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In DaRTLETt’s Building onj/dcon Street.
POETRY.
The Dead Jlariuer.
■SB BY GEO. D. rRENTICE.
on—sleep on—<ibove thy corpse
winds their S.ibbuh keep—
Sg wave is round thee—and thy breast
with til ■ heaving deep :
thee, mild Eve her beauty tlings,
there tile w bite gull lifts her wings,
the blue Halcyon loves to lave
plumage in the holy wave.
on—no willow o'er thee bends
melancholy air.
violet springs, nor dewy rose,
sou! of love lays b ire:
there the sea-flower bright and young,
by the noon-day sun
like a weeping mourner far,
pale Hag hangs its tresses there.
on—sleep on—the glittering depths
■bf ocean’s coral caves,
thy bright urn—thy requiem,
music of its waves.
purple gems forever bum
beauty round thy urn,
| ■ 1 deep “, infant love,
sea rolls its waves above.
on—sleep on—the fearful wrath
mingling cloud and deep,
leave its wild and stormy truck
c thy place of sleep.
when the wave has sunk to rest,
now, ’twill murmur o’er thy breast,
the bright victims of the sea
will make their home with thee.
on—thy course is far away,
love bewails thee yet
the heart-wrung sigh is breathed
■■And lovely eyes arc wet;
she thy young and beauteous bride.
Hr thoughts arc hovering by his side,
oft she turns to view with t airs
■ic Eden of departed years.
The Coward.
veriest cow..rd upon e rth,
; Hls he who fears the world's opinion;
acts with reference to its will,
conscience swayed by it s dominion.
is not worth a fe ithers weight.
■ l’li't must withuther minis be niunsunul f-
Bftlf must direct, self emit -snHpL^|
■ For honest hsart.s ‘tvv is ne'er
Hi:'v. cmlvjh:y. hoyeciusft 10 fear,
Whose tmitives h ive their fiod offended,
mvlleigltbor say, if I
tms attempt, or that, or t'other?
is most sure a foe,
If he prove not a helping brother.
■bat man is brave, who braves the world.
Who o’er life's sea his bark he steercth,
keeps that guiding star in view,
■ A conscience clear th ,t never veereth.
Hi! ISC’ E la I, \ A KOliK.
■ The Heroine of Saratoga.
■ax incident of the revolution.
■the dark period of the Revolution which pro
H the capture of Burgoyne on the plains o.
Hga. friends of liberty, incensed and driven
■t 1° desperation, by the repeated success of
arms and the cruelty with which the
s.lßHhyrioncnL-were treated by the enemy.
Bed’ to ledVgdteir domestic friends “march
■ the battle field,” and risk their all upon the
of a die. New York, Rhiladilphia, and
■ other im|H>rtant places on the seaboard,
Bin undisturbed possession of the invaders—-
frontier was lined vvith a savage and
■•thirsty foe, and the little Spartan hand, who
■ by the ashes of their fathers, to live free or
■ere compiled to seek refuge in the interior
hut anxiously wait for a favorable
■tunity to avenge the wrongs of their oppress
■untry.
He entrance of Burgoyne into the State of
■ York, from Canada, with a powerful and
■ disciplined army, created fresh alarm, and
Bd a spirit of patriotism among all classes
Bth sexes, which even the martyrs of Ther-
Hlae might have envied.
Hlong the many who thought more of liberty
■ life was Uezekiah Everton, one of the pion-
Hf Western Massachusetts, lie was among
Bust to raise the standard of liberty in New
H>nd, and embrace every opportunity of ineul-
H into the minds of his wife and son (wlio
Hosed the whole family) the same patriotic
B which animated him.
H a beautiful evening in August of 1777, Mr.
Hon appeared more than usually agitated. lie
H the rooms to and fro for a considerable time,
B>ugh in deep thought, and then requested j
B> to bring him ink and pen, and a sheet of
Bj After which time not a word was whisper-1
B any one member of the anxious little family,
folded the sheet, and still holding it:
B hand, placed himself between his wife and j
B
Benry are both our guns ready ?”
