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A. 0. MURRAY,
VOLUME X.
THE AMERICAN UNION,
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MISCELLANEOUS.
The two Nephews.
At the pal lor window of a pretty vi.Uiage, near
Walton-on-Tliames, sat one evening at dusk, an 1
old man and a young woman. The age of the]
m.m miwht le about seventy, whilst his (tomputt-,
j on bad certainly not reached nfietcet), Her]
beautiful, blooming face, and active light and tip* j
right figure, were in strong contrast, with the
worn countenance and bent frame of the old man,
but in his eve, and in the corners of his mouth,
• indications of a gay self-confidence, which aje
and suffering had damped, but not extingush
eJ.
*Xo use looking; aqy more, Mary/ said he
‘neither Joint Mead nor l’oter Finch will be here
before dark. Very hard that, when a sick uncle
a-ks his two nephews to come and see him they I
can’t come at once. The duty is simple in the
extreme —only to help me to die, and take what
I choose to ‘cave them in niv will ! I’ooh ! when
I was a young man. I'd have done it for niv un- ;
c!e with the utmost celerity, llut the world’s get
ting quite hnrlless!’
‘Oil sir!’ said Mary. j
‘And what does, ‘Oil sir !’ mean ?, ‘ll've think
Islmn’tdie? I know better. A little more, and
there’ll be an end of old Hilly <'ollett. lie’ll;
have left this dirtv worhl for a cleaner—to tile ;
great sorrow (and advantage) of bis affectionate
- relatives! Ugh ! (live me a glass of the doctors
•Luff.’ ,
The girl poured some medicine into a glass
an 1 Collett, after having contemplated it for ai
mnnent with infinite disgust, managed to get it
down.
’I tell vou what Miss Mary Sutton,’ said he ]
‘I don’t by any means approve of your ‘Oil sir !’ |
and ‘Dear sir,’ and..tlie rest of it, when I’ve told ]
you how I hate to be called ‘sir,’ at all. Why ;
you couldn’t be more respectful if you were a j
charily-’’girl arid Ia beadle in a gold-laced hat.
None of your nonsense, Mary Sutton, if you
please. I’ve been your lawful guardin now six
months, and you ought to know my likings and
disii kings.
‘My poor father often told me how you dislik
ed ceremony,’ said Maty.
‘Your poor father told you quite right,’ said
Mr. Collett. ‘Fred Sutton was a man of talent—
a capital fellow. Ilis only fault was a natural
inability to keep a farthing in his pocket. Poor
Fred! lie loved me—Pin sure he did. n be- :
queathed me his only child—and it isn’t every
friend would do that!’
‘A kind and generous protector you have
been!’
‘Well I don’t know, I’ve tried not to lie a brute,
hut I dare say I have been. Don’t I speak rough
ly to you sometimes! Ilav’nt I given you good,
prudent, worldly advice about John Mead, and
made myself quite disagreeable, and lik a guar
dian? Come, confess you love this perinyless
nephew of mine,’
‘Petmyless indeed !’ said Mary.
‘Ah, thereat is!’ said Mr.Collett, —‘and what
business has a poor devil of an artist to fall in
love with my ward ? And what business has my
ward to fall in love with a poor devil of an artist ?
But that’s Fred Sufton’s daughter all over!
Haven't I two nephews ?’ Why could’tyou fall
In love with thediscreet one—the thriving one?—
Peter Finch—considering lie’s an attorney —is
* worthy man. lie is industrious in the ex
treme, and attends to other people’s business, on
ly when he’s paid for it. He despises sentiment,
and always looks to the main chance. But John
Mead, my dear Mary, may spoil canvas forever,
and not grow rich. He’s all for art, and truth,
and aocial reform, and spiritual elevation, and
the Lord knows what. Peter Finch will ride in
his carriage, and splash poor John Mead as he
trudge# on foot!’
The harangue was here interrupted by a ring
at the gate, and Mr. Peter Finch was announc
ed- He had scarcely taken his seat when anoth
er pull at the hell was heard, and Mr. John Mead
w sannounced.
Mr. Collett eyed his two nephews with a queer
aprt of smile, whilst they made speeches expres
sive of sorrow at the nature of their visit. At
last slopping them:
©re Awrritait Htiitm.
