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tain heard a sound and lifted up his head. "What under heaven," said another, "is that fellow about up aloft in a basket this time of day?" A crowd is collected about him, and at length landlord Ruggles appears.

"Landlord, you rascal; what did you leave me here for? But just let me get down, and I'll not hurt you for it."

"Hurt me," cried the landlord, "only think now; calling me a rascal, a man strung up in a basket alongside of a house, blackguarding. Forward march, men!"

Upon this a file of soldiers belonging to the American detachment, wheeled round the corner and surrounded the spot .

Capt. Fudge trembled from head to foot, and begged the landlord to get him down.

"So ho f' said the landlord. "Capt. Fudge, who has shot twenty-one men, and stahbed eleven, leaped four six bar fences just ahead of a bullet, run a gauntlet along a sharp tire of musketry, and mounted Bucephalus at the head of his gallant company? really afraid to jump down fifteen feet! Bat stand on your feet, for you might as well come down at once. I had a good hand at the trigger in the old French War." So saying, he took a gun from a soldier, and the Tory captain, as he wis about to protest, was cut short by the crack of the musket; the rope parted, and the basket and captain bounced on the ground.

"Forward march," cried the corporal, as his men formed around the gallant, but crestfallen captam; and he, our interesting hero, was safely lodged in the American camp.

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THE LAST WARNING

CHAPTER L

"And must you go t«-night, Frederick?"

"Mother, I must, I have staked my honor, and it must be redeemed."

'"(), Frederick, these companions of yours are leading you astray, be assured they are;' and when ruin stares you in the face—when you have squandered wealth and health over the gaming table you will own the truth of my words."

"This is foolish, mother, they have no power to lead me; what I do is my own free will."

"You are wrong, my son; they are as Ives to the sappling—gradually twining themselves about you, and, inch by inch, destroying you with their poisonous influence. Would that my words"—

"This is the senseless snivellingVof old age; I tell you mother I will have the money?"

"I dare not let you"have it, Frederick." "I will take no denial; it's only a few

dollars, and to-morrow I may be able to repay you."

"It is not the parting with my money that I mind, Frederick, but your evil courses"—

"Am I to have what I want, or must I force it from you?"

"There—take my purse; you asked me for ten dollars, it contains twice the sum. But promise me, my son, that this shall be your last night from home."

"I have already promised it."

"See that the promise is kept . How little are we certain that this might not be my last warning."

The young man to whom these words were addressed paused a moment on the threshold—but evil thoughts had gained ascendancy, and he departed.

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CHAPTER. II.

The ndfc'scenerto which we shall introduce tleTreadcr. . a magnificent structure, reared, for the amusement of the depraved and dSsipated, 1d for the emolument of the proprietor. Its exterior is not much'to view; it is in tne mterior that the exquisite workmanship of the artisan has been lavished. On either side of the principal room—which fca long, lofty, and well ventilated hall—a my of polished mirrors, in massive frames of ■jft wood, meet the eye. A email oblong inble, with a surfuce of variegated marble is cod under each mirror, and above, the walls ?e decorated with naked figures, and extibits scenes well suited to the lascivious propensities of the frequenters of the place. The ceiling is supported by marble pilasters mth bronzed cornices, and is covered with a ^■bty of devices; while at the eastern end j1 t,ie hall, a platform is fitted up, on which sta^^fceveral musical instruments for the plea9oB^£ the guests. Further on. in several rooBfcptrtiiients. are stationed billiard tables, arntrley for bowling, and other objects of a similar nature. Liquors of every grade and quality, cigars, cards, dice and dominoes and every thing that can please the eye, ear, and taste, is afforded you.

It was to this place that Frederick Thornton directed his steps. The moment he entered, several young men, on whose face the result of dissipation was indelibly stamped, rose from a table and welcomed him.

"What has kept you so long, Fred? We were about giving you up," said one of the party.

"Some little business at home detained me longer than I intended. I am here at last, however. How stands the rhino to

night?"

. "Fairly, fairly," was the reply. "I see

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you are eager to recover the ground you lost last night . You shall soon have a chance. What say you boys,—shall we game it?"

The answer was given by all in the affirmative—punches were called for—dice were already upon the table—and the game was commenced.

For some time the play was even—luck sided with neither of the players. Presently, however, Thornton, who had been anxiously waiting for a chance, began to win. Game after game was played—the heap of silver was accumulating every moment by his side, and success seemed to be his, when a chance throw by his opponent once more changed the tide, and stripped him of all he had won! Then Thornton's anxiety knew no bounds; stake after stake he made, and glass after glass he drained as he beheld the money given him by his mother dwindling to the end. At last he started up and plunging his hand into his pocket, drew forth a five dollar bill—the last he had—threw it witk an im precation upon the table.