Bes sir—l cleaned them both yesterday, and
■n anew flint, for the purpose of pursuing the
■that has made such havoc among our sheep j
B about to ask you to allow me to join a small i
? >f our neighbors for the purpose, to-morrow; i
.. Hhbe far off, and 1 think he might
yt< u * reason- ■? re
■Hff?”'’ ,'ta
rr Xo fathcr-on the contrary, you have gnu * j
FH n - V a ” InoJthatourloS
Cnte, father, let us
I replied the patriot, his eyes sparkling
Cl I) t <6 ott
♦’ ’ ~ ’ 7 var ‘ *** v W
! with youthful animation, “why should we hunt
: the wolf when a lion is in the neighborhood ?”
“A lion !* exclaimed the old lady, “hov did a
lion get among us 1”
“No matter how. He is here among us, and
must be met and conquered. Henry, have you
j any bullets cast?”
j “Only a few we are out of lead.”
I “Out of lead! go to the closet and get two of
the heaviest pewter plates, and melt them into
bullets before you go to bed. The lion must be
conquered, and both of us must join the party.”
“Rut where is he, father f”
“I will explain, my son. A division of the
British army is near us, and anxious for plunder,
and thirsting for blood. General Stark has order
ed out his militia, and calls earnestly upon every
patriot to join him. At dawn in the morning,
we must start for Bennington.”
“Hannah, put a loaf of bread, a piece of cheese,
and a few pieces of dried venison into our hunting
pouches. And shonld I never return’’-for the first
r time a tear glistened in the eye of the patriot, hut
he dashed it from him and continued—“ Should I
never return, this letter (reaching her the letter
which he held in his hand) contains some instruc
tions relative to the management of our worldly
affairs.”
She took the paper and deposited it in her bo
som.
Henry promptly obeyed the instructions of his
father, relative to converting the pewter plates in
to bullets, and had scarcely finished them when
his mother brought him a large pewter mug.
“Melt this also my son; it cannot be put to any
better use, and when you meet the enemy, let eve
ry shot count; but before you go, bid farewell to
Emeline, for it may be your last farewell.”
“Yes, Henry,” said the father, “I will cast the
bullets while you call upon Emeline. Tell her the
bridal day must be postponed; tell her to pray
for the success of our arms, for the speedy eman
cipation of our country from the thraldom of des
potism, and our happiness.”
Henry Everton and Emeline Wharton had been
intimate from childhood. They had recently ex
changed vows of eternal fidelity ; and the day was
appointed when those vows already recorded in
[leaven, were to be ratified at an earthly altar.
The present unlooked fir emergency was like a
death blow to the youthful hoi>es of Henry; but
he braced his nerves to meet it, as he rushed from
his father’s house to reveal it to Emeline. In ten
minutes he was by her side. The deepest anxiety
was depicted on his manly countenance as he
spoke
“Emeline!”
Overcome by his emotion, he could say no
more, and for the first time for many years his
cheeks was moistened with tears.
“Henry!”
Another pause ensued. The anxious girl knew
not what to fear, expait. or hope ; but she endea
vored to prepare herself for the worst.
“Henry, explain ami relieve my suspense.”
“Emeline, we must part, perhaps forever.”
The bloom left her cneek; she in vain attempt-
to rise, vOieiidi WyVbi-getful of every thing bo
her safi ty and welfare, lauglit her in his amis.—
The embrace was mutu l, and restored to Env
line that confidence in H'tiry’s fidelity which his
last words had rendered doubtful. “No more
Henry,” said she, as she grasped his arm inori
closely: “a proof of our atfaction no more; obey
your country’s call ; should you fall, it would Is
in a righteous cause;” said she, after a moment’s
hesitation, “but Henry, we shall meet again 1”
Another heartfelt embrace closed the scene, and
Henry left the presence of his early love with a
much lighter heart than when he entered it. En
couraged by her he could face the cannon,
thougtless of danger, in the hope of returning to
his much loved home, a sharer in the honors of a
glorious victory.
The parting of Mrs. Everton from her husband
and son was brief and affectionate ; her heart was
full, but not a tear bedewed her aged cheek, and
she gave them a blessing and urged them to de
part.
