star, and her eye danced as merrily as the brook that, while it dances, sings. As the ladies-beg pardon of the one that has the more money for ihe conjunction - passed by, Li gir stopped her play to gaze at them tfor a momnent-prob ably attracted by the rich habilinients of the mistress-a gaze that was mod est and childlike, and yet big with meaning. The "lady" would have passed without noticing the fair face that looked so curiously upon her; but the nurse, true to her instincts, caught the expression, and. turning to her nistres, said. "Oh ! what a pretty little girl," The other suffered her haughty eyes to rest for a moment upon the youngling, and sneeringly answered. " Only~ some laborer's child." At Lhe next corner our ways separated. "Only some laborers ctild." What then? Is labor, is poverty a criine? Is it any more honorable to be the OTspring of a banker, a professor, a poet, or a peer, than the child of in dustrious toil? Pshaw ! These in' dividual distinctions, barriers, demnar Cations, which so infest the present timie, are among the greatest pests of society. There would be no such things as tipper and lower classes, if men and women were not poisoned by the hurtful venom of Fashion and Aristocracy. We owe our condition to ourselves, and stand alone in our opinionas of men. lie who made us is no respecter ofpersons. "Only some laborer's child." A pretty speech for the lips of a woman to titter. She must forget the o:igin of Jesus-she cannot have read the story of* Bethlehem. Perhaps she has irgotten her own birth history. We wonder how her children are-wheth er they are more beautiful, and pron ising and brilliant than the children of her poorer neighbor. We have known many a rich man to father a deformi. ty. Perhaps this very lady is the mother of a w retch, who smokes ci gars and wears sta.nding collars, and drinks Otard in his furteenth year. ' Only some laborer's < hild." Oh! how -we hate such nonscence. And yet the term contains a compliment. God knows we had rather have that ,little girl's mother for ours than to be the son of thme exquisite feminine who uttered this sentence. Labor is honorable, glorious! we huave yet to find any such characteristics pertaining to the soft-headed aristocracy. We have yet to learn that money arid sta tion enlarge the heart, expand the soul, and multiply the moral princi pIes of one being. If Justice was done the crown would b~e placed upon the brow of the peasant, anid kings would do the grubbiing." We hope the lady who made the remark which forms the subject of this article, will ponder over what we have written-and see if' the sneer looks well in print. WeT lay a reason' able wageir that she herself, was nursed by a poor n.other and that her station is due to chance rather than desert. This niay be plain talk, but it is bon est. "Only some laborer's child." A ruhy to a rose that this very child does mnore good, gains more affection, and lies down in a more tranquil grave than the, very " lady " whose silly sneers we have thus recorde I. Buf'. eprens. Ts SAMS F"AULr.-Laura was dis' consolate. Henry had long flirted, but never put the question. Henry wecnt his way. Laura's aunt. for con' soltion, brought her a love of a span' iel pup. "My dear," says the aunt, "the pnpy can do every thing but speak. W hy will y ou agonize me?" says Laura, "that's the only fault I found with thme other." AX good man is influenced by God hisl.and has1 a~ kind of' divinity witna hi n. The Pasionaate Father. "Greater is lie who ruleth his spirit than lie who taketh a City." 'Come here, sir,' said a strong, ath letic man, as lie seized a delicate look ing boy by the shoulder. 'YQ have been in the water again, sir. idvn't I forbidden it?' 'Yes, father, but--' 'No buts!--havn't I forbidden it?' 'Yes sir. I was 'No reply, sir!' and the blows fell like a hailstorm about the child's head and shoulders. Not a tear started from Iarrv's - eye, but his 1ace was deadly pale, aid his lips firmly comipressed,'a-i he rose and looked at his ftather with ai in flinching eye. 