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DEMOCMT. i i i ; , ' . rrrrrrr , MAES1AEL r- $ THE BLESSINGS OF GOVERNMENT, LIKE THE DEWS OF HEAVEN. SHOTJj THE RICH AND T HC POO R. JACK SON. jr i 4 i 9 V.V i t 1 ß i vi ' J!- V- :1 -r VOL. 1, gclctifb 3 octrü- TO AN ABSENT HUSBAND. - Deareot, come home! I cannot bear Thv long protracted stay; 8o sad and lonley U my heart When thou art far away! I've tried alas! how vainly tried! Thine absence to forget; Yet still I ean but think of thee With fondness and regret. As mourns the gentle, cooing dove, In accents desolate, When forced by some unkindly hand Far from her loving mate through the chambers of my heart Echoes a mournful tone, Whilst every pulse affections beats, Re-echoes "I'm alone!" 'Tilings that are bright when thou art here, Look dark and gloomy now; And nature seems to share my grief, With clouds upon her brow. The bird sings now a sadder song Tlun e're he sang before; And flowers have lost their sunny hue They once so sweetly wore. To while the weary hours away, That lag with leaden feet, I read thy favorite authors o'er, Their choicest parts repeat; But even books those voiceless friends, Have lost all charms fur me. And fal to cheer my heart, unless I read them, love, with thee. And Mu.-ic with licr voice so sweet, I've called her to my aid, And soft, and low, with trembling hand, Thy favorite air I've play'd. But ah, those tender notes have stirred Affection's fountains deep, And sadly hawe I left my song, To think of thee, and weep. Thus gloomy thoughts their dismal shade O'er brightest object; fling; Hot true it is, a saddening heart Can sadden every thing! Then, dearest come thy wife's fond heart Still warmly beats for you, A heart whose every throbbing pulse Is faithful, kind, and true. THE CHILD SEER. A STOHV OK riONFXR LIFE IN WKSTKRN NEW YORK. A littl story I am going to tell is a true j captain of a company of boys, armed with story of pioneer lif in America. It is j formidable wooden guns, and fully equip known to manv descendants of the earlv i pod as mimic soldiers. Angus was made settlors among whom it happened, and I j write it in that country. One of the darkest pages in American history is that relating to the sufferings of the inhabitants of Try on County, New York, during the war of the Revolution, from the at Lacks of the Indians and Koy-1 whom they hue suspected. Upon the hill alists, under the Mohawk chief, Brant, and about a mile away, Joseph Brant had post the more savage Captain Walter Butler. cd a large party of his braves, where con- harlv in the war, Lherrv allev was se leeied as a j lace of refuge and defence for the inhabitants of the smaller and more ex pose J settlements. Blockhouses were built, fortifications wen thrown up, and finally a fort was erected, under the direction of fieneral Li Fayette. The inhabitants of the surrounding settlements came in, and lived for several months as in garrison, submitting to strict military regulations. Among the f imilies which took tempo rary refuge in this fort, was that of Cap , tain Robert Lindsav, formerly a British of- m m ficer, brave and adventurous, who, only at the entreaty of his wif , had left his farm which stood in a lonely, unprotected situa tion, several miles from any settlement. This Captain Lindsay was a reserved, mel ancholy man, about whom the simple and honest pioneers wondered and speculated not a little. His language and manner bo spoke the man of education and breeding. His wife, though a quiet, heroic woman, was evidently a lady by nature and asso ""cution. Captain Lindsay had a native love of solitude and adventure the first requisite (or pioneer ; and for several years no oth er reason was known for his seeking the wilds, and exposing his tender family to all the perils and privations of a frontier life. But at length an emigrant coming from his native place, in the Highlands of Gotland, brought the story of his exile, . which was briefly this; Captain Lindsay, when a somewhat dissipated young man, proud and passionate, had quarrelled with a brother officer, an old f.-iend, at a mess dinner. Both officers had drunk freelv, .and their difference was aggravated by hot . brained, half-drunken partisans. Insulting words" were exchanged, and a duel on the Fpot was the consequence. Lindsay escap ed with a slight wound, but his sword pierced the heart of his friend. He was hurried away to a s-cure hiding-place, but not before he had learned that in the first matter of dispute he had been in the wrong. Lindsay ma1e all the reparation in his power, by transferring his paternal estate, for the term of Ids own life-time, to the homeless widow and vounjf daughter of her friend. Then, with his wife's small property, and the price of his commission, Hoerelly 'mi;ijrjit;t! to America. He loft his farnilv in ew York, while he went up the Hudson, purchased a small farm, and built a house for their reception. He was accompanied in this expedition by an old family servitor, who, with true High land fidelity, clung to his unfortunate mas ter with exemplary devotion. Mrs. Lindsay's