Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

IVvnitstoicb. 3l')brftotat<» V * * DAVIS <fc SHORT, PUBLISHERS. VOLUME X. The Brunswick « Mvocate , Is published every Thursday Morning, in the city of Rrunswick, Glynn County, Georgia, at ijs'd per annum, in advance , or $4 at the end of the year. No subscriptions received for a less term than six months and no paper discontinued until all arrearages are paid except at the option of the publishers. {]j= All Jpttaj-a and communications to the ’Cditor or Publishers in relation to the paper, must be POST PAID to ensure attention. O’ADVERTISEMENTSconspicuousIy in serted at One Dollar per one hundred words, for the first insertion, and Fifty Cents for ev ery subsequent continuance—Rule and figure J work always double price. Twenty-five per | cent, added, if not paid in advance, or during the continuance of the advertisement. Those j sent without a specification of the number of j insertions will be published until ordered out. | and charged accordingly. Legal Advertisements published at the i usual rates. HjpN. B. Sales of Land, by Administrators, I Executors or Guardians, are required, by law, | to be held on the first Tuesday in the month, j between the hours of ten in the forenoon and | three in the afternoon, at the Court-house ini the county in which the property is situate.— Notice of these sales must be given in a public | gazette, Sixty Days previous to the day of sale. Sales of Negroes must be at public auction, on the first Tuesday of the month, between the usual hours of sale, at the, place of public sales in the county where the letters testamentary, of Administration or Guaroianship, may have been granted, first giving sixty days notice j thereof, in one of the public gazettes of this State, and at the door of the Court-house, where such sales are to be held. Notice for the sale of Personal Property, must be given in like manner, Forty days previous to the day of sale. Notice to the Debtors and Creditors of an Es tate must be published for Forty days. Notice that application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for leave to sell L ynd, must lie published for Four Months. Notice for leave to sell Negroes, must be published for Four Months, before any order absolute shall be made thereon by the Court. ill 1 S < E fa fa A A 1. [From the New York Ladies Companion.J IIALLORAN, THE PEDLAR. BY SIRS. JAMERSON'. In a little village to the south of Cion tuell, lived a poor peasant named Michael, or as it pas there pronounced Mickle Reilly. lie was a laborer renting a cabin and .a plot of potatoe-ground ; and, on the strength of these possessions, a robust frame which feared no fatigue, and a san guine mind which dreaded no reverse, Reilly paid his addresses to Cathlcen Bray, a young girl of his own parish, and they were married. Reilly was able, skilful, and industrious; Cathlcen was the best spinner in the county, and had constant sale for her work at Cloninell; they want ed nothing; and for the first year, as Catli leen said, “There wasn’t upon the blessed earth two happier souls than themselves, for Mick was the best hoy in the world, and hadn’t a fault to spake of—barring he took a drop now and then ; an’ why wouldn’t lie I” But as it happened, poor Reilly’s love of “the drop ” was the be ginning of all their misfortunes. In an evil hour lie went to the Fair of Cloninell to sell a dozen hanks of yarn of his wife’s spinning, and a fat pig, the produce of which was to pay half a year’s rent, and add to their little comforts. Here lie met with a jovial companion, who took him into a booth, and treated him to sundry potations of whiskey; and while in his company his pocket was picked of the money he had just received, and some thing more; in short, of all lie possessed in the world. At that luckless moment, while maddened by his loss and heated wit’ll liquor, he fell into the company of are cruiting sergeant. The many-colored and gaily fluttering cockade in the soldier’s cap shone like a rainbow of hope and prom ise before the drunken eyes of Mickle Reilly, and ere morning lie was enlisted into a regiment under orders for embark ation, and instantly sent off to Cork. Distracted by the ruin he had brought upon himself, and his wife, (whom he loved a thousand times better than him self,) poor Reilly sent a friend to inform Cathleen of his mischance, and to assure her that on a certain day,'in a week from that time, a letter would await her at the Clonmeil post office : the same friend was commissioned to deliver her his silver watch, and a guinea out of his bourity monev. Poor Cathleen turned from the gold with horror, as the,price of her hus band’s blood, and vowed that nothing on earth should induce her to touch it. She was not a good calculator of time and distance, and therefore rather surprised that so long a time must elapse before his letter arrived. On the appointed day she was too impatient so wait the arrival of