"There is the last I have—you must have that also, I suppose, he exclaimed! Another throw, and Thornton was penniless !" i , *. ..

"There is cheatingsomewhere," exclaimed Thornton, " those dice are loaded!"

"How 1" exclaimed his adversary, as the whole rose from the table.

"The last throw 'was a dishonest one, I expect! you have loaded dice about you!"

"Sir V was the reply of the winner.

Thornton sprang forward and with a blow felled his adversary to the ground. The friends of the laHen one then interfered, but it was too late for further injury—he was dead! An unlucky blow near the temple had killed him.

Thornton did not attempt to escape; he was as one in a stupor, and might almost have been taken for the dead person, so pajp was the hue of his countenance. He submitted to be secured and led away from^he scene of his folly.

Chapter m. ..

Two figures were in the cell of the city prison, the mother and the son. The effects of the liquor he had drank were entirely dispelled, and his mind was free to contemplate the dreadful doom that awaited him.

"Oh! Frederick, my son, is it thus I find ?Had you heeded my innumerable warnings you would not have been here."

"Do not upbraid me, mother: I am a murderer, but the deed was committed in a fit ofi frenzy, and I repented it as soon as commit-J, ted."!'

The bolt was removed from the socket to

admit the entrance of the jailer, who had come to put an end to the interview.

The arms of the mother and son were linked in a last embrace, and they parted forever!

"And am I indeed the guilty wretch they tell me V were the thoughts of Thornton, after the door of his cell had closed upon the mother, whose advice he had scorned until too late. "Am I indeed a murderer? Yes —it is no delusion; 1 am the inmate of a cell, from whence I may never depart, but to the scaffold! Well, I deserve my fate. Had I listened to my poor mother's instruction it had not been thus. But dissolute companions, and a propensity for strong drink have been my ruin. It is a hard d"eath to die; to be taken forth in the face of the assembled multitudes, and hung by the neck until life is departed—to be cursed in the public journals and scoffed at by the crowd—." A dreadful thought came into his brain. He glanced at the bars of his cell; and

CHAPTER IV. "I must see the Governor t ,j | .' "Madam, it is impossible!" "No—no, not impossible; if he knew my errand he would not refuse me." * .«

"He is not accustomed to receive visiters at so early an hour."

"But my business is urgent." "It must be postponed." "It is of life and death!" The saucy menial was moved by her entreaties and admitted the mother to the presence of the Governor.

"I fear, my dear madam, that it is not in my power to serve you," was his reply, in answer to the widow's petition for the life of her son." "I will do my best, however, to serve him, if the case is as you say." And the mother departed.

• • • * •

She stood at the door of the court—she dared not enter—a man advanced towards her— "Is he saved V

"Madam, your son is pardoned."

# .#

The door was thrown open for the mother to enter the cell; eager to communicate the joyful tidings, she sprang forward. But why that startling scream, and what means the dead silence which follows it.

The officers entered the cell; suspended by his neck, from the bars of his prison window, was the body of the lifeless Thornton— and beneath him lay the prostrate form of his mother.

The pardon came too late—the culprit was dead? Daily News.

THE EARLY DOOMED.

A TALE FOUNDED ON FACT.
BY b. F. FI2LER, M. D.

There are but few members of the profes

atid but few mothers especially, now residing in the western part of the state of New Jersey, but that will recollect with painful distmctness, the memorable summer

of eighteen hundred and thirty .

A wide spread epidemic prevailed during that season, and was marked with uncommon mortality.

The disease seemed to be confined chiefly to the young and beautiful of our race; and within a few years has sent thousands and thousands of them to that inheritance, which our Saviour has prepared and promised to all, but especially to them

Scarlatina!—thou dreaded scourge of| childhood; what sad and sorrowful associations are connected with thy history. At thy slightest touch, infancy droops and dies. Before thy pestilential breath, beauty, innocence, and unoffending childhood, all fade and fall like autumn's leaves, swept by autumn's blasts.

Among the many mothers who have been called upoa to mourn over the ravages ofj this dreadful disease, there was one whom I shall not soon forget. She was a young, widowed lady, having one child only; a son aged about six years.

Immediately after the death of her husband, she found it necessary to adopt some pursuit, which would enable her to provide for herself, and to fit and educate for futur life this interesting child, which had been f recently deprived of its protector. For this purpose she removed into the State of New Jersey, in the Spring of eighteen^hundred and .

Possessing a superior education, and a mind eminently qualified to impart instruction, she was soon employed as a tutoress in the female department of a flourishing and respectable country seminary. Her hopes now began to brighten; and it was clearly obvious that her little Henry was the object and the idol of all her affections. He was a child to whom all the warm and deepest feelings of her heart were devoted. On him she looked, as her future comforter and protector, when age and its infirmities should come upon her. But she thought not, when her child would sport around her with all the buoyancy of boyhood, as if to cheat her poor widowed heart into a moment's cheerfulness, that death, even then had marked him for his own.