'Go to your room, sir, and stay thue until you are sent for. i'll nts La that spirit before yuud tire many days older.' Ten minutes after, Harry's door opened and his mother glided gently in. She was a fragile, delicate woman, with iournful blue eyes, and temples startlingly transparent. Laying her hands softly upon Harry's head, she stooped and kissed his forehead. I The rock was touched, and the wa ters gushed furth. 'Dear mother!' said the weeping boy. i Why didn't you tell your fathaiEf that you plunged into the water to save the life of your playmate?' 'Did he give me a chatice?' said I Harry, springing to his feet, with a flashing eye. Didn't he twice bid me I be silent, when I tried to explain? I Mfother lie's a tyrant to you and nel' 'llarry, lie's my husband and your father!' 'Yes, and I'm sorry for it. What have I ever had but blows and harsh words?-Look at your pale cheeks and sunken eyes, mother! it's too bad I say! lie's a tyrant, mother! said the I boy, with a clenched fist and set teeth and if it had not been for you, I would have been leagues off long ago. And there's Nellie, too, poor sick child! What good will all her medicine. do her? She trembles like a leaf when she hears his foot-step. I say 'tis brutal, mothed' t 'hlarry',-and a soft hand was laid on the impetuous boy's lips--'for my sake-' 'Well, 'tis only for your sake,. yours and poor Nellie's,--or I should have been on the sea somewhere- I anywhere but here." L.ate that night, Mary Lee stole to her boy's bed-side, betre retiring to rest.--'God be thankful, he sleeps!' she murmered, as she shaded her lamp from his face. Then, kneeling at his bed side, she prayed for patience and wisdom to bear uncomplainingly the heavy cross tinder which her steps I were faltering; and then she prayed for her husband. 'No, no, not that!' said Harry, springing from his pillow, and throw. ing his arms about her neck. ' can forgive him what he has done to me, but I never will forgive him what he made you suffer. Don't pray for him; at least don't let me hear it.' Mary Lee was too wise to expostu. late. She Knew her boy was spirit sore, under the sense of recent injus. t tice; so she lay down beside him, and t resting her tearful cheek against his, repeated in a low, sweet voice the sto. r ry of the crucifixion. 'Father, forgive ~ I them, for they know not what they do!' fell upon his troubled ear. lie yielded to the holy spell. 'I will,' he sobbed. Mother, you are an angel; and if!I ever get to heav. en, it will be your hand that hasle me there.'edt * * * * * * There was hurrying to and fro Roe. bert Lee's house that night. It was a heavy hand that dealt those angryt blows on that young head! The passionate lather's _repentanceI came too late,---came with the word that his bov' must die! 'Be kind'to her!' said flarry, as his head drooped on his mother's shoulder. It was a dear.bought lesson! Bie. side that lifeless corpse, Robert lee renewed his marriage vow; and now, when the hot blood of anger rises to his temples, and the hasty words spring to his lip' the pale face of the dead rises up between him and the offender, and an angelic voice whispers 'Peace, be still.' -FEELING APPEA.-Shopheeper: "That's a bad fifty cent piece, Ican'tI take it; its only lead silvered over." Customer.--Well, now, admitting1 such to be the fact. I should say that the inginui ty displayed in the decep teon might Induce you to accept it. Admire, sir, the devotion of the earth to the divine idea of Liberty. Liber-I ty the idol of us all ! Hie, having wrought her effigy in humble lead, in order to makeit worthier of that glo iious impression, resorts.to the harm less expedient of silvering it over ! And shall we harshly repudiate his work ! Oh, no, sir ! you'll take it; I know , ou willn' IN DEDT AND O0UTof VDnTe_' .What a hideous progeny of ill is de4 the lhther ! What meannesses; what in. i vasions 6'n self respect, what cares what doulnle dlltig! How, in due season, it will carve the frank open face into wrinkles; how like a khife, twill stab the honest heart. And then ts transformation I flow it has been known to change a goodly face inta maIsk of brass; now, with the-"damne - 3usto," of