the carrier, but set off to Clonmeil herself, a distance often miles : there, at the post office, she duly found the promised letter; but it was not till she had it in her pos session that she remembered she could not read : she had therefore to hasten back to consult her friend Nancy, the schoolmas ter’s daughter, and the best sclioler in the village. Reilly’s letter, on being decipher ed with some difficulty even by the learn ed Nancy, was found to contain much of sorrow, much of repentance, and yet more Qf affection : he assured her that he was far better off than he had expected or de served ; that the embarkation of the regi ment to which he belonged was delayed for three weeks, and entreated her, if she could forgive him, to follow him to Cork without delay,that they might “part in loye and kindness, and then come what might, he would demane himself like a man, and die asy,” which lie assured her lie could not do without embracing her once more. Cathleen listened to her husband’s let ter with clasped hands and drawn breath, hut quiet in her nature, she gave no oth er signs of emotion than a few large tears which trickled slowly down her cheeks.— “And will I see him again ?” she exclaim ed ; “poor fellow! poor boy ! I knew the heart of him was sore for me ! and who knows, Nancy dear, but they’ll let me go out with him to the foreign parts ? Oh ! sure they wouldn’t be so hard-heart ed as to part man and wife that way !” After a hurried consultation with her neighbors, who sympathized with her as only the poor sympathize with the poor, a letter was indited by Nancy and sent by the carrier that night, to inform her hus band that she purposed setting off for Cork the next blessed morning, being Tuesday, and as the distance was about forty-eight miles English, she reckoned on reaching that city by Wednesday after noon ; for as she had walked to Clonmeil and back, (about twenty miles) the same day, without feeling fatigued at all, “to signify,” Cathleen thought there would he no doubt that she could walk to Cork in less than two days. In this sanguine calculation she was, however, overruled by her more experienced neighbors, and by their advice appointed Thursday as the day on which her husband was to ex pect her, “God willing.” Cathleen spent the rest of the day in making preparations for her journey; she set her cabin in order, and made a small bundle of a few articles of clothing be longing to herself and her husband. The watch and the guinea she wrapped up to gether, and crammed into the toe of an old shoe, which she deposited in the said bundle, and the next morning, at “sparrow chirp,” she arose, locked her cabin door, carefully hid the key in the thatch, and with a light expecting heart commenced her long journey. It is worthy of remark that this poor woman, who was called upon to play the heroine in such a strange tragedy, and under such appalling circumstances, had nothing heroic in her exterior; nothing that in the slightest degree indicated strength of nerve or superiority of intel lect. Cathleen was twenty-three years of age, of a low stature, and in her form rath er delicate than robust: she was of ordin ary appearance; her eyes were mild and dove-like, and her whole countenance, though not absolutely deficient in intelli gence, was more particularly expressive of simplicity, good temper, and kindness of heart. It was summer, about the end of June : the days were long; the weather fine, and some gentle showers rendered travelling easy and pleasant. Cathleen walked on stoutly towards Cork, and by the evening she had accomplished, with occasional pauses of rest, nearly twenty-one miles. She lodged at a little inn by the road side, and the following day set forward again, but soon felt stiff with the travel of two previous days ; the sun became hotter, the ways dustier; and she could not with all her endeavors get farther than Rathcor muck, eighteen miles irom Cork. The next day, unfortunately for poor Cat hleen, proved hotter and more fatiguing than the ' preceding. The cross road lay over a | wild country, consisting of low hogs and | hare hills. About noon she turned aside Ito a rivulet bordered by a few trees, and sitting down in the shade,%he bathed her swollen feet in the stream : then overcome by heat, weakness, and excessive weari ness, she put her little bundle under her head for a pillow, and sank into a deep sleep. On waking.she perceived with dismay that the sun was declining: and on look ing about, her fears were increased by the discovery that her bundle was gone. Her first thought was that the good people, (i. e. the fairies) had been there and stolen it away; but on examining farther she plainly perceived large foot-prints in the soft bank, and was convinced it was the work of no unearthly marauder. Bitterly reproaching* herself for her carelessness, j she again set forward; and still hoping to ; reach Cork that night, she toiled on and | on with increasing