Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

BY BENJAMIN P. POORE. The Southern Whig, PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY MORNING. terms. Three dollars per annum, payable within six ■months after the receipt of the fn st number, or four dollars if not paid within the year. Sub scribers living out of the State, will be expect ed in all cases, to pay in advance. Ko subscription received for less than one year, unless the money is paid in advance; and no paper will be discontinued until all arrear ages are paid, except at the option of the pub lisher. Persons requesting a discontinuance, •of their Papers, are requested to bear in mind, a setfement of their accounts. Advertisements will be inserted at the usual cates; when the number of insertions is not •specified, they will be continued until ordered out. fry- All Letters to the Editor or Proprietor, on matters connected with the establishment, must be post paid in order to secure attention tty-Notice of the sale of Land and Negroes, by Administrators, Executors, or Guardians, must be published sixty days previous to the day of sale. Ths sale of personal Property, in like manner, must be published forty d ays previous to the day of sale. Notice to debtors and creditors of an estate must be published forty days. Notice that Application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for Leave to sell Land or Ne groes, must be published four months. Notice that Application will be made for Letters of administration, must be published thirty days and Letters of Dismission, six months For Advertising—Letters of Citation. 8 - 75 Notice to-Debtors and Creditors, (40 days) Four Months Notices, 4 uu Sales of Personal Property by Executors, Administrators, or Guardians, d 2? Sales ofLand or Negroes by do. 4 7o Application for Letters of Dismission, 4 50 Other Advertisements will be charged SIOO for every thirteen lines of sinful type, (or space equivalent,) first insertion, and 50 cents for each weekly continuance. If published every other week, 62 1-2 cents for each continuance, it published once a month, it will be charsed 7-> cents each time. For a single insertion, $1 00 per square To our ratroiis. The undersigned having assumed the man agement of the Whig, it is perhaps necessary, incompliance withtho usages of the country, that he should give a brie/ indication of the course he intends to pursue. Tne politics of the Whig will undergo no change : believing that the Virginia and Ken. tucky Resolutions of 1778 and / J 11 • correct exposition of the rights of the States, m d of the relative powers ot the General and i State Governments, he will adopt them as the polar star, which he should never loose sight of; and the Constitution as the chart 10 direct him ir. his political course. He will advocate the liberal system of In ternal Improvements now in progress ; Gen eral Education ; improvement in Agrieu.tiire , Direct Importation; and all other subjects calculated to promote the prosperity ot Ins attention will be paid to fur wishing a variety of interesting Matter; Foreign and Domestic News■, Election Returns; Reports of the principal Markets at home and abroad ; and to render the Ladies Department worthy of their approbation, with out whichpit were useless to proceed. of .he peculiar jmeuluea a end ng the management of « public murnnlan the responsibility which it imposes, it is notjvithout feelings of diffidence that he coininences i lit undertaking—but, although he may not effi ct much by his own efforts, yet, with the as s tance from others which he hopes to obtain, he flatters himeelf that the Whig wil serve as an efficient support to theprmciples winch it advo cates, and the general interests of the South. Benjamin P- * oore. A Word to Subscribers. In purchasing the Whig, we bought the debts due the establish ment, which have been accumulating trom its first establishment, and have thus assumed heavy responsibilities, to meet which we solicit those indebted to it to transmit us, by mail or .otherwise, the amounts respectively due. TO THE PUBLIC. HN. WILLSON tenders bis thanks to • the public, for the liberal patronage bestowed on his Stage Lines, and would res pectfully inform them, that he is running a JDnilv Line, (Sn ndavs excepted.) of FOUR - CHES, from the Georgia Rail Road to Athens, Ga. via. Greensboro', Salem, and Watkinsville. Wf ATT, ARRANGEMENTS, From Augusta to Spring Place, Ga. Leave Augusta, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, at 6 A. M., and arrive at Athens same day, at.lo P- M. Leave Athens, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, at 6 A. M. and arrive at Gaines sville same day at 4 P. M. Leave Gainesville, Mondays. Wednesdays, and Fridays, at 2 A. M„ and arrive at Spring rPiace next day nt 8 P. M., where it intersects :a Line of Four horse Post Coaches, for Nash-. ■viilc.Ten., via Ross’ Landing, and also a line of .Stages for Knoxville, Ten., via Athens, Ten. .Accommodation Line. Leave Augusta, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and at 6 A. M. and arrive at Athens >same dayby-lO P. M. Leave Athens, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, at.lo A. M., and arrive at Augusta .next day by 11-2 P. »M. Stage Office at the bar ofthe Eagle & Phoenix ;Hotel in Augusta, and at the Rail Road Hotel, Athens. Jan. 12,—37—2t TheJChrcnicle and Sentinel, anti Consti tutionalist, Augusta, will please insert the above. 