heart sunk within her when she found that her .new home was ßo far from any settlement literally in the wilderness; but she understood her hus band's misanthropic gloom, almost amount ing to melancholy madness and did not murmur. Yet her forest home was very beautiful a small valley farm, surrounded b)' densely-wooded hills, dark gorges and mossy dells. The house was a rough, primitive-looking structure, containing but three small apartments and a low chamber, or rather loft. But it was comfortably and securely built; and, overhung by noble iwm and overrun bv wild vins, wH not MT . .... f ; whose fragrance seemed to breathe of home like the sighs of an exile s heart. The family at the period of their taking refuge in the fort at Cherry Valley con sisted of three sons and an infant daughter (the last born in America), the man Davie, and a maid servent. Douglas, the elder son, a lacl of twelve or thirteen, was a brave high-spirited, somewhat self-willed boy, tall and handsome, and the especial pride of his mother not alone because he was her first-born, but because he most vividly recalled to her heart her husband in his happy days. Angus, the second son, was a slight, delicate fair-haired boy, posses sing a highly sensitive .and poetic nature. Unconsciously displaying at times singular and startling intuitions dreaming uneom prehended dreams, which were sometimes strangly verified, and uttering involuntary prophecies, which time often fulfilled he was always spoken of as a "strange child," and for all his tender years and sweet pen sive face, was regarded with a secret shrink ing awe, even by those nearest to him. In truth, the child seemed to be gifted with that weird, mysterious faculty known as second sight. Archie, the youngest son, his father's own darling, was a sturdv, rosv-cheeked, curly-headed boy of five. Etfie was yet at the mother's breast, a little rosy-bud of beauty a fair promise of infinite joy and comfort to her mother's saddened heart. As I have stated, this family took refuge in the fort, in the spring of seventeen hun dred and seventv-eight, somewhat against the will of Mr. Lindsay who, as he re mained neutral, had little fear of the In dians and also of his eldest son, who fancied there was something cowardly in flying from their forest-home before it had been attacked. The latter, however, was soon reconciled by the opportunity afford ed him, for the first time for several rears, of associating with lads of his owa ae, of whom there were a goodly number at the fort and settlement. The sports and exercises of the men and vouth were en tirely of a military character; and Doug las, who had inherited material tiste from a long line of warlike ancestors, and who had been instructed bv his father in mili tarv rules and evolutions, soon became the lieutenant ; but this was a piece of favoritism, the child having little taste or talent for the profession of arms, One bright May morning, as these young amateur fighters were parading on the -rreen before the fort, thev had spectators cealed by the thick wood, they were look ing down on the settlement. It had been his intention to attack the fort that night, but this grand parade of light infantry de ceived him. At that distance, he mistook the boys for men, and deceided to defer his attick till he could ascertain, by his scouts, the exact strength of the place. In the meantime he moved his party north ward a few miles, to a point on the road leading from Cherry Valley to the Mohawk River, where he concealed them behind rocks and trees. At this spot the road passed through a thick growth of ever green, forming a perpetual twilight, and wound along a precipice a hundred and fifty feet high, over which plunged a small stream in a cascade, called by the Indians Tekaharawa. Brant had doubtless received informa tion that an American officer had ridden down from Fort l'lain, on the Mohawk River, in the morning, to visit the fort, and might be expected to return before night. This officer had come to inform the garrison that a regiment of militia would arrive the next day, and take up their quarters at Cherry Valley. His name was Lieutenant Woodville; he was a young man of fortune gay,gallant, handsome and daring. Ie was dressed in a rich suit of velvet, wore a plumed hat and a jewel hilted sword, and let his dark, waving hair grow to eavalierish length. He rode a full blooded English horse, which he managed with ease. This Lieutenant Woodville lingered so long at the settlement that his friends tried to jn-rsuade him to remain all night ; bat he laughed, and, as he moun ted, flung down his portmanteau to one of them, saying, "I will call for that to-morrow." When it was nearly sunset the little garrison came into the court-yard to watch his departure. Among the spec titors were the boy-soldiers whose parade of the morning had daunted even the ter rible Brant. Foremost stood the doughty Douglas, and by his side the timid Angus, gazing with childish curiosity on the dash ing young officer, and marking with won dering delight his smiling mastery ovci his