difficulty and distress, | till as the evening closed her spirits failed, 1 slip became faint, foot-sore and hungry, not havifig tasted any thing since the morn i ing hut a cold potatoe and a draught ol i buttermilk. She then looked round hei j in hopes of discovering some habitation, hut there was none in sight except a lofty castle on a distant hill, which raising iL proud turrets from amidst the plantations which surrounded it, glimmered faintly through the gathering gloom, and held BRUNSWICK, THURSDAY MORNING, JUNE 29, X 837. out no temptation for the poor wanderer to turn in there and rest. In her despair she sat down on a hank by the road side, and wept as she thought of her husband. Several horsemen rode by, and one car riage and four, attended by servants, who took no farther notice of her than by a passing look ; while they went on their way like the priest and the Levite in the parable, poor Cathleen drooped her head despairingly on her bosom. A faintness and torpor seemed to be stealing like a dark cloud over her senses, when the fast approaching sound of footsteps roused her attention, and turning, she saw at her side a man whose figure, too singular to be easily forgotten, she recognized imme diately ; it was Ilalloranthe Pedlar. llalloran had been known for thirty years past in all the towns and villages be tween Wqjerford and Kerry. He was very old, he himself did not know nis own age; he only remembered that he was a “tall slip of a hoy” when he was one of the regiment of foot, and lbught in America in 1778. His dress was strange, it consist ed of a woollen cap, beneath which strayed a few white hairs, this was surmounted by an old military cocked hat, adorned with a few fragments of tarnished gold lace; a frieze great coat with the sleeves dangling behind, was fastened to his throat, and served to protect his box of wares which Was slung at his back ; and he always car ried a thick oak stick or lippeen in his hand. There was nothing of the infirmity of age in his appearance; his cheek, though wrinkled and weather-beaten, was still ruddy: his step still firm, his eyes still bright: his jovial disposition made him a welcome guest in every cottage, and his jokes though not equal to my Lord Nor bury’s, were repeated and applauded through the whole country. llalloran was returning from the fair of Kilkenny, where apparently hjs commercial specula tions had been attended with success, as his pack was considerably diminished in size. Though he did not appear to recol lect Cathleen, lie addressed her in Irish, and asked her what she did there : she re lated in a few words her miserable situa tion. “In troth, then, my heart is sorry for ye, poor woman,” lie replied, compas sionately; “and what will ye do ?” “An’ what ran 1 do?” replied Cathleen, disconsolately ; “and how will 1 even find the ford and get across to Cork, when I don’t know where 1 am this blessed mo ment ?” “Muslia, then, its little ye’ll get there this night,” said the pedlar, shaking his head. “Then I’ll lie down here and die,” said Cathleen, bursting into fresh tears. “Die !ye wouldn’t!” lie exclaimed, ap proaching nearer; “is it to me, Peter llalloran, ye spake that word ; and am I the man that would lave a fayinale at this dark hour by the way side, let alone one that has the face of a friend, though I can not remember me of your name either, for the soul of me. But what matter for that ?” “Sure, I’m Katty Reilly, of Castle Conn.” “Katty Reilly, sure enough! and so no more talk of dying! cheer up, and see, a mile farther on, isn’t there Biddy Hogan’s? HT/s, 1 mane, if the house and all isn’t gone: and it’s there we ll get a bite and sup, and a bed, too, please God. So lean upon my arm, ma vourneen, it’s strong enough yet.” So saving, the old man, with an air of gallantry, half rustic, half military, assist ed her in rising; and supporting her on one arm, with the other lie flourished his kippeen over his head, and they trudged on together, he singing Cruiskeen-lawn at the ! top of his voice, “just,” as lie said, “to put the heart into her.” After about half an hour’s walking, they came to two crossways, diverging from the high road : down one of these the ped lar turned, and in a few minutes they came in sight of a lonely house, situated a little distance from the way-side. Above the door was a long stick projecting from the wall, at the end of which dangled a truss of straw, signifying that within there was entertainment (good or bad) for man and beast. By this time it was nearly j dark, and the pedlar going up to the door, lifted the latch, expecting it to yield to his hand ; but it was fastened within : he then knocked and called, hut there was no an swer. The building, which was many times, larger than an ordinary cabin, had ; once been a manufactory, and afterward, a farm-house. One end of it was deserted, | and nearly in ruinaj the other end bore signs of having been at least recently in ; habited. But such a