‘Enough, boys, enough!’ said he. ‘Lgt us
find eomething’better to discuss than the slate of
an old man’s health. I want to know a little
more about you both. I havn’t seen much of
you up to the present times, and for anything I
know, you may lie ugroesor fools.’
John Mead seemed rather to wince under this
address, but Peter Finch sat calm and confi
dent.
‘To put a case now,’ said Mr. Collett, ‘this
morning a poor wretch of a gardner came beg
ging here. He could get no work, it seems, and
said he was starving. Well, I knew something
about the fellow, and I believe only told the
truth, so I gave him a shilling to get rid of him.
Now, I’m afraid I did wrong. What reasom had
I for giving him a shilling! What claim had
lie on me ? What claim has he on anybody ?
The value of his labor in the market is all that
a working man lias a right to, and when his la
bor is <if no value, why then he must go to the
devil, or wherever else he can.’ Ah, Peter!
That’s my philosophy—what do you think ?’
‘I quite agree with you, sir,’ said Mr. Finch
‘perfectly agree with you. The value of the labor
er in the market is all that laborers can pretend
to—all they should have. Nothing acts more
perniciously than the absurd extraneous support
called charity.
‘Hear, hear I’ said Mr. Collett. ‘Aou’re a
clever fellow, Peter. Go on my dear boy, go
on !’
‘What result from charitable aid ?’ contined
he. ‘The value of labor is kept at an unnatural
level. State charity is state robbery, private
charity is public wrong.’
•That’s it, Peter!’ said Mr. Collett. ‘What do
you think of our philosophy, John ?’
I don’t like it! I don't believe it!’ said John.
‘You were quite right to give the man a shilling,
I’d have given him a shilling myself.’
“Oh, you would—would you ?” said Mr. Col
lett. You are very generous with your shillings.
Would you fly in the face of all orthodox politi
cal economy, you Vandal ?”
“Yes.” said John, “as the vandals flew in the
face of Koine, and destroyed what had become
a falsehood and a nuisance.
“Poor John” said Mr. Collett. “We shall
never make anything of him, Peter. liealiy,
we'd lietter talk of something else. John, tell
us all about the last new novel.”
They conversed on various topics until the ar
rival of the invalid’s early bedtime parted uncle
and nephews for the night.
Mary Sutton seized an opportunity the next
morning, after breakfast to speak with John
Mead alone.
“John,” said she, “do think more of your own
interest—of our interest. What occasion was
there for you to be so violent, last night, and
contradict Mr. Collett so shockingly ? 1 saw
l’eter Finch laughing to himself. John you
must be more careful or we shall never be mar
ried.”
“Well, Mary, dear, I’ll do my best,” said John.
“It was that confounded l'eter, with his chain
of iron maxim*, that made me fly out. I’m not
an iceberg, Mary.”
“Thank heaven you’re not !” said Mary, “hut
an icebnrg floats —think of that, John. Re
mo i her —every time you offend Mr. Collet, you
please Mr. Finch.”
“So Ido !” said John. “Yes, I’ll remember
that.
“If you would only try to be a little mean and
hard-hearted,’’ said Slaty, “just a little to begin
with. You would only stoop to conquer, John,
—and you deserve to conquer.”
“May I gain my deserts, then,” said John.
“Are you not to be my loving wife, Mary !
And are you not to sit at needle work in my
studio, whilst I paint my great historical picture !
How can this come to pass if Mr. Collett will do
nothing for us ?”
“Ah how indeed?” said Mary. “But here's
viur friend l’eter Finch, coming through the gate
from his walk. I leave you together.” And she
withdrew.
“What, Mead!” said l’eter Finch, as lie en
tered. “Sulking in-doots of a fine tnorninglike
this!” I’ve been all through the village. Notan
ugly place—but wants taking after sadly. Roads
shamefully muddy ! l’tgs allowed to walk on
the foot-path !”
“Dreadful!” exclaimed John.
‘I say—you came out pretty strong last night,’
said l’eter. “Quite defied the old man ! But 1
like your spirit.”
“1 have no doubt you do,” thought John.
“Oh when I was a youth, I was a little that
way myself,” said Peter. “But the world—the
world, my dear sir—soon cures us of all roman
tic notions. I regret, of course, to see poor peo
ple miserable, but what’s the use of regretting?