Steed. Suddenly the boy passed his hand over his eyes, grew marble-while and rigid for an instant, then shuddered, and burst into tears. IJefort; he could questioned, he had quitted his brothes, rushed forward, atid was clinging to the lieutenant's knee ; crying, in a tone of the most passionate entreaty, "Oh, sir, ye maun stay here to-night here, wIhth a' is safe ! Dintia gang; they'll kill V! Oh dinn.'i frilir!" j - - .inn . . iiw, my iitiHT Mil. n im it rvin me .. gently asked the officer, looking down into the delicate face of the boy, struck by its agonized expression. "The Indians. They're watin' for you in yon dark, awfu place by the falls," re plied Angus, in a tone of solemnity. "And how do you know all this, my little man?". asked the officer smiling. "I hae seen them," said Angus, in a low, hoarse tone, casting down his eyes and trembling visibly. "Seen them! When?" "Just noo, I k:iv them a as weel a I unpicturcsque. Under tne tasteiui care oi Mrs. Liudsay, a little garden soon sprung up around it where, among many strange Dlants. bloomed a few familiar flowers, PLYMOUTH, IND. NOV,, see you ond the lave. It's the guid God, r may be, that sends the vision to save you frae death. So ye maun heep the warn ing, and not put your life in peril by riding up there, where they're waiiin' for ye in the, gloaming." "What is the matter with this child?" exclaimed Lieutenant Woodville, turning to a friend in the little crowd. The man, for answer, merely touched his forehead significantly. "Indeed ! So young!" re plied the officer. Then, laying his hand gently, on the head of the boy, and smil ing pityingly into his wild, beseeching eyes he said. "But indeed I must go, prophet of evil. Indians, or no Indians, a soldier must obey orders, you know. Come, dry up your tears, and I will bring you a pret ty plume for your shoulder-cap when I re turn. Adieu, friends, until to-morrow." Saying this, he bent to loosen Angus's hands from the stirrup; but the child clung conclusively, shrieking out his warnings and entreaties, until his father broke through the crowd, and bore him forcibly away. Lieutenant Woodville galloped off with gay words of farewell ; but as some no ticed, with an unusual shadow on his hand some face. Mrs. Lindsay took Angus in her arms, and strove to sooth him, in her quiet lov ing way. Yet the child would not be com forted. He hid his face in her bosom, sob bing and shuddering, but saving nothing for several minutes. Then he shrieked out. "There! There! Oh, mither, they hae killed him ! I hae scon him ft' frae his horse. I see him noo, lyin amang the briars, wi' the red bluid rinning frae his head, down on to his brw soldier coat. Oh, mithir, I could nae help it; he would nae believe the vision !" After this, the repose of a sad certainty seemed to come upon the child, and, sob- bing more and more softly, he fell asleep ; U..A . A Ait A! A - Ä" 1 I . ..A A 11T 1 I out noi uiiui wie reium oi iieuienani oou- ville's horse, with an empty saddle stained with blood, had brought terrible confirma tion of the vision. Js'ext morning the body of the unfortunate young officer was found in the dark pass near the falls of Tekaharawa. He had been shot and scalp ed by Brant himself. As may be supposed this tragic verifi cation of Angus Lindsay's prophecy ex cited surprise and speculation, and caused the child to be regarded with a strange in terest, which, though not unfriendly, had in it too much of superstitious dread to be altogether kindly. lhe boy instinctively shrank from it, and grew more sad and reserved day by day. öome regarded the prediction as naturally resulting from the omnipresent fear of sav ages common to settlers children dik ing more vivid form in the imagination of a nervous and sickly boy, and the f ite of Lieutenant Woodville as merely a remark able coincidence. But more shook their heads with solemn meaning, deelarin" the lad a young wizard, and went so fir as to intimate that the real wizard was the lad's father, whose haughty and melancholy re serve w.as little understood by the honest settlers, and that poor little Angus was his victim : the one possessed. The expression of this feeling not in words, but in a sort of distrustful avoid ance made Mrs. Lindsay consent to the proposition of her husband to return to their home for the harvest. Several fami lies were venturing on this venturing on this hazardous step, encouraged by the temporary tranquillity of the country, and thinking that their savage enemies had quenched their blood-thirst at Wyoming thus rather taking courage than warning by that fearful massacre. The Lindsays found their home as they had left it three months before; nothin" had been molested ; they all speedily fell into their old in-door and out-door duties and amusements. iinu w p.isseu a lew .1 I r 1 e .i i a t i weeks of quiet happiness. Captain Lind- . . 