On their arrival at Bennington, the bloody strife
had already commenced ; the odds were fearfully
against our ill-armed and undisciplined militia
but the appearance of recruits, constantly ap
proaching and joining them from every quarter,
encouraged Stark and his little band to hold out
until their forces should justify them in making a
bold but well planned chevaux de frieze, in ho|ies
to surprise and ensnare the enemy. The soldiers
felt, more over, that they were fighting for their
firesides and little ones, the graves of their ances
tors, and the consecrated alters of their religion,
agains, a foe whose only fear was the displeasure
of their royal master. These considerations ner
ved every arm, and animated each heart.
The battle was short and decisive, and in favor
of the Americans. Many a fond wife on that day
became a w idow, many an anxious mother doom
ed to consecrate the memory of a favorite son by
her unavailing tears of sorrow and many a maiden
pressed to her anguished bosom the cold likeness,
as all that remained of her beloved departed.
Immediately after the battle of Bennington, a
beardless youth, apparently not more than fifteen,
offered his services to the commander of the com
pany to which the Evertons were attached, and
was accepted. He, gave his name as Robert Wil
ber. Notwithstanding his youth, his swarthy
companion indicated that he had been accustom
ed to labor under the scorching rays of a summer’s
sun
The company with several others set off with
all possible dispatch to join Gen. Gates at Sarato
ga, where was expected that a severe and divisive
battle would take place. Burgoyne was the more
anxious for it, having ascertained that the Ameri
j can force was daily and hourly increasing.
Early in the evening of the 7th of October, a
I British sentinel introduced himself to one of the ’
piquet guards of the Amercan army, in the char j
acter of a deserter from the Britjti. - jp, but was |
immediately arrestodw* a spy and brought before
| Gen. f or bj 3 safety, the prisoner
give the EngVh countersign for that
and remained a clos* prisoner until it could
ascertained, whether or not he was deceiving
a* , them. Os the intended mo ements of the enemy
he knew nothing. He gav the countersign of
Geii Gates, and was placed uvder a storng guard.
Tasing advantage of this timely and unexpect- j
1 ed intelrgence, Gen. Gates immediately summon
ed a count! of officers, in order to inquire whether
.y brave sprit could be found under their res- j
: pective command, who would voluntarily ran the l
• OGLETHORPE, GA„ TU nfTOßl?rM riisll
almost desperate-risk of ascertaining as nearly as
possible their intended movements. The project
was immediately made known of a chosen few
| whose zeal in the cause could not be doubted,
j when about thirty of the number whose enthusi
| asm overcome all fear of danger excep.t for their
j common country, simultaneously volunteered to
j make the rash attempt. Lots were cast, and the
j important and daring enterprise devolved on
young Wilber. For a moment even his apparent
ly sunburnt cheeks could not conceal the flush
with which they were suffused ; but it was only
for a moment, and within that moment a score of
New England hunters offered themselves as his
substitutes.
“No, replied Wilber, with firmness, “should
consent, I should be deserving of a coward’s fate.
It has fallen to my lot, and let mine be the peril.”
“Hush, youth,” said the General, “leave this
dangerous undertaking to someone of the many
who have already offered their services, and who
if they have not stouter hearts, must be supposed
to have had mor ecxperiencc, and to possess more
physical energy than could possibly be expected
in a lad of your age. I doubt not your patriot
ism, but old soldiers, and we have but few among
us, are more efficient in such cases than a mere
school boy.”
“Sir,” said Wilber, “I am not a school-boy.”
My appearance deceives you. I have recently
passed through a more trying struggle than this;
then do not compel me either to shun that dan
ger which would attend a failure, or the gloiy
which would crown such an undertaking.”
“Enough,” replied the General, “but rememlx'r
on you, perhaps even more than myself, depends
the fate of our gallant little army.”
Then calling Wilber aside, lie gave him the
English countersign, with such advice and direc
tions as he thought would probably be of some
service to the young soldier, who immediately
commenced making preparations for placing him
self between a hare chance for his life, and the al
most certainty of death. Arrayed in the uniform
of a British soldier, and wrapped in a dark cloak,
he was conducted by an officer of the guard to the
outposts of the American camp, when bidding
farewell to his comrades, he started for the camp
of the enemy.