dull hollow echo rung through the edifice at every knock, ! that it seemed the whole place was now deserted. Cathleen began to he alarmed,and cross ed herself, ejaculating, “O God preserve ’us!” But the pedlar, who appeared well acquainted with the premises, led her round to the back part of the house, where ! there were some ruined out-buildings, and | another low entrance. Here raising his i stout stick, he let fall such a heavy thump “HEAR ME FOR MY CAUSE.” on the door that it cracked again; and a shrill voice from the other side demanded who was there? After a satisfactory an swer, the door was slowly and cautiously opened, and the figure of a wrinkled, half famished, and half-naked beldam appeared, shading a rush candle with one hand.— Halloran, who was of a fiery and hasty temper, began angrily: “Why, then, in the name of the great devil himself, didn’t you open to us?” But he Stopped as if struck with surprise at the miserable ob ject before him. t “Is it Biddy Hogan herself, I see!” he (exclaimed, snatching the candle from her liand, and throwing the light full on her face. A moment’s scrutiny seemed en ough, and too much; for, it back hastily, he supported Cathlcen into the | kitchen, the old woman leading the way, j and placed her on an old settle, the first setit which presented itself. When she j was sufficiently recovered to look about her, Cathleen could not help feeling some alarm at finding herself in so gloomy and dreary a place. It had once been a large kitchen, or hall : at one end was an am ple chimney, such as are yet to be seen in some old country houses. The rafters were black with smoke or rottenness : the walls had been wainscoted with oak, but the greatest part had been torn down for firing. A table with three legs, a large stool, a bench in the chimney propped up with turf sods, and the seat Cathleen oc cupied, formed the only furniture. Every thing spoke utter misery, filth and famine —the very “abomination of desolation.” “And what have ye in the house, Biddy, honey?”, was the pedlar’s first question, as the old woman set down the light.- “Little enough, I’m thinking.” “Little! It’s nothing, then—no, not so much as a midge would eat have 1 in the house this blessed night, and nobody to send down to Balgownu.” “No need of that, as our good luck would have it,” said Halloran, and [Kill ing a wallet from under his loose coat, he drew from it a hone of cold meat, a piece of bacon, a lump of bread, and some cold potatoes. The old woman, roused by the sight of so much good cheer, began to blow up the dying embers on the hearth; [)ut down among them the few potatoes to warm, and busied herself in making some little preparations to entertain her guests. Meantime the old pedlar, casting from time to time an anxious glance towards Cathleen, and now and then an encour aging word, sat down on the low stool, resting his arms on his knees. “Times are sadly changed with ye, Biddy Hogan,” said he at length, after a long silence. “Troth, ye may say so,” she replied, with a sort of a groan. “Bitter had luck have we had in this world, any how.” “And where’s the man of the house ? And where’s the lad, Barny?” “Where are they, Is it ? Where should they he ! may he gone down to Ahna moe.” “But what’s come of Barny ? The boy was a stout workman, and a good son, though a devel-may care fellow, too. I remember teaching him the soldier’s ex ercise with this very blessed stick now in my hand: and by the same token, him doubling his fist at ine whan he wasn’t bigger than the turf-kisli yonder; aye, anil as long as Barny Hogan could turn a sod of turf on my lord’s land, 1 thought his father and mother would never have wanted tlie hit and sup while the life was in him.” At the mention of her son, the old wo man looked np a moment, hut immediate ly hung her head again. “Barny doesn’t work for my lord now,” said she. “And what for, then?” The old woman seemed reluctant to an swer—she hesitated. “Ye didn’t hear, then, how he got into trouble with iny lord ; and how—myself doesn’t know the rights of it-—hut Barny had always a hit of wild blood about him: and since that day he’s taken to bad ways, ajul the ould man’s ruled by him quite entirely; and the one’s glum and fierce like —and t’ other’s bothered: and, oh! hitter’s the time I have ’twixt’em both !” While the old woman was uttering these broken complaints, she placed the eatables on the table ; and Cathleen, who was yet more faint from hunger than subdued by fatigue, was first helped by the good-na tured pedlar to the best of what was there : hut, just as she was about to taste the food set before her, she chanced to see the eyes of the old woman fixed upon the morsel in her hand with such an envious and famished look, that from a sudden impulse of benevolent feeling, she instant ly held it out to her. The woman started, drew back her extended hand, and gazed at her wildly. “What is it then ails ye ?” said Cath lcen, looking at her with