1 11 1 . . say anu nis man always took their arms l l i i . i A 1 with them to the harvest fields, which were in sight of the house. The two elder sons usually worked with their father. On the last day of the harvest when little remain ed to be done, the boys asked permission to go to the stream, about two miles away, to angle for trout. In his moody abstractions of fearless ness, Captain Lindsey consented, and the boys set out in high glee. Little 'Archie, who was also with his father for that day, begged to be taken with them, but the lads did not want to be encumbered and hur ried away. Just as they were passing from the clearing into a little cow-path leading through the woods to the creek, Angus looked back and saw the child stand ing by his father, in tears, gazing wistful ly after his elder brother. "Ah, Douglas exclaimed he, "let us tak' Archie wi' us. See how the puir bairn is : ureetinjr. "No, no ; he'll only frighten the trout and we canna -wait. Come awa.' The lads reached the creek in safety, crept stealthily along its shaded banks, selecting their place in silence, and flung their bate upon the water. Douglas seem ed to enjoy the sport keenly, but Angus was remorseful for having said nay, to his little brother's entrn.ty. "Oh, Doughs!" lie exclaimed, at last, I canna' forget Archie's teaifulfice. I'm sae sorry we left him !" "Dinna fash yer head about Archie, but mind yer fish!" replied Douglas impati ently. Angus was silent for another half hour. Then lie suddenly gave a short, quick cry, made a stirt forward, and peered anxious ly down intothe water. "What noo?" said Douglas, petulantly, for the cry and movement had scared a fine trout that seemed just about to take his hook. "Oh, brother," answered Angus, trem bling, "I ha', seen 'Archie's bonnio. f u?o in the burn, and it had sic a pale, frightened look. I doubt "something awfu' has hap pened! Let us gang hämo." Douglas laughed as he replied, "It's yer own face ye saw in tho burn, and no Ar chie's. How could it be his, when he's miist two mileM awa?" I dinna ken, DoutMas. replied Angus humblr, "but I maun tC .eve u was -at- chie's face. There it comes aga! And father's and Davie's! Oh, brother, ? the Indians !" Shrieking out these words, the poor boy staggered backwards and fainted. Doug las, though a good deal alarmed, had suf ficient presence of mind to apply nature's remedy, fortunately near at hand ; and un der a copious sprinkling of cold water, Angus speedily revived. Douglas no, lon ger resisted his entreaties, but silently gathered up their fishing tackle, and tak ing up their string of trout, set out for home, walking slowly and supporting the trembling steps of his brother. As they neared the borders of the clearing, where they were to come in sight of the harvest fields and their home, Angus absolutely shook, and even the cheek of the bold douglas grew white. The first sight which met their eyes, on this emerging from the wood, was their house in flames, with a party of fiendish savages dancing and howling around it. The boys shrank back into the wood ; and crouching down together beneath a thick growth of underbrush, lay sobbing and shuddering in their grief and terror. At length Angus gave a start and whis pored joyfully. "Oh, I've seen mither, and wee Effie, and Jenny an they're a safe hid awa' in the bushes, like us." "But do you see father, Archie, and auld David?" "asked Douglas, believing at last, in the second-sight of his young brother. "Xo, no;" replied Angus, mournfully, "I canna see then ony mair. They maun be a' dead, Douglas." "I'll no believe that," said the elder brother, proudly, "Father, and Davy both naatneir guns wi tnem. uavyis no a tal fighter, and ye ken a braver soldier could . . f . . . . . - . no te lound in a' the world than father." They lay thus, talking in fearful whis pers, and weeping silentlj', until the shouts of the savages died away, and silence fell with the twilight over the little valley. Then, slowly and cautiously they crept from their hiding-place, and stole thro' the harvest-fields to the spot where they had left their father and little brother and Davy. And they were all there dead. They appeared to have fallen together faithful old Davie lay across his master's knees, which he seemed embracing in death. Little Archie had evidently lingered longest alive ; his flesh was yet soft and slightly warm and he had crept to his father's arms, and I lay partly across his breast. All, even to the sinless baby, had been tomahawked. Yet bathed in blood as they were, the poor boys could not believe them dead, but clasped their stiffened hands" and kissed their lips, felt for their heart-beats, and called them by their names in every accent of love and sorrow. At last, find ing all their frenzied -.Torts vain, they aban doned themselves utterly to grief. lhe moon rose upon them, thus weep ing wildly over their murdered father and brother stained with their blood .and shud dering with their death-chill. Never did the moon look on a more desolate group. Captain Lindsay's brow seemed more aw fully stern in- its light, and his unclosed eyes shone with an icy gleam. Archie's still tearful face showed most piteously sad; while the agonized faces of the two young mourners, now bent over their dead, now lifted despairingly toward heaven, seemed to have grown strangely old in that time of terror, and horror, and bitter grieving. Thus, the hours wore on ; and, at last, from bitter exhaustion, they slept the living and the dead. They were awakened by the warm sun light, and the birds who sang ; how strange it seemed ! as gaily .as ever, in the neigh boring wood. The bovs raised their heads 1 1 i 1 i a ä ai i r "'- w, viii ii .mo uz oiiici au late. i,k i i i i. i V ;m.l llien on the .Ie;nl. in the hl-mL- cn.is.il. " t " " " ""' I I 'V V. V I i P less anguish of renewed grief. Douglas was the first to speak, "Come brother," he said, in a calm tone, "we maun be men noo, let us gaug back to the fort; may be we shall lind mither there, wi' Jenny and the bair nie. 