It’s no part of the business of the superior class
es to interfere with the laws of supply and de
mand, poor people must be miserable. What cant
be cured must be endured.” , • ■
“That is to say,” returned John, “what we
can’t cure, they must endure ?”
“Exactly so,” said l’eter.
Mr. Collet this day was too ill to leave his bed.
About noon be requested to see hi# nephew# in
his bedroom. They found him propped up by
pillows, looking very weak, but in good spirits,
as usual.
“Well, boys,” sa’.d he, “here I fim, you see
brought to au anchor at last ? The doctor will
be here soon, 1 suppose, to shake his bead and
write recipes. Humbug, me boys ! Patients can
do as much for themselves, I believe, as doctors
can do for them, they’re all in the dark togeth
er —tbe only difference ii that the patients
grope in English, and the doctors grope in
Latin!”
“You are too skeptical, #ir,” said John Meade.
“Pooh !” said Mr. Collett. “Let us change
the subject. I want your advice l’eter and John,
on a matter that concerns your interests. I’m
going to make my will to-day and I don’t know
how'to act about your cousin, Emma Briggs.—
Emma disgraced us by marrying an oilman.”
“An oilman!” exclaimed John.
“A vulgar shocking oilman ! ’ said Mr. Collett,
“a wretch who not only sold oil, but soap, can
dles, turpentine, black ieadand birch-brooms. —
Her poor grandmother never got over it, and a
maiden aunt turned methodisl in despair. Well,
Briggs, the oilman, died last week it seems, and
his widow lias written to me, asking for assis
tance. Now, I have thought of leaving her a
hundred a year in my will. What do you think
of it? I’m afraid she don’t deserve it. What
GRIFFIN, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 20, 1855.
right had she to marry against the advice of her
friends ? What have I to do with her misfor
tunes !”
“My mind is quite made up,” said Peter Finch,
“no notice ought to be taken of her. Shemadean
obstinate and unworthy match—and let her
abide the consequences 1”
“ Now your opinion, John,” said Mr. Col
lett.
“Upon my word, I think I must say the same,”
said John Mead bracing himself up boldly for the
part of the worldly man. “What right had she
to marry—as you observed with great justice,
sir. Let her abide the consequences —as you
very properly remarked, Finch. Can’t she carry
-on the oilman’s business ? I dare say it will sup
port her very well.”
“Why, no,” said Mr, Collett, “Briggs died a
bankrupt, and his widow and children are desti
tute.”
“That does not alter the question,” said Peter
Finch. “Let Brigg’s family do something for
her.”
“To be sure!” said Mr. Collett. “Brigg's
family aro the people to do something for her.
She musn’t expect anything from us—must she
John ?”
“ Destitute, is she?” said John. With chil
dren. too! Why this is another case, sir. Con
found it, I’m for letting her have the hundred a
year.”
“Oh, John, John! What break down !”
said Mr. Collet. So you were trying to follow
Peter Finch through Stony Arabia, and turned
back at the second step ! Here's a brave traveler
for you Peter j John, John, keep to your Arabia
Felix, and leave sterner ways for very different
men. Good-bye, both of you. lve no voice
to talk any more. I’ll think over'alFyou have
said !”
lie pressed their hands and they left the room
The old man was too weak to speak next day,
and in three daysafter that, he calmly breathed
his last.
As soon as the funeral was over, the will was
read by the confidential man of business who
had always attended to Mr. Collett's affairs.—
The group that sat around him, preserved a de
corous appearance of disinterestedness, and the
usual preamble to the will having been listened
to with breathless attention, the inan of business
read the following in a clear voice :
“1 bequeath to my niece, Emma Briggs not
withstanding that she shocked her family by
marrying an oilman, the sum of four thousand
pounds, being fully persuaded that her lost dig
nity, if she could even find it again, would do
nothing to provide her with food, or clothing, or
shelter.
“John Mead smiled and, Peter Finch ground
his teetli—but in a quiet, respectable manner.
The man of business went on with his read
ing :
“Having always held the opinion that woman
should be rendered a rational and independent
being,—and having duly considered thefaetthat
society denies her the rightof earning her own
living —I hereby bequeath to Mary Sutton, the
only child of my old friend, Frederick Sutton,
the sum of ten thousand pounds, which w ill en
able her to marry, or remain single, as she may
prefer.”
