, ' - ..'.::--'' ' V A - - . ;' " j . ' : 1 '" . : : - : " ':vf,..v;;v-'v..--r-'-.,;-:; .- : f . - " :' -.:-.'., ' . " ; ' :' ':'?. '':.""'", -' - .- .: '' . ":; : - V''"5:!"'? :S "- ' ! .1 ' ' ' " .. . :" ' ' ':'.;, '-- f.-.- C - .- - '-.-. '.-''''-.-.'.'. r " ' - - iv i-"".. ' ! "--;,..'' . i ..-'.. ' ': . ' -.- ' . .. . . -.- - . i 5;,-; ; - i- . - . '1 " CALVIN H. WILEY, .rrr r ri M T). COOKE. A FAMILY sT E W S P A P E R 0 E U T R A L IX POLITICS. EDITORS. TERMS :j TWO DOLLARS (PER ANNUM. WADDELLi jfR efcotetr to all tijc interests of ftorti) Carolina, (Simcatiou, &flricultut, Cttcrature, MM, tije ifctatfscts, &c. . ' Mi ; 't ' Jr. l : ; ' VOL II NO. 52. R A LEIGH, NORTH CAROLINA,; SATURDAY, NOV. 26, 1853. WHOLE NO 104 x SELECT POETRY . TO THE WINDS- Talk to my heart, 0 winds Talk to my heart to-night ; My spirit always finds - With you a new delight Finds always new delight, ... : jCome up from your cold bcd'; In the stilly twilight sea, - c Tor the dearest hope Hes dead That was ever dear to me ; Come up" from your cold bed, And we'll talk about the dead. - 4 Tell me, for oft you go, ; Winds, lovely winds of night, About the chambers low, . , With sheets so dainty white, If they sleep through all the night, Jn the beds to chill and white ? ' Talk to me. winds, and say, If in the grave be rest; For, O, life's little day Is a weary one at best; Talk to my heart and say . If death will give me rest. SELECTED STORY. THE EVE OF A JOURNEY; OR, MOTIIEIt AND DAUGHTER. A respectablv dressed middle-aged woman sat in the window-seal in the fine old-hall of Chedbury Castle, situated' in one of the mklland counties of England. There was nothing remarkable in" her appearance, except a look of settled yet patient anxiety, which deepened, as the short October's day drew near to its-close, and broad slanting sun set gleams and shadows stole across the quiet Tittle shrubbery and grass plot, upon which she looked out fixedly. The servants", after having- made her the (..ffer .of,, refreshment: which' she declfned came arid went upon their various errands, without any apparent 'consciousness of her presence. And this was an occasion upon which a personage' of higher note might very easily have been oycrfook ed one of , those times of general bustle, prepara tion, and delightful confusion,. -when every body seems to be busv helping somebody else, and. the bniids of discipline undergo a not uripleasing relaxa 'tioii. ' The family were going abroad. . - Two or three men servants, under the direction of an elderly -duenna with respectability imprints ed on. every wrinkle of her countenance and riist ling out of every fold of her black silk dress wlere busily cording trunks and portmanteaus. he stood!, over them, proud,, pleasant and impoitant, for she was one of the travelling ;partv my young lady's own woman', who had waited upon her from childhood. She looked upon ..her own trunk com-, placently, for it carried her fortune ; and, had she ever heard of L';esar, she could have made a very apt quotation. .'As 'it was, she unbent in a little stately .chat with a man who Wore, like herself, the aspect of an old, privileged retainer. ".Well. Mrs. Jenkyn," he remarked, i- I cannot but say that I wish you were well across the seas and back again, to tell us all that you have met with out among' the Mounseers for I reckon you ivill come back to Chedbury, and so perhaps will my lord, and so will Mrs. Moreton ; but, as to our young lady, we shall have seen the last of her when she leaves the park gates behind her to-morrow. There are not so. many like bet, from all-I've heard of foreign parts so good and so pretty with so many acres at her back, that they'll let her away from amoug them so easily. Take my word for it, some prince of the blood, or duke at the very least for where you're going1 they're as thick as blackberries at. Martinmas will take and marry her, whether she likes it or not. Besides," he add ed, striking his voice into a confidential wh sper, " old stories '11 be left on this side of the salt water. They won't cross it after her." The stranger hi the window-seat started, with a . quick, uneasy movement. ' - "That side,-or the other side," returned Mrs. -Jenkyn' " it's not for, them that eat the family bread to be raking up what's past and gone out of people's minds! And before strangers too," she added, with a side glance in the direction of the window-seat. . . " " " You're always so touchy, Mrs. Jenkyn," re turned the old mat speaking, however, in a sub missive tone "just as if nobody cared about the family but yourself. ' And what's the use of mind ing the woman who's. sat there four