11. N. W. FOUR months after date, application will be made to the Honorable Inferior Court es (Oglethorpe county, while sitting ns a Court of (Ordinary,.for leave to sell the real Estate of .William G- Jennings, deceased. WILLIAM W. RUSH, Adm r. Dsc’r. 8,—32— 4 m FOUR months afterdate, applieation will be made to the honorable the Inferior court of Jackson county, when sitting for Ordinary pur noses, for leave to sell the Tan Yard, and 1C acres more or less adjoining it, as part of the real er tale of Mumford Bennet, deceased. 7 • MJyJ)J KTON wm; JAdin’r. NANCY RENNET. 5 Adm’x. November 10 —28—4u»r Soutern jMigceUaneoug. From the New York Mirror. New Music.—The following are the words of Horn’s beautiful new melody, as sung by Mrs. Horn at the re cent concerts and musical soirees. It is a production ot exquisite merit, and must of course become universally popular. ALL THINGS LOVE THEE—SO DO I. Gentle waves upon the deep, Murmur soft when thou dost sleep; Little birds upon the tree, Sing their sweetest songs for thee ! Cooling gales with voices low, In the tree-tops gently blow, When in slumber thou dost lie, All things love thee —so do I. When thou wak’st, the sea will pour Treasures for thee to the shore ; And the earth, in plant and tree, Bring forth fruit and flowers for thee ! While the glorious stars above, Shine on thee like trusting love : From the ocean, earth and sky, All things love thee—so do I. From the Augusta Mirror. PRIZE TALE. THE BRITISH PARTISAN. A TALE OF THE TIMES OF OLD. BY MISS MORAGNE, OF SOUTH CAROLINA. CONTINUED. CHAPTER VIII. “Ambition is at distance A goodly prospect tempting to the view, The height delights us : and the mountain top ? Looks beautiful, because ’tis nigh to heaven ; But we ne’er think how sandy's the foundation, What storms will bitter, and what tempests shake j . I lii the mean time the British officer had been fulfilling a wild and bitter destiny. When on that eventful morning he fled before his pursuers to the river, he found that he ba 1 but one resource. The pursuers were close at hand, and he could not have reached the other bank in safety, if even his wound had not in capaciated him swimming. But from a boy, he had acquired great proficiency in the sport of diving ; and was noted for the length of time he could remain under water.—Ralph now turned this talent to good account. With his handkerchief he first bound tighly the ori fice, where a bullet had entered the thigh, and jumping into the water, he contrived by swim ming and diving to reach a place where its transparency would least betray him, and where a bodv of leaves had drifted up against ... . i . i _ • * _ . i... • an old log which extended far into the river, where he concealed himself with just enough of his face above the water to ensure respira tion through the friendly covering of leaves. When his enemies reached the bank, he heard the curses of disappointment, the dreadful im precations uttered against him; but deeper ilian the bitterness of all this, was the sicken ing feeling of contempt with which he dis covered the treachery of Hugh Bates. ‘“And it is with such men that I am classed!” —he said te himself as he lay all day under that close watch. Nature was nearly exhausted; but Ralph Cornet would sooner have given himself as food to the fishes, than to have be come the prize of those desperate men. But when the electric waters conveyed to him the last echo of their retreating lootsteps, he raised himself, and looked around. The moon was riding high on a sky of that soft exquisite blue, which belongs purely to the American autumn ; and as its bright rays fell upon the river, seemingly setting the li. quid element on fire with a flood of silver light, it appeared as though a new' heaven and earth were created within that immense reflec tion. The bright yellow and red tints of the autumnal trees, mingling with the fadeless hues of majestic evergreens on the western bank, lay mirrored there in a dreamlike repose which the stillness of night and deeply con. trastieg shades around rendered almost fearlul. Ralph gazed a few moments; but in those few moments what years of astonished thought were comprised! Not that he had never veiwed that scene before. He had