John Mead gave a prodigious'■tart upon hear
ing this, and l’eter Finch ground histeeth again
now in a manner hardly respectable. Both
however, by a violent effort, kept silent.
The man of business went on reading:
l have paid some attention to the character
of my nephew, John Mead, and have been griev
ed to find him much possessed with a feeling of
philanthropy, and with a general preference for
whatever is noble and true over whatever is base
and false. As these tendencies ate by no means
such as can advance him in the world, I bequeath
him the sum of ten thousand pounds—hoping
that he may thus be kept out of the workhouse,
and be enabled to paint his great historical
picture—which, as yet, ho has only talked
about.
As for my other nephew, Peter Finch ho views
all things in so sagacious and selfish a way, and
so certain to get on in life, that I should only in
sult him by offering an aid which he does not
require, yet from his affectionate uncle, and en
tirely as a testimony of admiration for his men
tal acuteness, I venture to hope lh,.t he accept a
bequest ot five hundred pounds towards the
completion of his extensive library of law
books.”
How Peter Finch stormed, and called names,
how John Mead broke into a delirium of joy—
how Mary Sutton cried and laughed, and then
cried and laughed together, all these matters I
shall not attempt to describe. Mary Sutton is
now Mrs. John Mead, and her husband has ac
tually begun the great historical picture, l’eter
Finch has taken to discounting bills, and bring
ing actions on them, and drives about in his
brougham already.
That’s the Talk.
A foreigner was seen to vote the American
ticket, last fall, by some of the ‘United,’ who
‘counted on him strong.’
‘Look here,’ exclaimed’one, ‘do you know what
ticket you voted ?’
‘Yes, the Native ticket.’
‘Now ain’t you a d—d fool! Don’t you know
that the Natives want to take away your rights,
and won’t let you hold office ? Vote for a party
that proscribes you, eb ?’
‘l’m not proscribed. Tbe Americans have al
ways treated me well, ar.d no doubt will, so long
as i behave myself. Besides, my children are
Americans—born here; and, as a father, I don’t
want, by example, to teach them as they grow
up, that they must depend upon strangers.’
*Oh! you are willin’ to have your own throat
cut, eh ? There’s a Christain ! bless them that
persecute you, eb ?’
‘I bless those who have blessed me and my
children ; and placing foreigners in office, more
often proves a curse than a blessing to us. But
that’s not tbe question. Aro you Americans
competent to govern yourselves ? If you are,
our services, as office holders, are not required by
you. If you are not #o —make public proclama
tion of the fact, call upon us for help in a manly
way, and then we’ll do the best we can for you.
All I desire is that we shall not be considered
intruders.’
The substance of the above conversation took
place in one of the Camden Countv hotels last
fall.
“Prove all thing*; hold fast that which is good.”
From the London Morning Herald, Sept. 22.
The War Just Commenced in Europe.
j Maj. Curzon arrived in London soon after mid-,
night with the despatches of General Simpson do
: tailing the events which accompanied the fall of
Sevastopol. Ere we shall have concluded the re
marks which we have thus commenced we shall
in all probability have in our possession those de
tails of the terrible loss by which the possession of
; that fortress has been purchased, and will bring
agony to many a home. The nation lias not grud-
I ged its blood in the contest in which we aro en- j
I gaged. Over the wail ot individual anguish,;
mourning private loss, the shout of national triumph
ascends to Heaven, and public rejoicing drowns |
the cry of many a widow and orph in from hearths !
, left desolate by the glorious but fearful victory of j
the Bth.
I Nevertheless, the fact that so many of our conn
; trynien have fallen in the bloody enterprise which
it has to crown with success —the
number of brave and devoted men by whose sac
rifice this sue.ess has been won theso things
surely compel us almost involuntarily tonsk For
what has these sacr fices been made 1 They im
pose upon us the duty of seeing as far as we can,
that they have not been made in vain.