Henry sickened and his mother sorrowed His disease progressed with an alarming

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symptoms of this wide pervading malady. To these were added fever, pain, and a diffijculty of respiration, threatening almost instantaneous death. Delirium soon ensued, at which time he would call long and loudly upon his departed father to succor him in his deep distress. Dark and livid spots soon began to cluster up around his little neck, the sad and certain presages of his early doom. There was a rapid exhaustion of all the vital energies; and he trembled as if his little spirit was impatient to disengage itself from the cold investments of mortality, and then soar away to its final resting place.

It was a long night of pain and sorrow, without a parallel in the whole history of my professional life. But just as the morning's sun arose, death kindly interposed and let the little sufferer loose—he went down like a foundering bark, amid the woes and wailings of his distracted mother.

If there be any one class of our race, over which death seems to tread with an air of triumph, it is those who are in the morning of existence; bright sportive childhood is often arrested in its innocent gambolings, and before the eye had been dimmed by disease, or the cheek deprived of its healthful glow, they are made to struggle long and hard with the great destroyer.

Henry was beautiful even in death. His countenance which had been changed by dieease, had now resumed its sweetness. He was dressed in death's solemn drapery; and his little hands were folded across a breast j which heaves no more with anguish.

mother stood a long time speechless and almost motionless over her breathless child; and as she would run her fmgers playfully and unconsciously through his dark glossy ringlets, her countenance indicated that she was communing closely with the greaHpower which had inflicted the blow. After a long interval of undisturbed silence, she remkked, in a calm and composed manner, "aflretions and sorrow are the lot of all, and though thick clouds seem to gather round me, yet amid their dark unf'oldings, I can still see the hand which has so often supported me when in distress. I yield him," she continued, "with perfect resignation. Had he been in the possession of his intellectual faculties, that I could have explained to him why it is that childhood must suffer—could I have told him in his last struggles,'of the joys of heaven, of a rest and a reward, where he would soon meet his departed father, and would soon be joined by his afflicted mother —then I could look upon his fair, faded features with feelings of triumph, and say with the afflicted patriarch of old. 'The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away.'" She

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rapidity, and exhibited all the characteristic suppressed her lamentations, though it was

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evident that she was suffering severely from internal grief.

Nature has implanted in a mother's bosom a principle which death only can destroy. Maternity is so deeply and so intimately intertwined and interwoven about her heart, that that organ m ust cease to beat before she can cease to love. Owing to the peculiar putrescent character of the disease, it became necessary to make early arrangements for the interment. It was our duty to accompany the distressed mother to the grave of her child, and when she stood over the frightful chasm, she seemed to look into it with a melancholy longing, as if desirous to inherit the same resting place, which was about to enclose her cherished child.

Henry was deposited in the earth—and such manifestations of sincere sympathy and feeling I had never witnessed before. The assemblage was large and solemn. The mother stood with a fixed gaze upon the scene, as if unconscious of the melancholy occasion. All wept but the disconsolate one who had given him birth. Her eyes as yet had withheld their stores; the funeral service was concluded, and when the turf began to fall upon the little bosom which she had so often pressed unto her own—"the fountains were broken up; she wept long and loud and bitterly."

We returned with her to her desolated abode, and all that female kindness and female friendship could suggest to soothe her sorrows, were freely tendered. She would assume an occasional composure, as though her loss was in some measure alleviated by the love manifested towards her. She remarked, that she was now "childless, companionless and alone; a stranger among strangers; with no arm to rest upon, save His who has promised to be an husband to the widow, and who will temper the winds to the shorn lamb."

Her constitution was naturally delicate, and much enfeebled and enervated by excessive grief; there were strong apprehensions that some disease might arise and threaten her with alarming consequences.

These fears were too soon realised ; symptoms of a pulmonary affection began to be apparent. A flush would occasionally steal upon her cheek; beautifully, though painfully pencilled by the hand of the detroyer. It was a delusive (lower, indicative of death, and which savored only of the sepulchre.

Her disease soon assumed a dangerous aspect; a violent cough ensued, accompanied with all the distressing symptoms which are attendant upon this universal scourge. It was Pulmonary Consumption in its most frightful form; a disease which regards no

country, no condition, and which always looks Iwith an invidious eye upon the budding jbloom of youth. It prowls along in beauty's 'path, and loves to steal its victim from the ranks of the loved, the virtuous and the refined. Tiger-like it plays with its prey; first deceives, and then destroys.