mortal hours, and never stirred or spoken ? She's .either deaf or stupid." . "I'm not . so sure; of that," replied the discreet Mrs. Jenkyn ; and, at this moment, the woman, as V if to jutuy the old lady's observation, ronstjd her self from her deep pre occupation,' and said abrupt lv" Will any one take a second message from me to Mrs. Moreton ? I have come many'miles to speak with her. . It is now getting late, and I want to be' on my way home." Irs. Jenkyn answered her very civillv " I will go and Carry your message. It is very seldom that Mrs. Moreton keeps any one waiting ; bat I sup- pose," she aJded, smiling, " nothing goes quite i straight at a time like this." At this moment the bell rang. It was ,Mrs. Moreton's bell v she wished to see the person who had been waiting so long:. . "Here William," said Mrs. Jenkyn, "show this good woman into the stone parlor. Mrs. Moreton will speak to her there ; and, ma'am," she added, good-naturedly, "you can taks a look at the pict ures on the grand stair-case as you pass at tlie'foot of it. . The gossippirig old man, as they went along, had many things to point out to his silent, steadfast-looking companion. lie left her, however, at the turning pf ope of the long passages to run back th'ity strayed ai& forbidden ' prec4act&."-Between rlliia spot -ttndth stone" parlor there were several intricate windings, and he expected to 6nd the wo man standing exactly were tie left her. Without his guidance, however, she had preceded him to the door of the stone parlor,, and waited. for him, with a look of abstraction as fixed as if her feet had brought her to the threshold of their own accord. " So, inistress," exclaimed the old man, "you are not quite so much, a stranger in this place as I thought." He bent on her a look of keen scrutiny. She was too little conscious to be embarrassed by itand replied quietly " 1 have been here before." While this little scene was being acted below stairs, Mrs. Moreton half governess, half friend to the heiress was seated with her young pupil in the great drawing-room. They, too, had been busy. The splendid apartment showed marks of disar rangement. .The elder lady was immersed in ac counts : the younger one had placed a little table within the embrasure of the deep -old fashioned window, so as to give her drawing' upon which she was;very intent rthe full benefit of the already declining, daylight. She was about fifteen ; fair, and ingenuousilooking ; of slender figure, with mild, almost melancholy brown eyes. " I think I shall have time to finish this," she said, musingly: "it will please papa when- he comes home this evening, will it not, dear Mrs. Moreton?" " My lord will think that you have made great progress," replied the lady, without lilting her eyes from a very long line of figures. " I do think it is like old,Chedbury- like enough, at any. rate, to remind us of the place, when we are away. Although,' after all, there is not much here that I shall miss. You and papa, and good old Jenkyn, are all going with me; and who else is there in the world whom I ca're about? . Yes," she went on. thinking aloud, "if! bail some one to leave behind some young companions .who would miss me and talk about me when I am far away: I think I should be happier. I sometimes think it very strange" she looked up at Mrs. Moreton " t:iat my father has never allowed me to make any friends of my own age. lut, o' course," she added, after a pnufse, "hecennotbe expected to enter into all that a girl feels. lLw different everything would have been if mv mother had lived !'' i Without making her pupil any answer, Mrs. Moreton started up with a sudden exclamation, and ran to the bell. '' Is it possible," she s;ud, seif reproachfuli', " that all this time I have forgotten the poor woman who asked to speak to me four hours ago ?" Mrs. Moreton entered the stone pallor with. some kind words of apology,; and seated herself in her accustomed chair, prepared to lend her'attention to the visitor. 