debt, has the true man be. .ome a callous triukster! A freedom irom debt, and what nourishing sweet. less may be foiund in cold water; what toothsueness in a dry crust; what imubrosial nourishment in a hard egg I Lie sure of it, he who dines out ofdebt, hu' his meal be biscuit and an onion, lines in "The Afollo." And then fur nitnut; what warmth in'a threadbare :.af, if the tailor's receipt be in your Weket; what Tyrian purple in the aded waistcoat, the vest not owed fur iow glossy the well-worn hat if it co ,r not the aghing head of a debtor I 'lext, the home-sweets, the out door ecreation of the free manl. The street loor falls not a knell on his heart; the out on the staircase, though he lives n the third pair, sends no spasm brough his anatomy; at the rap of his loor lie can crow forth "come in." and .is pulse still beat healthfully, his heart ink not in his bowels. See him ibroad. How confidently, yet how >leasantly he takes the street; how he eturns look for look with any passen. U rer; how he saunters; how, meeting .n acquaintance, he stands and gos. ps - . t, the', thel iss ma Knows not lebt; debt, that casts a drug into the ichest wine; that makes the food of lie gods unwholesome, indigestible; hat sprinkles the banquets of a Lu. ullus with ashes, and drops soot in he soup of an emperor; debt, that ike the .moth, makes valueless furs nd velvets, enclosing the wearer in a estering prison, (the shirt of Nessus ras a shirt not paid for;) debt, that vrites upon frescoed walls the hand rriting of the attorney; that puts a - a - ur us We xnoxce-; tUt nakes the heart quake at the hunted reside; debt, the invisible demon that ralks abroad with a man, now quick ning hia steps, now making him look in all sides like a htmnted beast, and ow bringing to his face the ashy hue r death, as the uriconcious passenger ooks glancingly upon him ! Poverty a bitter draught, yet may, anl. ometimes with advantage, be gulped lown. Though (he drinker makes vry faces, there may after all be a holesome goodness in the cup. But ebt, however covertly it be offered, 3 thre cup of a Syren, and the wiie, picy and delicious though it be; as >oison. The man out of debt, though ith a flaw in his jes kin, a crack in is shoeleather, and a hole in his ha, a still the son of liberty, free as'tie ingin:g lark above him; but the debt r, though clothed in the utmost ravery, what is lie but a serf out pon a holiday--a slave to be reclai:a. d at any instant by his owner, the reditor? My son, if poor, see wine a the running spring; let thy mouth rater at last week's roll; think a hreadbare coat the "only wear," and cknowledge a white-washed garret lie fittest housing place for a gentle. aan; do this, and flee debt. So shall by heart be at peace; ahd the sherlir le confounded.--Douglas Jerold, in Ifead4 of the People." SnoRT PAT3axr Sitatox.--Perhaps may not be amiss to remind you or he printer, in my discourse, lie is a a very disagreeable situation. Hie rusts every-body, .he knows not rhomn; his money is scattered ev'ery. rhere, and lie scarcely kqe9ws "where o look for it.. His paper, his ink, 11s type, his journeymeta's labor, hi. iving, &c., must be punctually paid na hundred others I could name,. are taken his paper, and you, your hi Idren and your neighbor., have meen amused and informed,.and im. roved by it. If you miss one paper 'ou would think* very hard of the ~rmter--you would rather be without pour best meal than be deprived of rour newspaper. Havem you ever omplied with the termsiof your sub cription? Ilave you takien as much >ains to furnish the puinter with his noney as he has to ftarnish you with isi paper? ~Have you paid him for mis type, and his press, and his jour seymsen's work? if you have not, go, ay him off. DOW, Jr. Tu WORD "Iv."--Through the whole of our authorised version of he Bible "its" does not once coeur; he work which it now performs being acoomplished by "his,' -or "her," ap plied as freely to ininimh~e things as o> persons, or else by "thereof" or "of t.' Trench remarkeithat "its" oe'' ,urs but three t pes infall Shakspeare., anid doubts wh ther it is in paradia6 Lust,