'gin you're sure ye saw them a in your vision. "But we canna' leave these here to their lane said Angus. "We maun leave them here, we are no big enough to hurry them, but we'll cover them over wi' leaves, and the branches of the pjnes, and when we get to the fort, we'll ask the soldiers to come and make graves for them. Come wi me. Angus dear." Angus took Douglas' hand and rose ; but soon staggard and fell, murmuring, "Oh, brother, I'm sair faint and ill. "i think I am dying. Stay wi' me a little while, and then ye may cover us a' up to gether and gang awa." "Dinna say sic sorrowfu' things, Anus: yer no dying, puir laddie ; yer but fainting wi' hunger, and I the same," said Doug las, in a tone of hopeless despondency. Just at the moment his eye fell on a small hand-basket, in which the laborers were accustomed to take their luncheon to the harvest-field. It was now lying' where the dead had left it, against a pile of wheat sheaves, and was found to contain some fragments of bread and meat, of which the' parUw k. Somewhat refreshed, the boys set out about their melancholy duty. They did not attempt to move the bod ies from the posi tions in which they had found them; they left little Archie on his father's breast, and faithful old D avie with his face hid against his master's knees. Douglas took outhis pocket-knife to sever a lock of hair from his father's and his little brother's heads for mementoes. "Oh ! dinna tak' that lock, Douglas," said Angus, with a shudder : "did ye na seethe blood on it?" Alas ! it was difficult to find a lock on the head of either father or child not darkened and stiffened with gore. When they had taken tho last look, tho last kiss, and had completed their mound of boughs and leaves, the two children kndt EIT15, 1855. beside it and prayed. Surely the God of the fatherless was near them. Better in His sight, their pious care of the dead, than tne pompous funeral obsequies ; sweeter to Him the simple prayer they sobbed into his ear, than the grandest requiem. It was nearly noon when the boys left the little valley, and took their way toward the fort. They had first visited the ruins of their house, and searched around them and the garden diligently, but vainly, for any trace of their mother, and nurse, and sister. From a tree in the little orchard they filled their baskets with apples, and set forth. They had advanced but a mile or two on the dark, winding forest path, when they heard before them the sound of footsteps and voices. In their sudden terror, think ing only of savages, they fled into the thick est recesses of the woods. When their alarm had passfcd and they sought to regain the path, they found to their grief and dis may that they had lost it. Still they kept on apparently at random but angel-guided, it seemed in the direction of the fort. Yet night come upon them in the dense, gloomy wood, and, at last, very weary and sorrowful, they sank down ; murmured their broken prayers, and clasped in each other's arms fell into a chill and troubled sleep. Douglas was awakened in the early morn ing, by a touch on his shoulder. He sprang to his feet, and confronted Brant ! Behind the chief stood a small band of savage at tendants, eagerly eyeing the young "pale faces," as though their fingers itched to be among their curls. "Who are you?" asked the warrior sternly. "I am Douglas Lindsay ; and this is my brother, Angus Lindsay." "Is Captain Lindsay your father?" "He was our father," replied Douglas with a passionate burst of tears; "but ye ken weel enough we hae no father noo, sin' ye've murdered him. Ay, and puir auld Davie, and the wee bairn Archie, ye divils ?" "No, boy," replied Brant, in a not un gentle tone, "We did not murder your fath er. I am sorry to hear he has been killed. He was a brave man, and never took part with the rebels. I promised him my pro tection. It must have been some of Cap tain Butler's men ; they are about now. I would have risked my life to have saved his. I will protect his children. Where were you going?" "To the fort," put in little Angus eager ly. "May be we shall find mithir, and Kliie, and Jennie a' there. Oh! Mister Thayen denaga, tik' us to the fort, if it's no' too far, for we hae lost our way." Brant who was an educated man, and had little of the Indian in his appearance j from Oold and storm One cold, stormy day or speech