looked on nature in all her varied and beautiful forms, and held communion from his infancy, with river, rock, and hill. He was nature’s foster child. From her whispered teachings he had gleaned all the knowledge he possessed, and in the days of innocence he had loved her voice ; but now, from the depths of that awful volume, a tone went to his heart, which, for the first time, awakened remorse. He felt ! that he was not what he had been—that ho ne ver could bo that free, that happy, that joyous thing again. As a sense of his utter wretchednesss. of his degradation came over him, the illusions which had dazzled his youthful imagination faded away, and revealed to him the meagre skeleton he had embraced. Hunted like a wild beast by the best part of his countrymen —-betrayed by the other, with whom his spirit seemed to mingle—and she, even she had de serted him. Oppresjd by all these thoughts, faint from less of blood and benumbed with the cold, Ralph Cornet sank on the ground. This man of pride, and strength, and daring, now that there was nothing left to live for, resolved to die there alone in darkness. Cold shivering fits came over him, succeeded by a feeling of suffocating heat, which brought the cold per spiration to his brow, and soon he would have been in a raging fever ; but that guardian an gel, which guides the children of mercy through storm and darkness, whispered a word : of hope which drew the wretched man from > th# verge of despair. “There is yet one being left to piiy me,” —said he—“l will arise and' goto my father; —I have wronged him but he ’ will pardon me.” ’ He arose, aud followed the thic.kety bank for some miles, insensible alike to pain, fear, or , danger.;-but the cool air, and exercise modera 'ted the incitement of his blood ; and his senses f gradually became clearer, lie had arrived f within a mile of his home, when he bearu the splashing of oars in the water. Every stroke of the paddles became fainter and fainter, and he stooped down to the bankjust in time to ob serve a party of four or five men landing on e the Georgia side, from the kind of canoe then 1 commonly in use. “W hat can these rascally Doolys have been after,” —thought he—“they are no friends to e our family?”—and Ralph’s step quickened in voluntarily as he t hought of his father’s huiely and unprotected situation. His wvrst fears were confirmed (or lbs fi ,-st “WHERE POWERS ARE ASSUMED WHICH HAVE NOT BEEN DELEGATED, A NULLIFICATION OF THE ACT IS THE RIGHTFUL REMEDY. ‘jj i sight which greeted him was a column of back I smoke streaked with fitful gushes of red flame *• arising from his native dwelling. He gave rot one glance to the ruin around him, bul rushed into the house calling loudly on the name of his father. His voice was lost in ,f the loud roaring of the devouring elements; y but by the horrid glare which overspread the room, he recognized a bed in one corner, from which hung the body of a human being, as if it had fallen in the attempt to escape Ralph Cornet staid not to assure himself that, it was his father, —he staggered forward, and seizing the bodv, bore it from the devouring flames. He laid it upon the grass in the bright moon light, and threw himself upon it in bitter an guish ; but scarcely had he done so, when he started up suddenly, exclaiming : - “Oh God ! he lives !”—and placing the head upon his knee, he put back his silvery hair from the high, pale brow. The blood began to stream afresh from a wound in the shoulder as the fresh air revived him, and Ralph obser ved that a bullet had passed quite through it, causing a great effusion of blood which inde pendent of the suffocating effects of the bur ning house would have occasioned a swoon.— The young man shuddered at the thought, that but a few minutes later, and he would have seen only the ashes of his father’s funeral pyre. But as he reflected that a good angel had guid ed him there for the purpose of saving his fa ther’s life, he felt that he was not quite a wretch. With something es joyful alacrity, he bond up the wound ; and seeing his father’s lips move in the pain which the action occa sioned, Ralph bent his ear close to catch the sound : ! “Begone,” —said the old man failly,—“let me die in peace.” “Father.”—said Ralph, fondly,—“you may yet live.” The father’s eyes opened :—“James, is it you, my son?” he asked. “No, father ; it is your poor Ralph.” The red glow of tho flames threw a vivid light upon that spot; and the old man looked ! Up iong and earnestly on the pale countenance | which was bending over him —his own was not more ghastly —as if slowly recollecting something painful. His brow gathered into a a dark frown, and he made an impatient gest ure with his hand : “Go, go”—said he, —“I cannnot bear you !” “Father.”