He had now a moment for reflection. He
thought of his lato peaceful and happy home, of
the parents whom he had left clandestinely, and
the probability of never again meeting them on
earti), -but lie thought of his country too, and
pressed forward. In a short time lie found him
self within hailing dastanceof a British piquet.
“Who goes there!” demanded usentinel in a
rough voice.
“A friend.”
“(Jive the countersign.”
Wilber advanced to the point of the sentinel’s
bayonet, and opening his cloak sufficient to show
his uniform, whispered—
“ Success.”
“Right,” replied the unsuspecting sentinel.—
“What news from without.”
“I have been into the rebel camp,” was the
reply. “Their force is small, but rapidly increas
ing, and they are not expecting an attack from us
for several days.”
“Then they will lie disappointed,” replied the
British soldier. “Even now General Burgoyne
is preparing to attack them. Before sunrise, we
must be under arms.”
“I know it,” replied Wilber, “and they will fall
an easy prey to us, but I must hasten to join my
company,” and throwing off his cloak he was
soon in the heart of the enemy’s cainp. There
all was bustle and activity, in anticipation of the
next day’s conflict; and all were elated with the
certainty of an ignoble victory.
Having satisfied himself, after an hour’s ram
bling among the tents, of trying to procure any
further information and aware of the imjiortauce
of immediately conveying to the American Gen
eral the little intelligence he had received, he cau
tiously but boldly left the camp in a different di
rection from that which ho had entered, lie met
with no detention, until accosted by the piquet
guard.
“Who goes there ?”
“A friend.”
“The countersign.”
“Success.”
“Whither bound.”
“For the camp of the rebel, in quest of intelli
gence; I shall be prepared with a disguise and if I
escape detection, I shall return to Gen. Burgoyne
before the dawn of to-morrow. Should I not re
turn you will know my fate.”
“Go then, and may God and the King protect
vou.”
He reached his anxious comrades in safety, and
was soon in the presence of his General, with
whom he had a conference a few minutes, when
confidential messages were immediately prepared
fora desperate struggle. Wilber having chan
ged his dress, was made liearer of the despatches
to the different commanding officers of the regi
ment and company to which ho was attached,
which he was not backward to execute.
Just before dawn, a soft voice whispered in the
ear of Henry Everton, as he was laying on his
musket; “take courage, we shall meet again.”—
Before Henry could recover from his surprise, the
mysterious speaker disappeared; the next mo
ment the drums beat loudly to arms.
It is unnecessary to repeat the bloody scenes of
that eventful, that glorious day; the pages of his
tory record them in letters which can never be
effaced.
Immediately after the battle, Gen. Gates’ first
inquiry was for the gallant youth whose deeds of
daring had contributed so much to the success of
the American arms. But he was not to be found.
It was ascertained, however, from Everton, by
1 whose side Wilber fought, that he had left the
j field a few minutes before the close of the action,
in consequence of having received asevere bayonet
i wound in the right hand. His last words to
Everton, as he dropped his musket and left the
ranks, were “courage, Henry, we may meet again 1”
All search for the brave young hero proved fruit
less.
On the evening of the 11th of October a woun
ded soilder presented himself at the farm house
of Isaac Wharton, and craved accomraodaiions
| f or the night. He bore the impress of extreme
fatigue, aud was readily admmitted.—After hav
ing” partaken of a hearty meal with which ho
seemed much refreshed, he recounted the princi
,j pj,j incidents which attended the battle of Sarato-
i ga, a rat] ; ~~
. of its glorioPth amost supernatural eloquence
After a niot m ‘ ni tion.
the worthy liosfc pause—“ Stranger,” inquired
soilder in the aiV' OU chance t 0 meet a y°"g
“I did,” said Vvt the name of Everton ?”
his emotion, “and\ scarcely able to conceal
I received this did he acquit himself,
a: his side. He cscajW hand while fighting
“Thank heaven for ynjured.”
dreams what sorrow tlwafetyi hut he little
fear that he willl never agin store for him I
ful bride, or we an only daugKfhrace a beauu-
Lold out no longer. Wilber could
“Father, mother, forgive, forg>v
ter!’’ and the next moment EmelineNh r dangh
in the arms of her mother 1 \!° n was
Let those who can imagine what camK,
scribed, picture the scene which followed\n®‘
velation. T*
On the surrender of Burgoyne, about five da
after the general battle, Everton and his fathefi
were disslmrged, .and reached home on the very,
day’ following the incident. Alter an affectionate
welcome by his mother, Heury’s first question
was : “How is Emeline 1”
“Alas! my son !”