smiled U hear himself address- ,i . e ,ntn 0 t u , , r i T i ,m the winter of 184C-0, I sat by a warm ed by his pompous Indian name (a stroke . . of policy on the lad's part) he replied: fire feeling rather uncomfortable as I thought "That is easy to do. Cherry Valley is just ! of a bam that needed a little repairing, that over the hill; only a little way off. Let i I intended some time ago should have been , J 9 1 us go. . , ,. done on the first fine day; but it had not baying this, and briefly commanding Ins . . . . . l i ., warrior s to remain where they were, until J . . ' he should return an order received in sul len silence by the savages, who glared fero ciously on their lost prey the chief strode forward through the forest, followed by the two boys. When they reached the brow of the hill overlooking the settlement, he paused and said, "I had better not go any further. I will wait here till I see you safe. Good buy ! Tell your brothe, that Brant did not kill her brave husband. Say he's sorry about it go." The children sought to express their thanks, but he waved them away, and stood with folded arms under the shade of a gi gantic oak, watching them as they desended flic hill. ' Mrs. Lindsay's story is soon told. On the day of the massacre she heard the firing in the harvest-field, and from the windows of the houe witnessed the brief struirirle, of her husband and Davie with their fixs. The fearful sight at first benumbed every facul ty but one cry from her baby roused her from her stupor of grief and terror. She snatched the infant from the cradle, and rushed with it into the woods followed bv Jenny, the maid. The two women conceal ed themselves so effectually in the thick un derbrush that they remained undiscovered, though the shouts of the savages came to their ears with horrible distinctness, and even the blaze of their burning home red dened the sunlight that struggled through the thick foliage above them. When at length the party left the little valley, it passed wi.hin a few yards of the fugitives. Oh ! how fervently the mother thanked God that her baby slept tranquilly on her bosom, and by no cry betrayed their hiding place! They did not venture to leave their leafy sanctuary until evening. They were on the side of the clearing opposite the hearvest-fields, and near the road lead ing to Cherry Valley. This they found, and set out at once for the settlement, which they reached in safety about midnight, and were kindly received at one of the fortified houses. The next day a party of brave men, moved by the passionate entreaties of the two women, set out on what was thought a hopel?ss search for CapUiin Lindsay, his sons and servant. They reached the har- vest-field in safety, found there the bodies as they had Ijven left, hastily buried them, and, after vainly seeking for the missing boys, returned to Cherry Valley, taking a dread certainty and a faint hope to the af flicted wife and mother. Prostrated by her fearful beieavment, yet not wholly despairing, worn w ith cruel anxieties and fatigues, Mrs. Lindsay at last slept, watched over by her faithful nurse. She awoke in the early morning, raised her self eagerly from her pillow, looked around and then sank back in tears. "Oh, Jenny," said she, "I hae had sic a blessed dream ! I dreamed I saw my twa boys only twa, noo, Jenny my brave Douglas and the bonnie Angus coming over the hill wi' the sunrise. But they'll no' come any mair they are a' taken fra me a but this Ave bit barnie," she mur mured, pressiyg her babe to her bosom, and sprinkling its brow with the bitter baptism of h r fears. For some minute h' lav thus, weeping with all that fresh realization of sorrow and desolation which comes with the first awakening fromdeep after a "great bereavement. Then she arose and tottered away from the bed, saying "Lif- the widow Jenny, I maun look on the hill of my dream." Jenny obeyed, and supported her mis tress, as she looked out on the lovely land scape, kindling in the light of an August morning. "Ah, Jenny, she said, "it is a' I dreamed the yellow corn on the hill side, and the dark pines above the soft blue of the sky the clouds a' rosy and golden, and the glory of the sunlight spread a' abroad like the smiles o' the Lord on this wicked and waeful world. And look! look ! Oh, mercifu' God there are the bairns." This history, fortunately, has nothing to do with the terrible massacres and burnings, which a few months later, desolated Cherry Valley and the neighboring settlements. Mrs. Lindsay and her children were then safe in the city of New York. Immediatly on the close of the war they returned to their friends in Scotland. Among the Highlands, Angus Lindsay lost his delicacy of health, with it, gradually his mysterious faculty ; yet he was ever sin gularly sensitive, thoughtful and magina tive ; and when he grew into manhood, though not recognized as a seer or a prophet he was accorded a title which comprehend ed the greatest attributes of both Poet. Mrs. Lindsay returned to the family es state with her children ; but the widow of her husband's friend was