—said Ralph in an agony of im ploring tenderness—“surely you do not hate me too ?” “Yes, I hate you —replied he in a hollow and shiviering tone of wrath—“l hate you as much as ever I loved you before. You were my darling, —my youngest born, tho lust gift of your mother, who is above. In all this’eoun try there was none like you. I saw in you the glory of my own youth revived, and I pri ded jin you ; but you have disgraced,—you have humbled me. You are the first traitor of my blood !” —and exhausted by this torrent of passion, the old man sunk back, with his head on the grass, and gnahing his teeth in nnguish. “Take back the word, —take back the word,” —said Ralph sullenly—“l have betray ed no trust!” “Boy!”—said the old man, raising himself with a violent gesture, and pointing with one hand to the house, timbers of which hud just fallen in with a loud crash and lent up n strong lurid flame to the sky—“ Boy ! behold your work ! Freedom, Freedom, was your trust; and behold one of her many pillars fallen through your means. You first neglected, and then raised your arm against her —call you not that treason ?” “Oh God !”—said Ralph,—“must I bear all this ?” The last drop of his cup was full—his heart was humbled as a child’s, and he burst into > tears. The proud father turned suddenly to him, as ' if doubful of what he heard ; and, as he re- I garded him a few moments, the ferocity, which • gleamed in his eyes, subsided into a calm and > concentrated gaze ot contempt; and strong ! impulsive bitterness ot which convulsed his i features with a ghastly and unconscious ’ smile. • “Miserable boy !” —said he—“what has be- • come of the strength of your glorious patriot ! ism? Traitors at least should never weep; t they should have that one virtue—the power to r bear. Go—you are not of my blood; I dis. 1 own you.” ’ “Father”—said Ralph, fiercely—“‘cease 1 your reproaches —whatever may have been r my early errors, I have wept them in tears ot I j blood.” „ I “Then, why not redeem them boy ?” | I “And act a double treason!” —said Ralph. ‘ “No! I will die in the faith I have t sworn. “Then leave me”—said the old man—“leave 3 me for ever!” . ),|| 1 x-rvii m Rnfl'tV. fa. “Not ill 1 have placed you m satety, la ther i” — sa id Ralph mournfully.—“ The tories will ruturn to see if their work prospers, and they must not find you here?” “And is it you who would protect me against the tories?” —said the farther sneeringly. Ralph bit his lips until the blood gushed from ; them ; but without trusting himself to reply, he seized the feeble frame oi the old man in his arms, totteied with it to the brink of the river. A canoe was quietly playing there in an eddy ofthe stream —Ralph’s own canoe, the barque of his boyish sallies! Somehow amid all the changes that had passed, it had been spaied ; perhaps, like modest worth, it could flatter no passion, serve no interest. Justus he had left it, it remainded —locked to a willow. Ihe key was lost, but Ralph wrenched away the pin, and placed his father in it; and having given one last look to the painful scene be hind him, where the fiery streaks were fading away on the horizon, he breathed a bitter curse on those who had wrought this destruc tion of household wealth —this utter disola ' tion ; and then guided his little canoe swiftly | and noiselessly down the stream. He remern i bored a hanging rock beneath which he had once taken shelter from a storm, on the river. It was a retired place, completely hid by the rising ground and trees, and only accessible ; by means of a lagoon which backed up from i the river. The eye of mortal man seldom i visited the spot; indeed, it was so entirely ■ hemmed mby the swampy verdure of the two I hills which enclosed it; and was, besides,! ■ so dark and gloomy that it offered but little to i tempt the curiosity or daring ofthe boldest, i But w here was it Ralph Cornet had not pene trated ? There was not a single creok, or in. > let, for many miles along that river, which he j had not explored m his indulged, and ndven - turous childhood; and every dill and cave >• had opened its secret treasures to his j as the heir of an independent estate, lit* uris .t I tocraliv fitlbpf had f'gtcqesl ju loin the bold & ATIIEAS, GEORGIA. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 9,1539. k daring spirit which led him to rove unshack e led through nature’s wide domain, and perfect e himself in all the hardy branches of her sci it ence, rather than submit to the dull trainings e of domestic labor. This the father had never a regretted until now ; for though his proud boy . ( had the strongest and the lightest and merriest e heart in the whole country, there were none n more passionately fond, more considerately f kind. Even his wild, ungoverned passions 1 had a tone so generous and elevated, that every 3 one predicted that young Cornet would be a r blessing to his country. His father listened ; ’ and wound him still more closely around his . heart. When the time come that bis eldest son volunteered for the service of the state, > though he saw the fire of ardor burning in Ralph’s eve, he could not resolve to give him | up. How different would have been his ■ /course if he could have foreseen that in so i : short a time, the seif.governed spirit of the ■ youth would betray the imperfections of his . judgement to his ruin ? Now he was “fallen—fallen —fallen from his high estate and the deeps n! that father’s immeasurable love were stirred i.ito angush, not unmingled with remorse ; but the pride which had so qualified that affection, now in its mortified bitterness, deceived the old man into the belief that he really felt the hatred he expressed for his son. Yet in that moment, (- . , Ralph Cornet would have died to save his fa. (her ! He undrestood by nature’s sympathy how the strength of his love betrayed itself in the violence of his hatred ; and, as an atone ment for its justice, which he felt, he resolved to devote himself, with humble and filial duty to his protection. Ralph well knew the unsleeping vigilence—the untiring, wolf-like ferocity of his father’s enemies. He hardly thought of his own perilous situation ; but he conducted his light canoe, freighted with the almost insensible body of his father, to the wild spot before mentioned, as the only place of refuge for them both. The moon was sinking behind the western bank of the river; but it threw its last obli quely into that gloomly retreat, and by its light Raiph gathered a couch of dried leaves under the rock, and laid Ins father upon it. He also took off his coat—that coat lately so fine with the trappings and badges of his relations with the royalists, but now tarnished sadly by the dnj’s misfortunes—and formed a pillow for the haughty republican’s head. For many days and nights Ralph watched him there in secret—and his tended assiduities his untiring patience through the reproaches and fretfulness of sickness and anger, at length won nature back to his father’s heart. “Bless you, bless you, my boy !’’—said he, one morning when Ralph having returned with fresh water, and dressed his wound, placed some food before him.—‘Surely, such a kind heart as your’s must be brave and noble, how ever it may have been duped. But, how pale you look, my son—l fear confinement in this horrid place will kill vou : belter von had left uuutu win u*n vou, uglivi vvu ikiu j me to be burnt alive, for these rascals will have t ' me at last. They can never rest since that t unfortunate shot with which I killed their ■ ‘ brother as he was carring off my English ; mare—the thieving dog! ho was paid for ‘ it!” “No father !”—said Ralph—“you are safe 1 here for a time, 1 trust. No one but Juba 1 know’s of our existence—and ho is not likely to betray us. We can remain here until these 1 troublesome times are over, for sure ns there ’ 1 is a God above, our wretched country will I I rise sometime from under the rule of the i I wretched.” j 1 ‘•That’s spoken iike my son ;” —said the i I old man, with a fond, and almost cheerful ac- 1 1 cent. > 1 That day, contrary to his usual custom —for I he only ventured out in the darkest hour of H night—Ral| h wound his canoe for some dis- ! 1 lance up the steep and narrow gorge of the ; 1 lagoon until he found a place where he might j land. As he clambered up the bank, a branch • of the tree, to which he had clung, broke off. i and fell into the stream ; but he heeded not the circumstance, and having gained the sub mit. he took a circuitous route across the woods to the hut ot the old African, from whom he had hitherto received the supplies which sustained his father and himself in their j exile. This old negro had long been suppor. ted by his father for the good he had done; and though he now lived to himself, and was actually free, he gloried in the relation of mas ter & servant, and still retained the warm affec tion for tins masters family, which tune had strengthened into a habit on faithful nature. He would sooner have been flayed alive than hrve betrayed them; and cheerfully shared with them the daily pittance which he either j earned or begged, for he bad saved but little from his master’s stores. It was a lonely, long, and unfrequented way, which Ralph had to tra verse, and the sun was setting at evening, when he again entered his canoe. As the little ves sel heaved up and settled its point upon the sand Ralph was alarmed by the sight of many footsteps, and marks of violence; and rush ing into the cave, he fell on his knees before the horrid spectacle of his father’s bloody and mangled corpse. Wildly he raised the head, to assure himself that lite was indeed gone— and that he was all alone. Then his brain seemed to whirl round, aud he held his brow with a maddening clasp until tears came to