Sobs and tears deprived her of utterance, —
Henry forgot the laurels which his bravery had
won, even patriotism itself was forgotten, as he
hung in painful suspense over his weeping and al
most fainting mother. Though his mind was on
tho rack to know the fate of Emeline, he retrain
ed from asking any questions until she should be
come more composed. At this moment a sweet
voice from the outer door fell upon his ear, “Hen
ry we have met again 1 “The voice was familiar,
he had heard it in the battle. Springing to the
door to welcome the brave Wilber, he encountered
Emeline Wharton 1 It was long before he could
he persuaded that the gallant soldier who so gal
lantly fought at Saratoga, was the betrothed.
About three years afterward, a genteel looking
stranger, accompanied by a single servant, halted
at a neat cottage in Berkshire county, Massachu
setts, in front of which sat a sturdy yeoman,”
lulling to slleep, humming Yankee Doodle, S. rest
less lad, some two years old.
“My friend,” said the stranger, “will you be so
kind as to furnish me with a glass of water. Our
horses, too, need refreshment: you shall ho rewar
ded.”
The father cast a scrutinizing glance at the
stranger—
“ General, I am already rewarded, if you will
design to enter my humble cottage!”
Further utterance was impossible; he thought
of former scenes, and rushing from the presence
of the distinguished traveller, he sought his young
wife and whispered—
“An old friend wishes to sec you.”
Observing an unsual flush in the countenance
of her husband, sho anxiously inquired—“who is
it”
“I will show you,” said lie, “come with me.”
“In the meantime the stranger dismounted and
without ceremony entered the cottage, anxious to
know by whom Uo bad bega,.i;ecoirj>ized in.-a sec
tion of the country where lie had never IS-fore vis
ited, and where ho would least expect to be ad
dressed by his military title.
lie was met at the door by Henry Everton,
leading by the hand tho blushing Emeline, and
bearing oil the other their only pledge of youthful
love.
“General Gates,”'said Henry, “do you remem
ber Robert Wilber?”
“I do,” said the General interrupting, “where
is lie ?”
“She is here?” returned Henry, pointing to Ein
cline. “Thanks be to heaven for tho discovery,”
exclaimed tho veteran hero, as he grasped the
hand of the soldier’s bride, and kissed the little one
which was nestling uneasily in the hands of its
father; “receive the, blessing of an old soldier, who
will never forget the Heroine of Saratoga,”
The Iflan of Leisure.
“You’ll please not forget to ask the place for
me, sir,” said a pale, blue-eyed boy, as he brushed
the cotiLpftho Man of Leisure at his lodging.
1 “Certainly not,” said Mr. Inkling, “I shall be
going that way in a day or two.”
“Did you ask the place for mo yesterday I” said
the pale boy on the folllowing day, with quiver
ing lip, as he performed the same office.
“No,” was the answer; “I was busy, but I will
to-day.”
“God help my poor mother,” murmured the
boy, as he gazed listlessly ou the cent Mr. Inklin
laid in his hand.
The boy went home. He ran to the hungry
children with the loaf of bread he had earned by
brushing the gentlemen’s coats at the Hotels.
They shouted with joy, and his mother held out
her emaciated hand for a portion, while a sickly
smile flitted across her face.
“Mother dear,” said the boy. “Mr. Inklin thinks
he can get me the place, and I shall have three
meals a day; only thinlu mother, three meals!—
and it won’t take me Uireo minutes to run and
share with you.”
The morning came, the pale boy's voice trem
bled with eagerness as ho asked Mr. Inkliu if he had
applied for the place.
“Not yet,” said the Man of Leisure; “but thcro
is,time enough ”
The cent that morning was wet with tears.