15ut the woman is she the same who sat out those four hours so patiently in the window-seat who followed the old servant through the long passages with such a face of blank, un questioning apathy ? Her. look of settled preoc cupation had dropyed from her face like a mask ; yet her real features, now revealed, wore as carcely less fixed expression. Every line quivered with agitation ; yet h'er eyes, through it all, were never removed from Mrs. Moreton's face. She held to. the table for support. She trembled in every limb not from timidity, but from anxiety, eagerness. Her soul was gathered up into her face. Mrs. Moreton did not particularly observe her. Her thoughts were still at work with the business of to-day and tormorrow. "Well, my good wo man," she said, mechanically, by way of opening the case, as she opened all cases that came before her in that-stone parlor, as the. delegated Lady Bountiful of Chedbury" what can I do for you ?" There was no rejoinder. " My time, to-day," she went on, in the same gentle, yet. rather magisterial tone, " happens to be rather valuable." " I am sorry," replied the stranger, " to have to trespass upon it." Mrs. Moreton, struck by a something peculiar in the woman's tone, looked up ; for the first time became con?cious of those eyes earnest, imploring, and with an unspoken history that were fastened upon her own, and said, with mnch loss of state and more of gentle" ness.than she hadyet shown "You seem to be in some trouble. Can I do anything to help you ?'' " You can you, and no oue else in this world can." 1 " I ? surely we have never met before," replied Mrs. Moreton, feeling by the woman's manner that hers was no case of every-day appeal for charity, " Pray tell me your name. The woman was silent, and her lips seemed to be .slightly convulsed. At length, with a violent effort to conceal a strong emotion, she answered " It is one that you have heard it is,, or was, for I now bear it no longer, Elizabeth Garton." Mrs. Moreton's face had been lighted up with' a kindly interest; but a shade, like the sudden fall ing of a curtain, now dropped across it, and shut out the sympathy she had begun to manifest. She rose, and said coldly -"In that case' I am not aware of any matter in which I am likely to be able to serve you. , I must refer you to Mr. And rews, my lord's agent, he being the person with whom it will probably be most' fitting for you to commuuicate." She than moved towards the door, but her effort to leave the room was vain.. The visitor, like the old mariner in the weird tory, held her with her eye. Before she could reach the door kl'iS. ;t.ubii -ganger; and'.jyrniwnand " Listen to me, madam," exclaimed the visitor, " and then you will not mistake my errand. It is not Lord Chedbury ; not his agent ; not anything either of them could give me, if it were this great house itself, that I want. It is you you only, that can help me, and you will help me you must.'" She spoke these words almost authoritatively ; yet, checking herself, went oh in a tone of deep and touching submission " You are a good lady, Mrs. MorVton ; vou have everv one's ;ood word. You will not make yourself hard against the supplication 'of a broken heart : God himself has promised to listen to it." Mrs. Moreton trembled. She was indeed a wo man of this world, but with much tenderness and 'large sympathies. "I do not feel harshly towards you forgive me if T appeared harsh ; but your coming here took me by surprise. Lord Chedbury 's orders are exceedingly strict respecting .you ; and I j understood that vou were settled comfortably in yjm- own station in life, far .above any kind of want." " I am settled comfortably," returned the wo man : "above want above my hopes. I have a j kind husband, a home, and children. Every one is good to me. No one casts up my fault to me. No one, I think, remembers it now, except myself, when, upon my knees, I ask God to forgive me that, and all my other sins. That I had ever known Chedbury, or seen Lord Robert he was Lord Robert then would have sunk into the past long before this, like a dream except for one thing O! Mrs. Moreton, my daughter ! Her, too, I ha 1 put from me, as much as a mother can forget her child ; but since. I heard you were all going beyond seas perhaps, forever I know not what it is that has come over me ; something that will not let me ret, j lay nor night it is a fire hi my heart. Have pity upon mo. I do not ask to speak to her not to say nor t hear one word. She need not know that it is her mother need not know that there is such a person in the whole world. All I ask is to see her only to see her my daughter ; only to see my daughter." Mrs. Moreton was deeply agitated. " It is im possible, and i' is cruel in you," she said, "to ask it cruel to yourself cruel to me, trusted as lam by Lord Chedbury cruel, most of all, to her. You know under what strict conditions his lordship brought home his daughter, so soon as the death of the old lord, his father, made this house his own. You know, too, that these conditions, hard .as they might seem, were dictated by no personal unkind ness to.wanis vourself; but grew out of vour daughter's altered position, and a sense of what is due to the station she will one day occupy. She has been trained carefully in all the ideas