wonder; then to herself, “hunger’s turned the wits of her poor soul! Take it—take it, moth er,” added she aloud : “eat good mother; sure there’s plenty for us all, and to spare,” and she pressed it upon her with all the kindness of her nature. The old woman eagerly seized it. “God reward ye,” said she, grasping Cathleen’s hand, convulsively, and retir ing to a corner, she devoured the food with almost wolfish voracity. While they were eating, the two Ho gans, father and son, came in. They had been setting snares for rabbits and game on the neighboring hills; and evidently were both startled and displeased to find the house occupied ; which, since Barny Hogan’s disgrace with “my lord,” had been entirely shunned by the people around about. _ The old man gave the pedlar a sulky welcome. The son wmra curse, went and took his seat in the chimney, where, turning his hack, beset himself to chop a billet of wood.— The father was a lean stooping figure, “bony, and gaunt, and grim:” he was either deaf, or deafness. After supper. Cathleen desired to be shown to her apartment. The old woman lighted a lamp and led the way up some broken steps, into a small room, where she show ed her two separate beds, standing close together, which the strangers were to oc cupy, there being no others in the house. Cathleen said her prayers, only partly un dressed herself, and lifting up the worn out coverlet, lay down upon the bed. The pedlar threw himself down on his bed, and in a few minutes, as she judged by his hard and equal breathing, the old man was in a deep sleep. All was now still in the house, but Cathleen could not sleep.— She was feverish and restless : and when ever she tried to compose herself to slum ber, the faces of the two men she had left below flittered and glared before her eyes. The latch of the door was raised cautious ly,—the door opened, and the two Ho gans entered: they trod so softly that, though she saw them move before her, she heard no foot-fall. They approached the bed of llalloran, and presently she heard a dull heavy blow, and then sounds —appalling, sickening sounds —as of sub dued struggles and smothered agony, which convinced her that they were mur dering the unfortunatepcdlar. Catldecn listened, almost congealed with horror, hut she did not swoon : her turn, she thought, must conic next, though in the same instant she felt instinctively that her only chance of preservation was to counterfeit profound sleep. The mur derers having done their work on the poor pedlar, approached her bed ; she lay quite still, breathing calmly and regularly. — They brought the light to her eye-lids, hut they did not wink or move; there was a pause, a terrible pause, and then a whis pering ;—and presently Cathleen thought she could distinguish a third voice, as of expostulation, but all in so very low atone that though the voices were close to her she could not hear a word that was utter ed. After some moments, which appear ed an age of agonizing suspense, the wretches withdrew, and Cathleen was left alone, and in darkness. She then turned her thoughts to the possibility of escape. The window first suggested itself: but, she was aware that the slightest noise must cause her instant destruction. She thus resolved on remain ing quiet. It was most fortunate that Cathleen came to this determination, for without the slightest previous sound, the door again opened, and in the faint light, to which her eyes ftere now accustomed, she saw the head of the old woman bent forward in a listening attitude: in a few minutes the door closed, and then followed a whis pering outside. She could not at first distinguish a word until the woman’s sharper tones broke out, though in sup pressed vehemence, with “If ye touch her life, Barny, a mother’s curse go with ye! enough’s done.” “She’ll live, then, to hang us all,” said the miscreant son. “Ilislit! I tell ye, no—no; the ship’s now in the Cove of Cork that’s to carry her over the salt seas far enough out of the way : and liavn’t we all she has in the world ? and more, didn’t she take the hit out of her own mouth to put into mine ?” The son again spoke inaudably; and then the voices ceased, leaving Cathleen uncertain as to her fate. Shortly after the door opened, and the father and son again entered, and carried out the body of the wretched pedlar. The night ended at length—that long, long night of horror. Cathleen lay quiet till she thought the morning sufficiently ad vanced. She then rose, and went down into the kitchen : the old woman was lift ing a pot off the fire, and nearly let it fall as Cathleen suddenly addressed her, and with an appearance of surprise and con cern, asked for her friend the pedlar, saying she had just looked into his bed, supposing he was still asleep, and to her great amazement had found it empty.