Another morning arrived.
“It is very thoughless in tho boy to be so late,”
said Mr. Inklin.
“Not a soul here to brush my coat.”
The child came at length, his face swollen with
weeping.
“I am sorry to disappoint you,” said the Man
of Leisure; “ the place in Mr. C ’s store was
taken up yesterday.”
The boy stopped brushing, and burst into tears.
“I don’t care now,” said he sobbing, “we may as
well starve. Mother is dead.”
The Man of Leisure was shocked. He gave
the boy a dollar.
Mr. Inklin was taken ill. He had said often
that he thought religion was a good think, and he
meant to look into it. An anxious friend brought
?aclergyman to him. He spoke tenderly, but ser
iously, to the sufferer, of eternal truth.
“Call to ihorrow,” said the Man of Leisure, “and
we will talk about these matters.”
That uiglittheMan of Leisure died.
Debt is a horse that is always throwing its ri
der. Fools ride him bare back, and without
bridle.
Typographical Errors.
Vexatious typographical errors will sometimes j
occur in newspapers, in spite of all the vigilance;
that can be exercised. Editors do not often trou- j
ble themselves much about them, knowing their i
readers to be capable of distinguishing those tha i
are the fault of the proof reader, and trusting sot i
indulgence to the extenuating circumstance of j
haste and hurry in going to press. *lhev cannot =
always be avoided, even when time is given for (
thorough reading, and all conceivable precaution j
adopted. We have recently met with a curious I
historical fact, which may be appositely related in
this connection. It is to the effect that some hun
dred years ago, a number of the Professors of the
Edinburgh University attempted to publithh a
work which should be a perfect specimen of typo
graphical accuracy. Every precaution was taken
j to secure the desired result. Six experienced proof
J readers were employed, who devoted hours to the
jading of each page, and after it was thought to
it was pasted up in the hall of the Urn-
with a notification that a rewaid of £SO
anett? fi paid to any person who could discover
weeksV Each page was suffered to remain two
fore theSf P' ace “* iere had keen kc-
Jk was completed, and the professors
y •, When the work was is
sued, it waa x had
Xof wh chwas in the first
lmo of the fi'*tpa^ M/futo Qom Advertiser .
There is a class of m,* ! communit
who go about with vinegar
somebody feels above them; HL. U 9 are
not appreciated as they should 1^. (1 wllo ' have
a constant quarrel with their destinJ\rrj’h ese men
usually have made a very grave mist;Xj_ es
timate of their abilities, or are mitigntcav ps . j n
either case they are unfortunate.
fault-finding with one’s condition or position
curs there is always a want of self-respect, ‘v
people despise you do not tell of it all over town},
if you are sroartshow it. Do something and keep
doing. If you are a right down clever fellow
wash the wormwood off your face, and show your
good will by your deeds. Then if the people feel
above you go straight oft’ and feel above them.—
If they turn up their noses because you are a me
chanic, or a farmer, of a shop boy, turn up yours
a notch higher. If they swell when they pass you
in the street swell yourself; if this does notfetch them
them, conclude very naturcdly that they are un
worthy of your acquaintance, and pity them for
missing such a capital chance to get into good so
ciety.
Society never estimates a man at what he ima
gines himself to be. He must show himself to he
possessed of self-respect, independence, energy to
will and to do, and a good sound heart. These
qualities and possessions will “put him through.”
Who blames a man for feeling above those who
are mean enough to go round like babies telling
how people abuse them, and whining because so
ciety will not take them by the collar and drag
•aUftm into decency ?— Capital. Reporter.
The model Ilnsltnnd.
The following description ofa “Model Husband”
appeared in the Boston Olive Branch. It is, says,
the editor, from the pen of a lady in good position
in society, and the presumption, therefore, is “that
the model husband is the true style of husband,
and what all good married men should be. “In
looking over,” he further remarks, “nearly forty
years of our married life our goodwife has never
exacted quite so much of us, but she merely wa
ved her rights, we suppose.”