not deprived of her sad sanctuary, to which she had finally a dearer, if not a more sacred right, as the home of her daughter, the wife of Douglas Lindsay. Preparation for Winter. Messrs. Editors: Having received so much benefit myself, by being reminded in the Genesee Farmer, occasionally, of the importance of preparing for winter, I may be pardoned for endeavoring to do to others the same kindness I have so freely received. I always intended, as of course others do, to be fully prepared for every emergency, as much as possible ; but, somehow or oth er, always happened to be a little behind, and had to work in very unpleasant weather, which with a little forethought might have been done easier and better before. Then, ofien on account of the unpleasantness of out-door work, many things remained en tirely undone, and much loss was the con- ! sequence, and perhaps suffering to animals I been done, and the snow was covering my J 1 i ... i .1 i i t. .i 1:1 nay mow, auu wie uarn looweu line a Kin.tn pala? inside the stible that Avas not quite as I knew it ought to be, and might very well have been. As I observed, I felt rath er uncomfortable at these thoughts, and took up the Genesee Farmer to read a little and forgot my bad feelings, when the first thing that attracted my attention was an article headed "Prepare for Winter." I laid down the paper and really felt cross at be ing reproved in that way, and said some thing about it being very easy to write, but those that wrote such fine things didn't do any letter than those of whom they were finding fault, with many more things of this character that lam not now foolish enough to repeat. But, afier a time my good sense began to show me the truth of the matter, and in a little while I thought it was about right. In about an hour I had resolved to go to work at the stible at once, in spite of the wind and the snow. bY I put on my thick coat and mittens, called the boys to my assistance, (who wondered what new streak had taken me,) got hammer and nails and boards, and fixed up the stible in pretty good order in about two or three hours. Next day went at the barn, repair ed it in every place where repairs were need ed, or where an improvement could be made, shoveled out the snow, and then sat down to enjoy my reading, feeling, I can assure you, more like a man than Iliad felt before in many a day, comfortable in body and mind. I have endeavored since to keep a little ahead of the times and seasons, and find great benefit from the practice. Now, broth er farmers, if you profit by my example, it will add to you honor and happiness. (hnescc Farmer. Stkppkd Out. Lijjht thoughts of death seem epidemic in the south. Jokes are heard in the funeral cortege, as in - the holi day processions as bells sound alike for deaths or marriages. A yearly visitor in New York p;ave a case in point just now. Messrs. L. k L. wore both subscribers to a periodical be collected for, and some two years since ho called at their well known and familiar oflice : "Is Mr. L. within ?" No, sir; he has stepped out." Indeed ; hut his partner will do as well." "Hut he has stepped out, too, sir." "Then, with your permission, I'll wait for one or the other." "If you stop for either, you must stay till doomsday, for both have been buried these six weeks." Tho old acquaintance left in silence, and at night recorded tho sad fact so coldly told with like moisture in his eve with vhieh he n.'irnded it juM now. NO. 1. The Slavery Qnestion Onr Platform. It seems to us that to every intelligent gentle man, who has been at all accustomed to watching the working of our political system, it must oe quite clear what ground the Democratic party, and in deed the whole country, must henceforth occupy in regard to the question of Slavery in the Territo rier. Men may differ, as they do in fact di Ter as Democrats at the time differed concerning the propriety of the repeal of the Missouri Compro mise, but that has become a qu?stion of the past The repeal has been consummated. That issue has ceased to have any vitality, except what grows out of a desire in some quarters, to punish some body for their action concerning it The question now is, not as to pat, but future action. What policy shall hereafter prevail in relation to the sub ject of Slavery, in the organization and govern ment of new Territories? Shall Congress under take to legislate for the Territories and determine whether the relation of master and slave shall therein be tolerated? Orthall the people of the Territories be left free to settle this matter for themselves? These are the two alternatives pre sented for our selection and decision. Can any well imformed politician or statesman entertain the least doubt concerning the conclusion to which the .American people will arrive? Think what we may of the past, agitate as demagogues may to gain a partizan adantage for the present, does any one fail clearly to perceive the line of policy which the country will adopt for the future? We pre sume not We should impugn the intelligence of the reader to suppose otherwise. The