that befit a young gentlewoman of rank. She has as yet seen little of the world, and knows nothing of its evil. She left you at three years old, not more innocent than she still is, now." Mrs. Moreton paused a moment, and went on with, emotion "That open ing life that young unsnl'ied mind, what should I what would you have to answer for if we darkened it, by a shadow of bygone misery and evil.in which she had no share? She has been taught to believe her mother dead. My poor woman," she went on solemnly, " you must be dead to her. Atlay will come, not in this world, when you may claim her as your own." " I must see my child now, that I may know her in heaven," exclaimed the woman wildly. " I must see her, that she may comfort me in my thoughts, and be near me in my dreams. Do you," she exclaimed, suddenly, ' who talk to me so wisely, know what 1, the mother of a first-born-child, am talking about ? Did you ever feel a child's arms clinging round your neck, and find the little being growing to you day by day as nothing else can grow ; loving you whether you are tne best wo man in the world or the worst as nothing else will ever love you ; not even itself when it grows older, and other things come between its little heart and yours V Mrs. Moreton returned to her chair, sank into it, and wept., The stranger saw her advantage. She dung herself on her knees before Mrs. Moreton.' She kissed the hand in which she believed the balance of her fate to be trembling. She kissed ! her very gown, and covered it with tears. Mrs. Moreton, withdrawn within in seveie collo quy with herself, was scarcely conscious of these passionate demonstrations. It was her heart she communed with ; bearing on it, although a little i dimmed by constant attrition with the world, a j higher image than that with which & somewhat , rigid thraldom LO convention had impressed upon iier outwarj aspect. There was" a pause of a few moments. "Even if I am doing right in this" so she reas ! oned with herself" the world will blame me. i Yet, if Iam doing wrong, God will forgive me." j She rose from her chair. " Get up." she said. my poor woman. You shall see your daughter. But you must first make me one polemn promise. I am trusting you very deeply ; can you. trust yourself I" The woman made a gesture of passionate assevera- ' tion, for at that moment she could not speak. - ,"',?r' tnen" sa5( r3 Moreton, " swear that yon. M ; be true to yourself aad to me ; that you will pass, through the room in which she is sitting, without either word or look that can betray you." , - SlrHng the bell. " Send Mrs. Jenkyn to me." f'kyn," she said, when the confidential ser- Tanf'fpJpeared, "this good woman's business with rne pvet '-but, as she comes from a distance, 1 iqiltfvCie hmM&mthmgM the, house, be- fore she leaves. You can show her over the nrin- T t cipal rooms as much 83 there is time for before dark." " And the great drawing-room, ma'am ?" insinuat ed Mrs. Jenkyn. " Certainly ; it will not disturb your young lady in the least." It was rather an extensive orbit that the two had to traverse ; and the old housekeeper, who had revolved in it so many -ears, moved so slowly at least, so it seemed to her companion from point to point, from picture to picture, that, by the time they reached the great drawing-room, the sun light had almost faded from it. Almost; for there was still a stron, slanlino golden beam, that played and flickered about the picture frames, and glanced to and fro upon the white and gold of the heavy, carved arm chairs a few moments, and it would be gone. The -nrl who, sitting in the window, rejoiced in the after thought of the sun, which gave her a' little more time to finish her drawing did not know how lovely it made her ; kissing her innocent youni forehead, and resting, like a benediction, upon her smooth, shining hair. She went on quietly with her sketch : Mrs. Moreton (who had retai ned to see that faith was kept) persevered with her ac counts. Mrs. Jenkyn and the woman walked round th room very slowly. When they reached the door that led into an inner apartment, Mrs. Jenkyn, with her hand upon the lock, said "And this ht the favorite sitting-room of my lady, my loid's moilierT" She held the door .open, but her companion still lingered. . Mrs. Moreton looked up from her accounts, and said impressively " I think you .have now seen all in this room, and Mrs. Jenkyn has more to show Voir In the -others." "But why," said the young 1 uly, speaking for the first .tim, but without looking up from her occupati n, "should the good woman be hurried away.," she said, with usoit f careless sweetness still without looking