Memory has still in record the sufferings of that afflicted mother; every hour, as it passed away, aggravated every symptom of 1her disorder. The premonitions of tier fast approaching fate were clearly enstamped upon her countenance.

Her mind, however, remained perfectly calm and tranquil, evidencmg an entire and perfect resignation.

The last time we visited her, she enquired if " we thought it possible she would survive to see another Sabbath morning?" It was an hour in which we dared not dissemble; ! the reply was "she could not see the light of another day." It was the first time we had ever seen her smile; and her large black ieyes kindled up with an unusual brilliance, as if illumined by the bright glories of the "better world," towards which she was so rapidly approximating. She looked upward I with a trusting glance, and in a confiding ! tone remarked: "the storm is nearly over, 1 ifear it not; my anchor is cast within the vail."

. And when the thought would recur to her, that the period was almost at hand when she would be released from the troubles of life, she would laugh audibly. One of her female friends enquired the cause of her cheerfulness; she remarked, "with nie there is but one short step betwixt this and the other shore; but a few moments between a world of suffering and a world of bliss."

She continued, "my husband is in Heaven, my child is there, my parents are there, and 1 shall soon join the family group again, to be separated no more."

It was now evident that she was fast sinking down into death; her breathing became extremely difficult; according 1o her request, another pillow was placed under her head; ,she gave one parting look, and with a smile upon her face, and a song of triumph upon her lips, she closed her eyes in death!

There was a general interest and sympathy excited through all the country round. Friends and strangers assembled to pay the last tribute which was due to one, who died a martyr to a mother's love! Amid tears and sighs, she was borne to the "narrow house appointed for all the living," and I there saw deposited (within two short months) side by side, in one dark and sunless grave, the remains of little Henry and of his devoted mother.

A LETTER FROM JERUSALEM.

The following interesting particulars arc extracted from a letter of a late traveller, published in the Poughkeepsie (N. Y.) Eagle. We have already given several articles in relation to Jerusalem and its environs, and one or two views of it. The one now given, however, is entirely dirt'erent from any previous one. We never weary in contemplating the grand and glorious events that have taken place in the land of Judea, and especially in the favored city of Jerusalem. Jews, as well as Christians, are deeply interested in them, and we presume that as long as either of these names are retained among us, Jerusalem and its associations will ever be dear to the hearts of both.—Ed. Gar.

Some days since, when I crossed the mountains of India, and my eyes beheld the holy city in the distance for the first time, I could not help exclaiming, " is it possible that at last, after a voyage of six or seven thousand miles from my native land, I am soon to visit the many interesting localities connected with the life and sufferings of our Saviour, from his nativity at Bethlehem to his crucifixion upon Mount Calvary!"

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In approaching Jerusalem we passed the village of Loudd, (Lydda,) where the apostle Peter cured Eneas of the palsy, and after two hours ride we commenced the first ascent of the mountains of Judea. The road winds by a rugged ravine, round a detached and barren hill, on the summit of which is the village of Latroun. Soon after leaving this village we entered the mountains, some parts of whie"h were extremely wild and romantic, and abounding with flowers. In some parts the road or path was almost impassable and steep with rugged rocks, and we had to lead our horses. After a few hours ride over a rough road, where a few olive trees are the only signs of vegetable life, we reached the top of a high hill, when, suddenly, the anxiously looked-for city presented itself to view. We soon found ourselves at the gate, where our bill of health was demanded, and found our caravan had been sus^ pected and put on quarantine, but were immediately liberated. The first morning after my

arrival I attended the Episcopal service, and found a small congregation worshiping in my native tongue, and I he words of scripture which declare that " where two or three are gathered together in my name there will I be with them," were forcibly impressed on my mind.

During my first stroll in the city—having had occasion to visit the palace of the Pasha—I mounted the flat roof where the panorama of Jerusalem was taken, and below me lay the square of Harem Scheriff, a grand and noble retirement for the Turks, which also encloses the mosques of Omar and El Aksar, and are built on Mount Moriah, where formerly stood the throne of Solomon and the Judgment seat of David, and a certain spot is shown where the Turks believe Mahomet is to judge the world, assembled in the Valley of Jehosaphat below. None but Turks are allowed to visit its sacred precincts. It is prettily arranged with walks, fountains, and a few orange trees. I then strolled along the via Dolorosa, regarding its localities with interest, and soon found myself in the garden of Gethsemanc; the olives here have the appearance of great age. From the valley I ascended the Mount of Olives, which is a round tabular hill, covered with verdure and a sprinkling of olives. To reach the summit is a long walk, and half way up are the remains of a monastery, built on the spot, according to tradition, where Jesus wept over Jerusalem, foreseeing how her people should be scattered and her high places be made desolate. On the top of the hill is the ancient church of the " Ascension" now a Turkish mosque.

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