his relief. During the night he scooped a shallow grave, under the rock, where, without other shroud than his tattered garments, he laid the violated remains of his deeply loved par ent. The tears, which he had at first shed, relieved the weight on his heart ; for they were lightenesl by the reflection that he had soothed the sufferings of that parent, aud that his last words had been a blessing. Perhaps, too. he consoled himself, that those eyes were closed on a world where they would have seen only soriow. But that awful burial of the murdered; there, alone, and in darkness, was an outrage too shocking to the feelings of a son, and as he proceeded in the bitter task, the tears became congealed on his eyelids, aud a stern rancour pore over the latent softness of his heart. He went forth from that cave, harsh and uupitying as a savage—vowing to match the blood of a Dooly with that so free ly shed. The old man had spoken truly, from an intimate knowledge of the character of these fierce men. I'hey could not rest whilst ihev thought their brother’s blood cried to them i from the ground ; and when they had shot his destroyer in his bed, and set fire to the house over Ins head, after having secured to them selves everything valuable, they believed their revenge consummated. It was generally sup. posed that old Cornet had perished thus, and they bad no suspicion ofthe fact of his escape until, us they were passing down the river the fated morning of Ralph’s absence, a green branch flouting on the mouth of the lagoon excited their curiosity so far as to lead them it investigate the mystery. As the man who ! believed he had killed some poisonous reptile, and seeing it again move its sings, springs up on it, and ends, not until he has crushed it from the form of nature, thus they sprungs up on that weak old man, and mangled him with wanton and beastly cruely. But, as if in con formation of the truth, that “murder will out,” they left, by mistake, a gun behind them, which they had stolen from his father ; and by this means Ralph, if he had doubted before, would have been enabled to identify the mur derers. They would doubtless, return soon to look for it; at least Ralph judged so. and he linger ed there with the hope that they would come; that he might on that spot satisfy the manes of his father. But towards daylight, he grew impatient, and left the cave. A new and fierce ambition had seized him—it was the desire of drowning his sorrows in the noise of battle —of revenging on his kind some of the misery which maddened him. He had now no ties for good or evil ; but he remembered the friendship of Furguson, who had not appeared ungrateful for the assistance he had rendered him ; and he resolved, if possible, to join him in his operations, as he originally intended, and resume command of a company which he had undesignedly relinquished. [to be continued.] DR. JOHNSON’S PUDDING. Last summer I made an excursion to Scot land, with the intention of completing my se ries ol views, and went over the same ground described by the learned touri -ts, Dr. Johnson and Boswell. lam in the habit of taking very long walkson these occasions ; and perceiving a storm threaten, I made the best of my way to a small building. I arrived in time at a neat little inn, and was received by a respecta ble looking man and wife, who did all in their power to make me comfortable. After eating unie excellent fried mutton-chops, and drink ing a quart of ale, I asked the landlord to sit down, and partake of a bowl of whiskey-punch. I found him, as the Scotch generally are, very intelligent, and full of anecdote, of which the following may serve as a specimen : “Sir,” said the landlord, “this inn was for merly kept by Andrew Macgregor, a relation of mine ; and these hard-bottomed chairs (in which we are now sitting) were, years ago, filled by tho great tourists Dr. Johnson and Boswell, travelling like the lion and jackall. Boswell generally preceded the Doctor in search of food, and being much pleased with the look of the house, followed his nose into the larder, where he saw a fine leg of mutton. He ordered it to be roasted with the utmost ex pedition, and gave particular orders for a nice pudding.—“Now,’’says he, “make the best of all puddings.” Elated with his good luck, he immediately went out in search of bis friend, and saw the giant of learning slowly advan cing on a pony. “ ‘My dear sir,’ said Boswell, oat of breath with jov, ‘good news!’ I have just bespoke, at a comfortable and clean inn here, a deli cious leg ®f mutton : it is now’ getting ready, and I flatter myself we shall make a most ex cellent meal.’—Johnson looked pleased—‘And I hope,’ said he, ‘ you have bespoke a pudding.’ ‘Sir, you will have your favorite pudding,’ re plied the other. “Johnson got off the pony, and the poor an imal relieved from the giant, smelt his way in to the stable. Boswell ushered the Doctor in to the house and left him to prepare for his de licious treat. Johnson feeling his coat rather damp, from the mist ol the mountains, w ent in to the kitchen, and threw his upper garment on a chair before the fire : he sat on the hob. near a little boy w ho was very busy attending the meat. Johnson occasionally peeped from behind his coat, while the boy kept basting the mutton. Johnson did not like the appearance of his head; when he shifted the basting-ladle from one band the other hand was never idle, and the Doctor thought at the same time he saw something fall on the meat, upon w hich he determined to eat no mutton on that day.— The dinner was announced ; Boswell exclaim ed, ‘ My dear Doctor, here comes the mutton —what a picture! done to a turn, and looks so beautifully brown!’ The Doctor tittered. After a short grace Boswell said— “‘l suppose I am to carve, as usual ; what part shall 1 help you to?’ The Doctor re plied— “ ‘ My dear Bozzy I did not like to tell you before, but 1 am determined to abstain from meat to-day.’ “ ‘O dear! this is a great disappointment,’ said Bozzy. “ ‘Say no more; I shall make myself am ple amends with the pudding.’ “Boswell commenced the attack, and made the first cut at the matton. ‘How the gravy runs ; what fine-flavored fat, so nice and brown too. Oh, sir, you would have relished this prime piece of mutton.’ “The meat beina removed, in came the long wished for pudding. The Doctor looked joyous, fell eagerly to, and in a few minutes j i nearly fnished all of the pudding ! The table - 1 was cleared, and Boswell said— . “ Doctor, while I was eating the mutton you j ■ seemed frequently inclined to laugh ; pray tell | i me what tickled your fancy ?’ “The Doctor then literally told him all that; 5 had passed at the kitchen fire, about the boy 1 aud the basting- Boswell turned as pale asu • parsnip, and, sick of himself and the company, ’ - darted out of the room. Somewhat relived, ' . on returning, he insisted on seeing the dirty j little rascally boy, whprn he severely repri- I tnanded before Johnson. The poor boy, ■ cried ; the Doctor laughed, | “ ‘ You little, filthy, snivelling hound,’ said ■ Boswell, 'when you basted the megt, why did you not put on the cap I saw’ you in this morn. ■ > u g?’ i “‘ I could n’t, sir,’ said the boy. , “‘No! why could n’t you !’ said Boswell. s “ ‘ Because my mammy took it from me to t boil the pudding in !’ . “The Doctor gathered up his herculean i frame, stood erect, touched the ceiling with his f wig, stared or squainted —indeed, looked any way, but the right way. At last, with mouth I i wide open (none ofthe smallest.) and stomach : heaving, he with some difficulty recovered his ’ , breath and looking at Boswell with dignified I f contempt he roared out, with the lungs ot a ’ t Stentor —- , I ) “‘Mr. Boswell, sir; leave off laughing, i and under pain of my eternal displeasure, nev- • er utter a single syllable of this abominable ad venture to any soul living while you breathe.’'. r ‘And so, sir,’ said mine host, ‘you have the' . positive fact from the simple mouth of your 1 humble servant.’ ” B Angelo's Reminiscences. e n Candor is perhaps the only virtue by which n we retaju our real friends, and rid ourselves q ? worst 0 I from Chambers Edinburgh Journal. THE UNKNOWN PAINTER. t One beautiful summer morning, about the . year 1830, several youths of Seville approach, i od the dwelling of the celebrated painter Mu . rillo, where they arrived nearly at tho same ' time. After the usual salutions, they entered , the studio. Murillo was not yet there, and each of the pupils walked up quickly to his easel to examine if the paint had dried, or per haps admire his work of the previous evening. Mendez, with a careless air, approached his easel, when an exclamation of astonishment escaped him, and he gazed in mute surprise on his canvass, on which was roughly sketch ed a most beautiful head of the virgin : but | the expression was so admirable, the lines so clear, the contour so graceful that, compared «. ith the figures by which it was encircled, it seemed as if some heavenly visitant had de scended among them. “Ah, what is the matter?” said a rough voice. 