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tears. But now the most moving scene of all; the rigid unbending slave-holder, the warrior who had braved the tug of war,' very soon entered the room in an entire subdued tone, being little better off for speech than-poor Tom; at first he could only exclaim, Tom is free,' after crossing the room two or three times, Col. C. repeated twice more, Tom is free,' Tom is free,' and then proceeded to explain to his surprised friend Warner, that he had been walking in the adjoining room, and distinctly heard every word he had said to Thomas; that whereas he fully expected, he would have advised Tom to come up to his residence in Kent, and that he would secure to him those rights which his master so unjustly refused. But when I heard your angel-like advice to Thomas, in which me and my family were so tenderly recommended to his duty and kindness, I said I must reciprocate this goodness; my heart yearned towards you; I remembered you had administered to me when in prison, and my heart said, “Tom is free.' And now Mr. Mifflin, write the manumission, for though you are ready to leave us, you must before you depart, know that Tom may join his brethren in freedom from this day. The paper was prepared and signed; poor Tom was full of gratitude, and though told he was at liberty to go, he said "No, no, I will stay till my master's crop is secured,” which he did; his master remunerating him therefor.—There is an exemplification of the true Quaker abolition. Love can, and nothing but love ever did or ever will accomplish a righteous reformation."

“WOODMAN SPARE THAT TREE.” There is a simplicity, tenderness and pathos, in the following song scarcely ever equalled and we think not to be surpassed, which goes directly to the soul of every one possessed of sensibility, and the kindly feelings of the human heart. When plaintively warbled forth from the lips of beauty, its effect is perfectly irresistible. We seem to see the old lone tree, standing with its wide spreading branches, by the side of some sequestered cottage, the hereditary home of some family, who have resided in the same dear spot from generation to generation. All the dear domestic relations of father, mother, brothers and sisters rush upon our recollection; and we almost believe the dead have burst their cerements, to join in the pathetic invocation “Woodman spare that tree."

This admirable lyric was written by George P. Morris, and has had an extensive circulation in all parts of the United States. It is also said to be highly popular in England, and has been translated into the principal languages on the continent. Like every other production, depending upon the breath of popularity, it must soon have its day, and be neglected for something bearing the impress of novelty, if not half so good. In the mean time we cannot resist the desire of preserving it in the pages of the Register.

“Woodman, spare that tree!

Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,

And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand

That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,

Thy axe shall harm it not!
That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea,

And wouldst thou hack it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke?

Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that aged oak,

Now towering to the skies!
When but an idle boy

I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy

Here too my sisters played.
My mother kiss'd me here;

My father press'd my hand
Forgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand!
My heart strings round thee cling,

Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild bird sing,

And still thy branches bend,
Old tree! the storm shall brave!

And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I've a hand to save,

Thy axe shall harm it not." .

THE FATE OF GENIUS AND BEAUTY.

“There was a certain fair and fairy one

Of the best class, and better than her class." Among the fair portion of our race, with whom it is our fortune to become acquainted, in every town and neighborhood, there occasionally appears a being transcendently beautiful, and endowed with manners and accomplishments, precluding all comparison with those by whom she is surrounded. Such an one was Amanda Moreton; born, raised, and educated in an obscure village in one of the Atlantic States. Her fame had spread far and wide, and for a hundred miles around her place of abode, the fact was aca knowleged by all, that she was unsurpassed in beauty of form and feature.

At the time in which our narrative commences 1824, Amanda had just entered upon her nineteenth summer, radiant in the first bloom of womanhood, and yet it seemed apparent that the lovely flower had not yet arrived at all its glory. She had visited, but never resided in cities, nor received the polish, supposed to be only acquired in such places, and deemed by most persons necessary to the full exhibition of female loveliness. But there was a native grace and ease about her, far surpassing all that art can ever hope to teach. She was the last child of a numerous family, all of whom but herself, had married and left the paternal roof. Her mother died while Amanda was an infant, and she had never known but one parent, her now aged father, upon whom all her deep and fond affections centered; and she never appeared so happy as when ministering to his ease and comfort. Her father had been a revolutionary soldier, and had suffered in common with that now almost extinct, but never to be forgotten band of patriots, the hardships and privations incident to that eventful struggle. Besides, more than seventy winters had added their influence to increase his infirmities, the foundation for which were laid in his youthful campaigns. His tall form in consequence, was bowed, his sinewy knees were bent, and his once, raven loclis bleached as white as snow. This only remaining daughter, the child of his old age, was now his pride, and the prop and stay of his declining years. It was a beautiful sight, and one that angels might look upon with admiration, to behold the tall and symmetrical form of the daughter giving support to the feeble steps of her idolized parent, as they wended their way to the house of prayer, or strolled through the gardens and pleasure grounds attached to their dwelling; while his long white hair, disturbed by the breeze, fanned the roses ever blooming on her youthful cheek.