His pocket-book is never empty when his wife
calls for money. lie sits up in bed, at night, feed
ing Thomas Jefferson Smith with a pap spoon
whilst his wife takes a comfortable nap and dreams
of tho new shawl she means to buy at Warren’s
the next day. As “one good turn deserves an
other,” he is allowed to hold Tommy again be
fore breakfast, while Mrs. Smith curls her hair.—
He never makes any complaints about the soft
molasses ginger bread that is rubbed into his hair,
coat, and vest during these happy, conjugal sea
sons. He always laces on his wife’s boots, last
the exertion should make her too red in the face
before going out to promenade Washington stect.
Ho never calls any woman “pretty,” before Mrs.
Smith. He never makes absurd objections to her
receiveing boquets, or the last novel, from Captain
this, or Lieutenant that. He don’t set his teeth
and stride down to the store like a victim, every
time his wife presents him with another little
Smith. He gives the female Smiths French gai
ter boots, parasols and silk dresses without stint,
and the boys, new jackets, pop guns, velocipedes
and crackers, without any questions asked. He
never breaks the seal and of any of his wife’s bil
let doux, or peeps over her shoulder while she
is answering the same. He never holds the drip
pings of the umbrella over her new bonnet while
his last new hat is innocent of a rain-drop. He
never complains when he is late home to dinner,
though the little Smiths have left him noting but
bones and crust.
Ho never takes tho newspapers and reads it,
before Mrs. Smith has a chance to run over adver
tisements, deaths, and marriages, <fcc. He always
gets into bed first, cold nights, to take off the chill
for his wife. Ho never leaves his trowssers, draw
ers, shoes, &c., on the floor, when he goes to bed,
for his wife to break her neck over, in the dark,
if the baby wakes and needs a doso of Paregoric.
If the children in the next room scream in the
night, he don’t expect his wife to take an air-bath
to find out what is the matter. He has been
known to wear Mis. Smith’s night-cap in bed,
to make the baby think he was its mother.
When he carries the children up to be christen
ed, he holds them right end up, and don’t tum
ble their frocks. When the minister asks him
the name—he says “Lucy—Sir,” distinctly, that
he need not mistake it for Lucifer. He goes
home and trots the child till the sermon is over,
while his wife remains in church to receive the
congratulations of the parish gossips.
If Mrs. Smith has company to dinner and there
are not strawberries enough, and his wife, looks
at him with a sweet smile, and offers to help him,
(at the same time kicking him gently with her
slipper under the table) he always replies,’ “No I
thank you, dear, they don’t agree with mo.
Lastly. He appoves of “Bloomers” and “pet
tiloons,” for he says women will do as they like
—he should as soon think of driving the nails in
to his own coffin, as trying to stop them.
The following is an extract from a letter
by Yankee Silsbee, now on a professional tour in’
England, to the Detroit Daily Advetirser:
We roamed with a party of others through the
various apartments of the Tower, and our guide,
who was a chatty, talkative little man, frisked
about and showed us every object with a deal of
gusto. At last he came to the great cannon and
ordinance captured from the enemies of various
nations.
“This piece,” said our little guide, with all the
pomp of a little Englishman, who never feel so
happy as when boasting of their victories, “this
piece is from Waterloo. Lord how we did beat
them there. This is from Badejos ; this is from so
and so,” and he ran over the cannon, dilating on
the history of each with evident satisfaction in eve
ry muscle of his countenance.
I saw he was highly diverted with relating the
exploits of his nation, so I thought I would “bring
him to anchor” a little, as the sailors say. All at
once I looked carefully about me, turned my head
every which way, and then looked inquiringly at
the guide.
“What are you looking for, sir, may I inquire!”
at length said he, “we’ve got trophies from all na
tions.” and he pointed to a number of interesting
specimens with their mouths gaping open like hun
gry hull-dogs.
“Have you, indeed ?” said I, carelessly, “I was’nt
looking for French trophies nor Spanish.”
“Perhaps it’s the Chinese ?” interrupted he.
“No, nor the Chinese,” said I, “but I see you
have got so much stuff laying about there, where’s
all that captured from the Americans, eh?”
“Ah 1” grunted he looking amazingly blank,
“the Americans—yes the Americans —from the
Americans you mean ?”
“Yes,” replie 1 1, still looking, “I don’t see any
from the United States—where is it all, I want to
sce‘ it ?”