great principle of non-interttntion w ill pre vail. It has already been established and is in ac tive operation. It is in entire harmony w ith our political system, which clusters around the central government only such powers as are neceary to maintain a common nationality, and leaves to local legislation the formation or modification of domes tic institutions, and fhe general control of the in terests and action of society and individuals, so far as they are the subjects of govermental regulation. Slavery must follow the general rule, and the peo ple of the Territories, as do the people of the States, must determine in view of their own inter ests and responsibilities, whether it shall exist a mong them. Upon this broad principle the Demo cratic party of the Union can stand. It furnishes a platform upon which Democrats of the North and Democrats of the South can meet in harmony and unite in support of the great doctrines of re publican government and in advocacy of measures of national concern, leaving each free to act w ith the people of his Territory or State, according to his views of its domestic government, in disposing of the question 'f slavery and all other local ques tions arising therein. The idea of a restoration of the Missouri Com promise is entirely speculative and visionary. There is not the slightest probability of its accomplish ment, and those politicians who attempt to main tain such an issue, if they are sincere, if indeed they arc more than mere demagogues seeking par tizan or personal advantage at the expense of dan gerous excitement, exhibit little discernment and forecast as to the probable current of popular opinion, and little know ledge of the philosophy and true theory of our institution.-. The idea, also, of refusing to admit new slave States, in case where, after full and fair opportuni ty for deliberation and action, unaw ed by exter nal dictation or control, the people of a Territory have unmistakably decided to tolerate tdavery, Is utterly untenable, and there is net the fclightest probability that it will ever be carried into section. The people about to become a State have the same right to shape this, as all other features of their constitution, and if Congress can rightfully control this, it can all others. For ourselves we stand, and we hardly trench upon the ground of prophesy in predicting the clearly foreshadowed result, that the Democratic party, and the country will stand upon the broadest principle of submission of this whole subject to the action of the people of the States and Territories. Thus slavery becomes a local instead of a national matter. Tims Congress ceases to be the tribunal for its discussion; thr national government is divorced from it, and the country is relieved from a dangerous and other wise constantly recurring agitation. There are two extremes which meet in repudiat ing this wholesome doctrine of popular sovereignty. The one believes it is the duty of the national government to carry slaver)- into the Territories and protect it there. The -ther holds to the creed that the same power should prohibit its cntraiK" and zealously exclude it. The very fact that these theories are conflicting and necessarily bring thr sections of the Union into hostility to each other ought to raise the prcsumtion of their unsound ness, and that some other principle more m accor dance w ith our political pystcm is applicable to the question. The great preponderance of conservative opinion among men both at the south at.J the north, w ill be to the harmonizing and democratic doctrine of investing the people of the States and Territo ries with the attribute of gc'f government in rof pect to this, as well as all other domestic matter1. Such arc the views which we entertain upon thi subject, and which this journal, under its jTesent and former conductors has uniformly istaincd. We believe they are approved by the great mass of the democrats of the State, with steadily in- creasing unanimity and emphasis of opinion, and upon them the Democrats of New York will be content to stand side by wde with their brethren of the w hole Union. Albany Argut. . Anti-Scuatciuno Machine. The Yan kee who invented the "Patent Hen Persua der," has found bis match in another who has brought out 9.T1 invention called the tlJoto)t Xcver J"rilhij Garcin Preserver or Ihn Walker" It consists of a small in strument, something lika a spur, only con siderable longer, which is attached to the part of the hen's leg, pointing at an angle of 15 decrees towards the ground. When the hen, with this instrument on her legs, en ters the garden in the spring after the seeds, she puts her toot forward to scratch, the "walkers" catche in the ground and forced her forward; and thus she is walked, in her efforts to scratch, entirety out of the garden. The Oswego Palladium says an agency has been ojk ntvl ... Oswego for thesale of these machines. It must 'x' about Oswego, even for tors. o V, . ' . itiTHe who often changes h soup in a basket. iT Immoderate pleasures sh existence more thananv remedies csr !ng it. 9 V i 'X