Although Amanda was universally admired, and sought for on all festive occasions, to grace with her presence the assemblies of beauty, wit and fashion, had she consulted her own feelings alone, she would never have left the side of her father, for any pleasures such places of amusement could afford her. For hours together, every day, she would sit and read to him in her sweet entrancing voice, the lore to be gleaned from the pages of history, philosophy, poetry, &c., and the current literature of the day, with which his library was well supplied; for he was a scholar, and all his life long had spent a large portion of his time in the acquisition of knowledge in all its various branches. Thus Amanda's mind became early stored with a large fund of information of the most valuable kind, which perhaps she would otherwise have never known. For these kind attentions the old man was truly grateful, and in his daily orisons, he never failed to offer up a special petition to his God for His protection and support of his daughter both now, and when her father's head should be covered with the clods of the valley.

Although Amanda was unwilling ever to leave her father, he

would not agree that she should wholly seclude herself from society, and therefore insisted that she should mingle occasionally with her equals, and partake of the innocent pleasures and amusements proper to her age and sex. Accordingly, she would sometimes suffer herself to be prevailed upon to enter the social circles among her compeers. No ball or party was ever held in the neighborhood to which she was not invited; and whenever she attended, all eyes were bent upon her, and and every ear open to catch the slightest. sound that escaped from her lips. She seldom danced, but when she did condescend to tread a measure, the admiration at her agile and graceful movements was general and unbounded. The best performers thought it wonderful that she should equal or surpass them, when they well knew she had never taken a lesson from a teacher of the art. She however created no envy, for she always appeared wholly unconscious of her beauty, and excellence of every kind, and was so kind and conciliating to every one, that none of either sex could help admiring and loving her. She was ever cheerful as innocence should be, and her face was always radiant with smiles. Sometimes she would indulge in wit and humor; but her wit was devoid of gall, and her humor free from buffooncry. Whenever it was known that Amanda Moreton had promised to attend a party, none of the invited were absent, except from unavoidable necessity.

It follows as a matter of course, that so perfect a being as we have been describing, could not be without suitors for her heart and hand. Most of the young men considered her as entirely beyond their reach, and made no advances. Several however, among the better class made the essay, but without success. They failed to touch her heart; and although in point of fortune and apparently every other consideration some of them appeared to be unexceptionable, she refused them all. But this was done so kindly and considerately, that they remained as firmly her admirers as ever, and she made friends of all her lovers. We have said that the young ladies of her acquaintance did not envy her, but they would often half petulantly, half playfully, wish that Amanda Moreton would marry; as it seemed that marrying, among the better class, would get out of fashion until she was disposed of, for it appeared every young man worth notice, was bowing at her shrine.

There lived in the native State of Amanda, but far removed from her residence, a young man, who had never associated in the fashionable circles of society, yet was fast becoming famous for his superior learning and ability, and particular excellence in his profession. And as he is to occupy a conspicuous place in our story, we will give a brief account of him and his character. His name was Henry Hervey. He was the eldest son of his father, who, although only in moderate circumstances, determined to bestow upon him a liberal education. He was accordingly, sent early to school, and improved rapidly and far beyond the boys of his

age, at the seminaries where he received instruction. His collegiate course being completed, he turned his attention to one of the learned professions, and made great progress in the acquisition of all its mysteries; and was in due time admitted to enter upon the discharge of its active duties.

Henry, from a child, was unlike almost all other boys. His time was wholly occupied with his books, and even in vacation his active and energetic mind refused all relaxation. He was so diligent and assiduous to his studies, that his parents feared his health would suffer, and often urged him to desist from his labors for a time and join in the amusements of his fellow students, but without effect; for nothing but the constant acquisition of knowledge had any charms for him. He did not wholly confine himself to such branches of learning as were taught in the schools, or pertained exclusively to his profession, but his studies extended through the whole circle of languages, both dead and living, and the various arts and sciences.

Henry Hervey, after completing his course of professional study, opened an office in his native town. His merit was at once acknowledged and appreciated, and he gained employment from all the best kind of people, who required services in his line, immediately. He continued still as hard a student as ever, and every hour in which he was not employed in the active duties of his profession, he might be found in his office, poring over the pages of some classic author, or examining the utility of modern improvements.

So wholly was he occupied with books, that he remained a stranger to the every day occurrences of life, and understood but little of the passions and motives which actuated those by whom he was surrounded in their intercourse with each other in a state of society, Consequently, in such matters he was as easily imposed upon as a child, for always just himself in thinking and acting, he had not yet learned that men were governed by envy, hatred and malice, and that the actions of most were intensely selfish. Out of the pale of his own family he never mixed in general society, and could never be induced to make one of the social assemblies and pleasure parties, in which the youth of his neighborhood of both sexes frequently indulged. He never expressed or felt any preference for one female over another-knowledge was his only mistress. To her he paid constant and undivided suit, and she always smiled upon his advances. Yet his heart was kind and true and overflowed with love for the whole human race; and it was one main object of his intense study to ameliorate and better their condition. In his food he was abstemious to a fault, and he never had indulged in the use of intoxicating liquors.

At the time of which we have been speaking, Henry Hervey was twenty-five years of age; pale and thin from intense application, and want of sufficient exercise and amusement, of which he seemed to be the only person unconscious. Notwithstanding his recluse habits he was a general favorite among all classes, and the oracle of the

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