— The old woman replied, that he had set •out at early daylight for Mallow, having | only just remembered that his business i called him that way before he went to • Cork. Cathleen affected great wonder J. W. FROST, EDITOR. NUMBER! and perplexity, and reminded the woman that he had promised to pay for her break- . fast. “Arr 1 so he did, sure enough,’ 1 she re plied, “and paid for it t6o;” so saying she placed a bowl of stirabout and some milk before Cathleen, and then sat down on the atool opposite to her, watching her in tently. Poor Cathleen ! she had but little inclin ation to eat, and felt as if every bit would choke her; yet she continued to force down her breakfast, and apparently with the utmost ease and appetite even to the last morsel set before her. While eating, she inquired about the husband and son, ana tne oia woman repneo, mu vircj w*u - started at the first bust of light to cut turf in a bog, about five miles distant. Cath leen on finishing her breakfast entreated to he informed the nearest way to Cork, and was told by the old woman that the distance was about seven miles by the usu al road, but that there was a much short er one, across some fields, which she pointed out; au|( after thanking her for the direction the poor creature proceeded on her feaHhl journey, but had not gone more than a mile, when on approaching a thick and dark grove of underwood, shp beheld an old woman setting on the road side ; under this disguise she recognized young Ilogan, who endeavored to beg money from her, and after questioning her as to how she passed the satis- ‘ fying himself she did not suspicion foul work, she was permitted to pro ceed. ’ Another half-mile brought her to the top of arising ground, within sight of the high road; she could see crowds of peo ple on horseback and on foot j and now she had reached the middle of the last field, and a thrill of new-born hope was beginning to flutter at her heart, when suddenly two men burst through the fence at the farther side of the field, and advanc ed towards her. One of these she thought at the first glance resembled her husband, but that it was her husband himself was an idea which never entered her mind.— Her imagination was possessed with the one supreme idea of danger and death "by murderous hands; she doubted nqfc that these were the two HoganrTO 1 ' some new disguise. At this moment one of the men throwing up his arms, ran forward, shouting her name, in a voice—a dear and well known voice, in which she could not be deceived—it was her husband! The poor woman, who had hitherto supported her spirits and her self-posses sion, stood as if rooted to the ground, weak, motionless, and gasping for breath; she sank down at his feet in strong con vulsions. Reilly, much shocked at what he sup posed the effect of sudden surprise, knelt down and elided his wife’s temples; his comrade ran to a neighboring spring for water, which they sprinkled plentifully over her: when, however, she returned to life, her intellects appeared to have fled forever, and she uttered such wild shrieks and exclamations, and talked so incoher antly, that the men became exceedingly terrified, and poor Reilly himself almost as distracted as his wife. Towards evening she became more com posed, and was able to give some account of the horrible events of the preceding night. It happened, opportunely, that a gentleman of fortune in the neighborh<%<h and a magistrate, was riding by late that evening on his return from the Assizes at Cork, and stopped at the inn to refresh his horse. Hearing that something unus ual and frightful had occurred, he alight ed, and examined the woman himself, in the presence of one or two persons. Her tale appeared to him so strange and wild from the manner in which she told it, and her account of her own courage and suf ferings so exceedingly incredible, that he was at first inclined to disbelieve the whole, and suspected the poor woman either of ‘ imposture or insanity. He did not, how ever, thin& proper totally to neglect her testimony, but immediately sent off infor mation of the murder to Cork. Consta bles with a warrant were dispatched the same night to the house of the Hogans, which they found empty, and the inmates already fled : but after a long search, the body of the wretched Halloran, and part of his property, were found concealed in a stack of old chimneys among the ruins; and this proof of guilt was decisive; The country was instantly up; the roost active search after the murderers was made by the police, assisted by all the neighboring peasantry ; and before twelve o’clock the following night, the three Hogans, father, mother, and son, had been apprehended in different places of concealment, and placed in safe custody, The surgeon, who had been called to examine the body of Halloran, deposed to the cause of his death; —that the old man had been first stunned by a heavy, blow on the temple, and then strangled. CPfiie? witnesses deposed to the finding ofthe body: the previous character of the llo gans, and the circumstances iitendßg their apprehension; but the' principal wit l r*