It is not for us to depreciate tbe triumph tliat
the allied arms have achieved. In the columns
of this journal it was that the invasion of the Cri
mea was first urged upon a timid ministry. Two
1 years have passed since for days together we
(.pointed at Sevastopol as the place in which a vital
blow might be struck at Russian power with com
j paratively little risk to ourselves. When men
I were dreaming of peace, wo repeated week by
| week, and day by day, the cry that Sevastopol
! must be destroyed. It is not, then, for us to les
sen the value to the allied cause of its demoli
tion. Still we must caution the nation against
exaggerating its importance With the taking
of Sevastopol the war only in reality commences.
Russia is not humbled. Her power is not broken.
Her gigantic might still lies almost unscathed
Her powers of aggression are, it may almost be
said, unimpaired. Her barbarian hordes are still
in the reserve of her immeasurable planes, ready to
be precipitated upon Europe; whenever Europe
js divided or weakened enough to be incapable o’
resistance. Her frontier is still un assailable by
j hostile armies, and in the gloomy recesses of her
! impenetrable domains her statesmen still plot that
i dark conspiracy against the libcities of the world
which is the policy of Russia.
What is to be the next move ? \Ve do not now
speak of manoeuvres in the Crimea. If there are
to be such, they blit a little longer protract the
hour when the allied powers must determine upon
some course of action very different from storm
ing a fortress in a remote angle of the Russian
territory. We suppose the Russians driven from
the Crimea —wc suppose the whole peninsula in
the undisputed possession of the French and Eng
lish armies—what then ‘
The question may seem strange to those who
believe that after such disasters Ru-sii will sue
fur peace. This was the delusion under which
this war was originnllv undertaken. Lord Aber
deen deemed that a demonstration -the appear
ance of a fleet in the Baltic, the knocking down a
few miserable walls at Bomorsund. or tbe shelling
a few houses at Odessa—would bring the Russian
government to their senses. Just ns miserably de
ceived are they who now expect that the conquest
of the Crimea, even were it complete to morrow,
will have the smallest effect in forcing Russia to
yield. Most assuredly it will not. Her strength
lies in her enormous power of endurance. Russia
cun tolerate and grow strong upon a thousand de
feats. The burning of Moscow did not quell her.
We question if the destruction of St l'etersburgh
would do more than compel her court to retire in
to those fastnesses in which the very distance to
he travelled would he the protection against an
invading foe.
This may seem a disheartening picture of the
contest in which wc are engaged. We believe it
nevertheless to he a true one Let us ask then
when the Crimea is conquered an<l Russia makes
no sign of yielding a safe and honorable peace,
are those who guide the destinies of England pre
pared for the next move ? There lies Russia,
strong in her passive resistance, secure In the very
extent of her territory. She may. or she may not,
in the spring send down fresh hordes to attempt
to reinvest the Crimea, always supposing we have
takeu it from her hands. We may drive them
back, but we lire only at the point where we arc
now. It is time that we should ponder on ttie
questions—For what arc wc to contiuue’tho war ?
How are we to continue it ?
We believe it a mere delusion to continue that
war in the hope that’ by any amount of success we
may gain, we wil 1 drive Russia, to the terms of a
secure pence. This Is the death struggle for Rus
sin’s policy—a policy which she will only surren
der with her life. If the war is to be pursued at
all, it must he pursued with a different object.—
1 We must take with the strong arm material guar
antees, and with the strong arm we must keep
1 them. We must reduce the territory of Russia
!by war and not by negotiation. If we posses# the
| Crimea we must not wait for conditions of peace
to altocate it. We must raise up a-nation free
from Russian tyranny. Our future blows at Rus-
I sia must be actual separations of territory from
‘her empire. Ouronly effective movement in the
Baltic must be to declare und make Finland ftce
j from her yoke. Really to assail her on the shores
of the Euxine and the banks of the Danube we
must reclaim from her to freedom the soil upon
which we can erect a free confederation of emanci
pated tribes. If we assail her in Central Europe
we must win back her portion of the plunder of
Poland, and in defiance of her armies make at
least the Grand Duchy of Warsaw an independ
ent State. But this will never he done in articles
of peace. It must he done by war and in war.—
I The movement of armies must become realities in
the territorial distribution of Europe.