up, "as long as you can find anything to amuse you. You do not disturb us in the least." Almost while she spoke, she suddenly rose and flitted about the room from table to table, in search of something needed f.r her drawing. She soon found it ; but once, before, she returned to ber seat, she passed close to the woman so close that her siikdiess rustled against the homely duffle cloak. Mother and daughter really so near convention ally so distant with a world between them 1 Mrs. Jenkyn's fingers were again upon the door handle, and the concluding part of her often-told narrative was upon her lips. They had 'still the state bedroom to see, and they passed into thel boudoir. " And this," she went on, was my lady's favorite apartment. It used in her day to be ca 1- ed the the blue draw in r-room, because But you are tired," she said, remarking that her com panion's attention wandered. " es -no," said the visitor, incoherently; "I must go. back I have forgotten something in the next room." She did go back. She turned the handle of the great folding door ; but before she could push it open, she was met by a heavy resistance from with in. In the half-opened. space stood Mrs. Moreton, confronting I. er with a stern admonitory whisper " Woman ! are you mad or wicked ?" The mother stood arrested guilty. She turn ed to follow the housekeeper : but there was an anguish at her heart that could not be controlled. "Hark!" exlaimed the young lady, her pencil falling from her fingers, and she turning pale as death "What is that?" Mrs. Moreton shuddered. A cry, piercing and inarticulate, like that of a dumb creature in agony, burst from the inner room. They rushed together into the boudoir. " It was the poor woman, ladies,1' said the housekeep er, anxiously. "I fear she- is very ill ; it lias come upon her quite of a sudden." She was standing up in the middle of the room, rigid as if her feet had growu into the iulaid boards. Her eyes were glassy, and her mouth was a little drawn to one side. " Run, Jenkyn," exclaimed the young lady, "for wine, or whatever is most necessary. We will attend to her." She took the poor woman by the arm ; she drew j see jtt J washed away the blood, and was astonish her into a chair; she bent over her; she, rubbed ed and very glad to see there were two vessels, as her cold hands in:her own. When the wine was brought, she raised the glass to the patient's lips, and, while she did so. the sufferer's breath came and went thickly, with a hard stifling effort. She I felt that kind young hartjbeating against her own. W ho can tell who but the Giver of all consola tion what balm there was in that one moment; what deep unspoken communion ; what ' healing for a life-long wound ? But the mother kept silence, even from good words. Only, while the young lady was so tenderly busying herself about her, she took hold, as it were unconsciously, of one fold of her dress she stroked it with her' hand he smoothed it down, as if pleased with its soft- ness ; xd so long as she dared to hold it, she did not let it go. It was almost dark. The young lady stood at the window of the great drawing room, looking after a solitary slowly-retreating figure, still dis tinctly visible, in spite of the grey dusk spreading like a veil over lawn and lake and garden ; through which the distant mausoleum loomed dunly above the woods. . ' " ..,. -'.Ka--x-miJI' " The poor woman !" she said, softly ;" she is not fit to travel home alone ; yet she would neither consent to stay all night, as Lavished, nor let old William drive her strange, was it not, Mrs. More ton?" But Mrs. Moreton had left the room. The young heiress still looked out upon the scenes she was so soon to leave, as her destiny had decreed, forever. She mused on she knew not what. Her heart was stirred an invisible touch had been up on it. She leaned l)er head pensively against the window, while many' thoughts, as vague as llie sha dows that were so thickly falling round her, chas ed each other rapidly through her fancy. Many visions gathere round her; but among them there was no presage of the coronet that afterwards spanned her bro w the coronet of the princely vet peasant-descended in.use of Stbrza. Still she watch ed the retreating figure, until it was lost in the deepening darkness; and when she d d turn from the window, she heaved a ieej a id pitying sigh. Her sadness suited the h mr of twilight, and it passed with it. Shu knew not, nor did she ever know, who had that day been so near to her.. MISCELLANEOUS. EXTRAORDINARY SURGICAL OPERATION BY THE MA'IE OF A VESSEL. The following narrative of a remarkable opera tion on the subclavian