“Oh, yes ! that taken in America, I sec, yes.”
“Exactly,” repeated I, “I heard you took a good
ydenl at Bunker Hill and Bennington and Trenton
\d those ] places.”
Nfo we did,” said he quickly, “but it was such
°ld Null’ that we didn’t care about bringing it
homc\
J ust tibn a sudden thought struck him; his eyes
rolled up, ajjttle blood flew to his cheeks and he
evidently He took the queue and back
ed down. \\en the company were going out,
he leaned overVd whispered in my ear that I
was a Yankee. \
“I’m nothing else',Bir,” said I, “and as for that
old stuff you took at York town and several other
places I might mention, I’ll toll them so send it
over to you when i get home.”
Taking Notes
A great many years ago, when there where
slaves in Massachusetts, and some of the best men
. in the community owned them, there was a cler
gyman in a town in Eissex comity, whom we may
call Rev. M. Cogswell, who had an old and favorite
• servant by the name of Cuffee. As was often the
cast!. Coffee had es roorh liberty tc. do tut 1> pleas
ed as any body else in the house; and he probably
entertained a high respect for himself.
Cuffee od the Sabbath might have been seen
in the master’s pew, looking round with a grand
air and so far as appearance indicated, profiting
quite as much by his master’s preaching as many
others about him.
Cuffee, noticed, one Sunday morning, that sev
■ral gentlemen were taking notes of the sermon;
and he determined to do the same thing. So, in
the afternoon, he brought a sheet of paper, and pen
and ink. The minister happening to look down,
into his pew, could hardly maintain his gravity,
as he saw his negro, “spread out” to his task, with
one side of his face nearly touching the paper,
and his tongue thrust out of his mouth. Cuffee
kept at his notes, however, until the sermon was
concluded, knowing nothing and caring as little,
about the wonderment of his master.
When the minister reached home, he sent for
Cuffee to come into his study. t
“Well Cuffee,” said he, “what wore you doing ‘
in meeting this afternoon ? j
Doing, Massa ? Taking notes” was the reply,
“You taking notes !” exclaimed the master.
“Sartin, Massa?”all tho gentlemen take notes.
“Well let me see them,” said Mr. Cogswell.
Cuffee thereupon produced his sheet of paper;
and his master found it scrawled all over with
all sorts of marks and lines, as though a dozen of
spiders, dipped in ink had marched over it.
“Why, this is all nonsense,” said the minister,
as he looked at the notes.”
“Well, Massa,” Cuffee replied, I thought so all
the time you were preaching?”— Carpet Bag.
An Anecdote.
A correspondent of the New York Spirit of
the Times relates the following:—
A distinguished member of the Legislature was
addressing a temperance society, and he got rath
er prosy, but showed no disposition to “let up,”
though the audience waxed thinner. Finally
the presiding officer got excited, and repairing to
a friend of the seaker’s inquired how much lon
ger he might reasonably be expected to speak ?
Whereupon the friend answered, “he did'nt ex
actly know —when he got on that branch of the
subject he, generally spoke a couple of hours.”
“That’ll never do; I’ve got to make a few re
marks myself, said the President, “how shall I
stave him off?”
“Well I don’t know—in the first place I should
pinch his left leg, and then if he should’nt stop
I’d stick a pin in it.”
The Picsident returned to his seat, and his
head was invisible for a moment. Soon afterwards
he returned to the ‘brother’ ” who had perscribed
the pin stylo of treatment, and said—
I pinched him, and lie did’nt take the least no
tice at all—l stuck a pin into his leg and lie did’nt
seem to care; I crooked t in and he kept on
spouting as bard ns ever.!”
Very likely,” said the-wag, “that leg is,cork'!”
Nothing has been seen of that President since.
Two Things at Once. —“l say. Paddy,”-said
a philosopher, “can you do two things at Che same J
time 3” ?
“Can’t I r answered Paddy, 1111 do that any
day 1”
“How ?” inquired the philosopher.
“Why,” replied Paddy, “I’ll be slapeing and
drameing at the same time, don’t you see ? So
none o’ your gammon for a spooney.”