We hear that fora war like this our ruler# *re
not prepared There will prohably he many who
will think us too bold in the enunciation of these
view s We are not advocates of a war of terrilo- *
rial aggression, even upon Russia but we foresee
that in the long run it will lie found that it is the
only war which we can wage upon Russia with ,
the slightest hope of lasting succe-s. We have no J
faith in the influence of demonstrations or the i
effect of disasters in forcing terms of penre. No ■
succession of defeats will extort from her eondi
tions that will leave Europe really safe from her
ambitious designs—we must seize by force and re
tain by force material guarantees The phrase, j
by the way, is one of Russian origin . in its inven- j
tion she betrayed tbe secret of her advance, arid
taught to Europe the nature of the only security .
she can estimate. It was not by insisting for trea
ties. but by seizing on provinces that her empire
lias been extended. By the same process lies pow
er must be driven hack,
We would ask of those who may dissent from
these views, one question: Suppose the Crimea'in
our possession, and that Russia still nlistiiiateiy
refuses all safe terms ot peace, whatv then, should
he the next move ot the allied powers f
Salt River-
Not having of late years mademany trips up
this famous stream, our present passage lip nf
I'nhis some novel scenes. The last time we made
the voyage iii a National vessel, was aboard tbe
good o|d-hip Whig, Henry ('lav Captain. Be
ing well satisfied with onr quiet location nt the
head-quarters, and tiled of t lie swamps and shift
iug qua ks sands ot the lower parts ot the river,
we were not disposed to serve under the captains
who, with various success, attempted the pass ~,,,
down, until vve were’ like a multitude ot othets.
bamboozled to enlist under Cobb, and cani'c
down tbe river on a raft, named tbe “Georgia
I’l.alform,” we re ascended again on’ the same
craft under the command of the gallant Jenkins
This year finds it; going up again un the Baik
America, Andrews < ’-upturn, and we-not me in neb
; change ill the scenery, but more especially in
the craft that Mow navigate the river. When
vve were first acquainted with its navigation only
two regular packets ascended and descended al
ternately, now its surface is covered with a i im
mense number of little boatsinost of them mann
ed bv small and insignificant crews, but the cap
tains strut over I licit narrow quarter decks and
give the word of laumn.and with as much impor
tance as though they commanded thousands.—
< tecasionallv one is seen paddling his own canoe
regardless off’ others. These small frv are very
ant to get into eddies with which the liver is be
set, and arc w hilled round till they cannot tell
w het her they tire going up or down stream, <u
the light hand from the lett ; the consequence of
these circumvolutions isti sudden change of sides.
It’any one of these* icceives help in his distress
from any of bis fellow voyagers be most gener
ally euts loose from them when lie finds lie can
go bv himself, and lh<it turns loimd and shows
his gratitude by assailing them in choice Billings
< in onr vnvngo up this time we met the same
Algerine < ‘oiair, “Fire Eater,” which ascetidi-il.
the rivet in 1 851, and came down in 185.1. she
Inis been newly painted over and varnished, a
new crew shipped in addition to the former one
her old name whitened over, (though it is still
legible under the thin while-wash.) a lid the won!
I tcinoeraev painted upon if. Her tudder was
made out of a stolen plank of the Georgia I'lat
fenn. She was gaily decorated with the flags
of all nations, among which we looked in vain
for the Stats and Stripes. Her approach w as her
alded by an uncommonly strong smell of Soiir-
Crout and liidi wliUkey and by a babel of cries
in all languages. Her commander lav upon the
quarter dec almost insensible, being afflicted
with a grievous fit of indigestion from having
swallowed some of his own words, uttered a
gainst the Georgia l’latforin and its builders.— j
Beside him stood a portly Bishop in full pontiff- j
cals, muttering pater Hosiers, w Idle a Jesuit gr. as- ■
ei'i bill) with holy oil, and rubbed it in with a
eohh. With such matter on his stomach, his
ease seemed desperate. There were some old,
familiar faces among the crew looking w ild and
seared tit the strange companionship they found
themselves in, and we noticed someoldcomrades
of ’52, whose look* said as plainly as FaUtaff
words could sav, “If I am not ashamed of my j
company, I'in a soused gurnet.”
