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The Southern Democrat. (Oglethorpe, Ga.) 1851-1853, October 16, 1851, Image 1

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Ll. J ‘ EVERY THURSDAY MORNING in advance. Two Dollars am Fikty six months, or Thkek Dollars at the end subscription Will he receiw l for it six months, nor will any paper be dis ■, unfit arrcttragc* arc paid, unless at the Hf the publisher. inserted at One Dollar per square lines or less, for the first insertion, and Fifty each subsequent insertion. A liberal din* to those who advertise hv the year, and an 1 Clerks of the Courts, who adver s^^K];irlv in thi |*a|>er. Those sent without spe a* to the number of insertions, wiM he pub- K„| ordered out, and charged accordingly. must be paid for on delivery. on business must be post i-aii> to ensure nt 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.”