vein, bv the mate 'f a ves sel, given in the November number of the Scalpel, exhibits the value of self control under desperate circumstances, and is chantet-uzed by the editor as " one of the m st extraordinary circumstances in the whole hist,oiy of surgery :" " Edward T. Hinckley, of Wareham. Mass., then mate of the bark Andrews, eommandul Wy James L. Nye, of S indwieh, Mass., sailed some two years and a half since (we find the date omitted in our i minutes) from New lbdibrd, Mass., on a whaling i voyage. When off tne Gallipagos Islands, one of j the hands, who had shown a mutinous disposi tion, attacked Caj tain Xve with some violence, in consequence of a reproof given him for disobedi- ence. In the scuffle which ensued, a wound was j inflicted with a knife, commencing at the angle of j the jaw, and dividing the skin and superficial tis ! sues of the left, side of the neck, down to the mid : die' of the claviclf, under which the point of the ' knife went. It was done in broad day, in pres ence of the greater part of crew and Mr. Ilinck- k Vj the mate,' being so hear that he was at that i nx menl rushing to the captain's assistance. In-- stautly seizing the villian, and handing him "over j to the crew, the knife either fell or was drawn by j some one present, and a frightful gush of dark blowd welled up from the woun'd, as the captain fell,. upon the deck. Mr. Hinckley immediately thrust his fingers into the wound, and endeavored to catch the bleeding vessel. With the thumb against the clavicle, as a point of action, and gvip- j ping as he expressed it to me, ' all between,' he i found the bleeding nearly cease. The whole af- fair, was so sudden that Mr. Hinckley stated to me ! he was completely at a loss what step to take; ! Such had been the violence of the ha?m,orhage, a space on the dec,k fully as large as a barrel-head being covered with blood in a few seconds, that it was evident from that and the consequent faint ness, that the captain ' would instantly die, should he remove his tinkers from the bleeding vessel. As Mr. H. said to me, with the simplicity and straightforward style of a seaman 'I brought:to for a minute, to think oyer the matter. The bleeding coming upwards from under the collar bone, and being completely concealed by it, it was plain enough that I couldn't get at the blood vessel without sawing the bone in two; and this I would not like to have tried, even if 1 had dared to remove my fingers. Finding that my finders' ends were so deep as to be below the bone, and yet the bleeding haying stopped, I passed thein a little further downwards, still keep ing up the pressure against the bone with the middle joints. I then found my fingers passed under something running in the same course with the bone"; this I slowly endeavored to draw up out of the wound, so as to see if it was not the blood vessel. Finding it give a little, I slowly pulled it up with one finger. Wh n I iva& 'pulling it tip the captain groaned terribly, but I went on, because I knew I could do nothing else. As soon as I could I supposed them to be, one behind the other ; the cut was in the frontal one. It was the full breadth of the knife, or about half an inch, and neither ! across nor lengthways, but about between the two ! a d went about half its thickness through the blood-vessel. It was smooth and blue in appear ance, and the cut had stopped bleeding, as I sup posed at the time,, because the vessel was pressed together by U;ng Stretched across my . finger. As I had often sewed up cut in the flesh, andknew, nothing about lyimr blood-vessels, and supposed ! that was only don.? when they were cut in two. as in Mtnimtatcd liml I eor.e! mled to try mv hand at sewing it up; sol took five little stitches. They were very near together, for the wound was certainly not half an inch wide, if so much.' On inquiry of Mr. Hinck;Cy if he cut off the thread each time, and threaded the needle again, he said 'es but I only cut, off one end, and left the oth er hanging out.' This' he learned"from a little book, prepared for the use of sea captains and oth ers, when, ho surgeon wa9 on board. Mr. A. con-tinuedr-;! twisted tha end together looseljfc. Bp .as, 'iiii' initial fcyaiMij, Mrev'i-tijan;-vu v wio wound over the bone; then I closed aV"up w'ltS stitches and plasters. On the fourteenth day I found the strings loose in the wound, from which matter had freely come : it h aled up like any oth er cut.' " Poor Captain Xve finally, met a sad fate. He was drowned on the destruction of his boat by an enraged whale." AMERICAN SPIRIT A TRUE SKETCH- Previous to the last war with Englan 1, when British officers were