All soils of vutuperation and oaths in the ;
tongues of jilt nations assailed ns upon our ap
proach ; Burly John Bull devoted ns, and his
own eyes to perdition. The Dutchman swore,
by elonrur and hlitztn, the Frenchman capered
and saerc ed, w hile vivacious I’addv, liitinoroiis
in his eiuirtv. gave ns a specimen of his native
eloquence in this wise, “Feaylett /Julian, ye spal
peens! (Jlat the way fin’ the Dimici'ats! and
ye’ll curse the l’ope, will ye ? Arrah, we'll Ining
ye to your knees yet, ye Inivtliius, and make ye
shorten h:s Holiness’ toe nails wid y,cr teeth, we
will ! Will somebody lind inetlie loan of abrick
bat, ?” and in default of Iris favorite weapon lie
hurled a line Irish potato at us which fell short
of the mark.
If anybody thinks we treat too lightly the late
solemn occasion of the sound ttirashmg'ltio
American 1*; rty got from the Democrats. e
can only sav that it is as well to laugh as mourn
over it. We are not going to hunt up the rea
sons for our defeat or to to write lachrymose ed
itorials about it. We have been soundly thrash
ed and that’s enough.— Wilkes Republican.
Why may no*l too? —‘Father,’ sai! a young,
man once, to a patriarch of the mountains, who
is still living (after being told tliat he must not
go with a half a dozen idle fellows, who had
come to invite him) —‘father, why is it that you
deny me those privileges which other parent*,
grant so readily to their sons of iiv ilge?’ ‘Da
vid,’said the father, after lifting up ami leaning
Ins head upon the top of Ills hoe handle, T have
lived much longer is ibis woild than you have,
and I see danger which you little suspect. These
young men are in a bad way. Such habits of
idleness, and this going about to frolics and horse
races, will ruin them. You will see. if you live,’
that some of them will get into tlie Suite's Pri
son, by and bv, ami it is well if they do not-come
to the gallows. These’are my reasons for wish-:
ing you to have nothing to do w ith them.’ Di- 1
vid was satisfied. Years rolled away. These
young men soon spent their patrimony, and tell |
into dissipated habits. From step to step they
Editor and Proprietor
went on, til! the prediction of the patriarch wa#
literally fulfilled. Two or three of them were
sent to the State's I‘ri‘oti, and one at least, M
hanged.— l>r. Ifiirn/ hrnj.
What a Nf.vv.scapeh does without Re,ward.
—The result of my observations enables me to
state as a fact, that publishers of newspapers are
more poorly rewarded than any other claM of
men in the United Stales, who invest an equal
amount of labor, capital and thought. They
lire expected to do more service for less pay, to
stand more sponging and “dead-heading,” to
puffand defend more people, and sorts of peo
ple, without fee or hope of reward, than any
other class. They credit w ider and longer J get
oftctier the victim of misplaced confidence, than
any nth r culling in the community. People pay
a printer’s bill more reluctantly (ban any other.
It giies hauler with them to expend a dollar on
i valuable newspaper than ten on a useless gew
gaw; yet even body avails himself of the service#
of i he‘editor’*’ and the printer's ink. How many
ptolessioual and political icputati>*ns and fortune#
have In ell created and sustained by the flierdly,
though unrequited peii of tha editor? ll* w
iii t n v end a v o tow n and cities have been brought
into notice and pulled into prosperity by the
press? How many railroads now in successful
upera'ioii, would have foundered but for the ss
sistanie of the ‘level that moves the world;’ in
insshit,n t, bat branch of American industry or
activity has not-been-promoted, stimulated and
defended liV tbe press j
And who has tendered it more than a misera
ble pittance for its in igjitv services ? 1 lie bazars
of fashion and folly, the haunts of appetite and
dissipation, are tluoiiged with an eager crowd,
beating gold in their palms, ami the commodi
ties tln-ie vended are sold at enormous profits,
though intrinsically worthless and paid for with
scniptih ns piiiutinditv ; while the counting
room of the newspaper is llie seal of jewing,
cheapening. Hade, orders and pennies. It i#
made a point of honor to liquidate ft gfrojjr
in!l. but not, of dishonor to repudiate a printer’#
lull. — ('Urelund Ltdgrr.
Tin. * ‘attkkwisui Uailuoad.— The reporter of
ihi‘ I'lnl.iih lpliiii Bulletin turtii>lien the follow*
mg first rate notice of the mentioned Rail*
road. It is fiotn the liioulli of Ti gentleman in*
t crested iti an opposition line — the words being
addressed to a traveller :
■ “tintteiwiser! Have you ever travelled on
the CallerwiSer road !” “No, sir !’* said the old
; gentleman, looking rather surprised. “Don’t
I lien,” said he, “if you believe in a hereafter—
j don’t do it unh ss your life's insured—if I wna
Agent of a Life Jnsnraiiee v ompanv, I'd put in
to eveiy policy, that every man who travelled on
the * ‘alterwiser road should pay five per tent ex
tra, Did ve ever see the Caller w iser t” “No
sir,” said the old gentleman.
“Well, I'll tell ye how it is; they’ve gathered
up all the sharp curve*, and long liridm, and
high 11 esfie w.ak, and strep jjrarles on all the
road, in tln* l ulled Slates as an il/ustrat on of
what a Ibiihoad tin /re. Hut there's one advan
tage ahoni the ('alterwiser, that's a Havin’ of
~ht If. roye. it winds round just like a snake, and
w hen t lie ( ondtietor w ants to speak to the Engi
neer he jt*st roes out to the himicr eend of tbo
hind ear, and that brings him where he ran
shake hands with the En gi neer, always. Yea
sii r> e, there never was anything like themcurvet
; —there’s a plat eon the mail railed Riligtotra,
, because llio road after describin’ a circle cornea
round to the same place. I was goin’ on it the
oilier day, when we come to that ar’ place I seed
an engine coinin’ smat k into the hind car. I
j thought it l longed toanother train, but it turn-
I ed out to be the lornnfotivc of our train coinin’
, round like a cat after it's owfi tail, and the tlilfi
cutty was, that they’d put on st> long a train that
it went round tlm hull ring, and nothin’saved us
but reversin’ the engine. There is one other ad
vantage, si ranger, in the Catterwiser, ye never
j need a doctor, they bridge right up the mountain
usin’ the little ones for ’hutments, and the onljr
level place is light on lop of the mountain, ao if
ye do run off the track, ycr smashed up so
that one man cannot he told from another.'’
A X A MEKICAK fcATDV TO BF. QcKF.N OF NaPLES.
—li is rumored that Louis Xu|x)leoii and sires to
put hi- cousin, Lucieti Murat, a few years ago a
planter in I lot id i. on the throne of Naples. Mur
at is a good nil til ed person, hut has neither en
j orgy nor wit ommgit to make a king ill times
like these. He has, however, one great advan
tage to bark him, which no king in Europe can
! bmg of. for be bus a Yankee wife, and she is not
only a handsome woman still, but has intellect,
energy, and decision enough to keep her husband
, oil the thro lie without the aid of a police. What
a novelty 1 A genuine Yankee lady transformed
into a r -gular Queen, and Queen of Naples, too,
the lovliest spot in the world — not more famous
I for its Vesuvius and Pompeii than its umivalled
inacearoiu and soup. This may lead, if she gels
there, to the tiaal settlement of this inextricably
Italian problem — for Ly making the late Mr*.
Murat, late of Florida, and now a princess at
Paris, Queen of Naples and Empress of Italy, we
may sec, at Ica-l, this beautiful land restored to
content ami harmony, for the republican parly
would !: satisfied to see a Yankee in |x>wer,
while the royalists would make no objection as
long as she was an Empress
To Pkkskkve Smokeo Meat.—How often are
we disap|M>ihted in cur liojk-s of having sweet
hams <!11■ in ir tip; summer i After carefully cur
ing and smoking. and then sewing them up in
cotton hag*, we tile I tl.at either the fiv ha* com*
inenceil a tainily in our hams, or that the choicest
parts round the hone are laiuted, and the whole
spoiled.
Now this ran Imj easily avoided hr packing
them in pulverized charcoal. No matter, how
hot the weather, or how thick the Hies, ham* will
keep quite a* sweet as when they were packed
for years. The preservative quality of charcoal
will keep them till the charcoal itaelf will de
cay.
Hotter, too, put in a clean crock and •mound
ed hy pu'veiized charcoal, will uot become ran
cid. *>
“It is strange,” muttered a young man as be
1 staggered home from a supper parly, “how evil
Communications corrupt good manners—l have
, been surrounded by tumblers all the evening, and
’ now lam a tunj bier myself.”
NUMBER 46