in full tiile of their odious im pressments, an" American ship. belonging to Boston was at Demarara, discharging her cargo, when she was boarded by a boat from a gun brig lying at no great distance. The crew were mustered, and protections examined, and. one New Hampshire boy, a noble. and feat less spirit, and young in years, of a vigorous . Irani", was ordered into the boat. The officer collared the youthful seaman, but was instantly laid sprawling by a well direct' d blow of his fi-t. ' The boat' crew rushed to the spirited American who was tinal'V overpowered, pinioned, thrown into the boat, and conveyed on board, the British brig.. The Lieutenant complained to the commanding officer. ft'ic ins dt he had uc v d from the stal wart Yankee, and his battered face corroborated his statement. The commander at one.. decided that such iusoiein e demanded exemplary punish ment, and that the young Yankee -required on his iirt entrance into Cue service, a hsso'i which might be of use to him lieieafier. Accordingly the offender w as lashed to a. gun, by the inhuman satellites l' tyranny and his back bared to the lash.' Before a blow was struck he repeated his declaration that he was an American citien, and the sworn 'be to tyrants. He demand ed hi rck-i'se, and nrl t lie curtain in the tnust solemn and impressive maini T, that ii he pei-isted in punishing him like the vilest malefactor, for v in dicating his rights a an Ann rcari ci'i.eu, the act would never . be forgiven but that his revenge would be certain and terrilile. The captain laughed aiond at what he consider ed to be a menace, and gave the gn ii to the boaisvva'n's male. The white skin of the young American was soon lacerated ; blows fell thick and heavy on the quivering flesh. He bore t without a murmur or a groan ; and when the signal was given for the exi cutiotier to cea-e, although the skin was hanging in stripes on ids hack, which was covered with, clotted blood, he showed 'no disposi tion to faint or falter. IIis face was somewhat paler than it was wont to be, but his lip was com pressed, as if he were summoning determination to his aid, and his daik eyes shot forth brilliant gleams, showing his spirit to be unsubdued and that he was bent on revenge,-even if his lit? should be tilt, forfeit. His hands were loosened, atid.be rose from his j humiliating posture. He glared fiercely around. The captain was standing wit h a demoniac grin upon his features, as if he enjoyed to the bottom of his soul the dis.race and torture i tli n d upon the poor Yankee. The hapless sufferer saw a smile of exultation, and that moment decided the fate of his oppressor. With the activity, the ferocity, and streno-th of ti e tiger, the mutilated American sprung upon the tyrant, and grasped him where he stood, sui rounded by.hispffLtr, wbo for the mo ment seemed paralyzed with astonishment, and be fore they could recover their senses and haste to the assistance of their commander, the American had borne him by the throat with one hand, fierce ly embracing him with the other ;.despite his strug gles, he leaped with l.im into the turbid waters of the Denial ara ! They parted to rec -ive the tyrant and his victim, and then closecb over them, and neither were ever afterwards seen; both had passed to their long account," " Unanointed, unani eale 1, With all their imperfections on their heads." Loo Choo Islanders. A yoai g midshipman, attached to the Japan Expedition, gives the fol lowing description of the dress of the inhabitants o: Loo Choo, one of the-Japanese i 1 n !.-: " 1 was among the first to land, and enjoy a rich treat in a sight of the Loo Choo islanders. Their appearance is in the highest degree effeminate and simple, and is - increased by their dress. They shear the top of th'e head, leaving a ridge of hair all around. This, when it grows long, is gathered up and made into a knot on the down, the ends bein" turned under and concealed, and all brushed so smoothly as not to leave a hair out of place. It is then kept in its place by two'pins crossing each other. Their dress consists merely of a piece of lio-ht, airy material thrown over the bhoulders, and gathered'by a belt at the waist; the ends hanging down almost to the ground. Their sandals are made of a kind of straw, secured by a strap over the instep, and another connecting with it, rearing over the feet and passing between the big and next toe. This is the general, dress. That of the mandarins and the ' upper terP is somewhat richer ; there is a l'ttle more of it, and; they are allowed the luxury" of stockings. AH, upon entering a house, leave their sandals at the door.'' - ( I I "