'The pupils turned at the soundand all made a respectful obeisance to the great master. “Look, Scnor Murillo, look I” exclaimed the youths, as they pointed to the easel of Mendez. i “ Who has painted this—who has painted 1 this head, gentlemen ?” asked Murillo, eagerly. / “Speak, tell me. lie who has sketched this Virgin will one day be the master of us all. Murillo wishes he had done it. What a touch ! . what a delicacy! what a skill! Mendez, my | dear pupil, was it you ?” , i “No seuor,” replied Mendez, in a sorrowful tone. “Was it you, then, Isturitz, or Ferdinand, or ( airlos ?” But they all gave the same reply as Men. dez. “It could not, however, come here without hands,” said Murillo, impatiently. “This is certainly a curious affair, gentle, men,” observed Murillo, “but we shall soon learn who is ibis nightly visitant. Sebastian,” he continued, addressing a little mulatto boy,' about fourteen years old, who appeared at his call, “did I not desire you to sleep here every J night ?” “ Yes master,” said the boy with timidity. “ And have you done so ?” ‘‘Yes, master.” “Speak, then —who was here last night and ■ this morning before these gentleman]came? Speak, slave, or I’ll make you acquainted with my dungeon,” said Murillo angrily to the boy, who continued to twist the er.d of his trowsers without replying. “ Ah, you don’t choose to answer,” said Mu rillo, pulling his car. " No one, master, no one,” replied the trem bling Sebastian with eagerness. “ That is false,” exclaimed Murillo. “No one but me, I swear to you, master,” cried the mulatto, throwing himself on his knees, in the middle of the studio and holding out his little hands in supplication before his master. “ Listen to me,” pursued Murillo, “I wish to know who has sketched this head of the Virgin, and all the figures which my pupils find every morning here on coming to the studio. This night, in place of going to bed, 'you shall keep watch ; and if by to-morrow ■ you do not discover who the culprit is, you , ! shall have twenty-five strokes of the lash. — j You hear—i lave said it; now go and grind I the colors; and you, gentlemen, to work.” j It was night, and tire studio of Murillo, the ■ I most celebrated painter in Seville—this studio, j which, during the day, was so cheerful and ' animated, was now silent as the grave. A , I single lamp burned upon a marble table, and a ; young boy. whose sable hue harmonized with i i the surrounding darkness, but whose eyes ■ sparkled like diamonds at midnight, leant j agaiest an easel. “Twenty-five lashes to- . ; morrow if I do not tell who sketched these : , I figures, and perhaps more if I do. Oh, tny God, come to my aid !” and the little mulatto threw himself upon the mat which served ■ him for a bed, where he soon fell fast asleep. Sebastian awoke at day-break ; it was only three o’clock ; any other boy would probably ; have gone to sleep again; not so Sebastian, , who had but three hours he could call his own. “ Courage, courage, Sebastian,” he exclaim ed, as he shook himself awake ; “ three hours are thine—onlv three hours; then profit by i them; the rest belong to thy master—slave, i Let me ut least be my own master for three [ short hours. To begin, these figures must be ' ; effaced,” and seizing a brush, be approached I the Virgin, which, viewed by the soft light of . I the morning dawn, appeared more beautiful j than ever.- . i “ Efface this!” he exclaimed, “efface this! .No; 1 will die first. Efface tins—they dare i i not—neither dure I. No —that head—she i ; breathes —she speaks—it seems as if her blood I would flow if 1 should offer to efface it, and • ■ that I should be her murderer. No, no, no ; I ■ rather let me finish it.” its it it J al—.— {Scarcely had he uttered these words, when, ( 1 seizing a pah lie, he seated himself at the easel, ; and was soon totally absorbed in his occtipa ' tion. Hour after hour passed unheeded by Sebastian, who was too much engrossed by ! the beautiful creature of his pencil, which seemed bursting into life, to note the flight of ! time. “ Another touch,” he exclaimed ; “a 1 soft shade hero—now the mouth. Yes. there ! l it opens! those eves—they pierce methrough! what a forehead! what delicacy! Oh my I ' beautiful—” and Sebastian forgot the hour, i forgot he was a slave, forgot his dreaded pun ishment—all, all was obliterated from the soul ofthe youthful artist, who thought of nothing, saw nothing, but his beautiful picture. But who can describe tho horr«r and con sternation ofthe unhappy slave, when on sud denly turning round, he beheld the whole pu. pils, with Ins piaster at their, head, standing beside him. Sebastian never once dreamed of justifying himself, and, with his palette in one hand, and his brushes in the other, he hung down his head, awaiting in silence the punishment he believed he justly merited. For some moment# a dead silence prevailed, for it Sebastian was confounded nt being caught in the commission > of such a flagrant crime, Murillo and his pit- i pils were not less astonished at the disc overy I they had made, I Murillo having with a gesture of the hand ! imposed silence on his pupils, who could hardly ! refrain themselves from giving way to their admiration, approached Sebastian, and cotl- > cealing his emotion, said in a cold and severe tone, while he looked alternately from the beautiful head of tho \ irgin to the terrified 1 slave, wh > stood like a statue before him. •‘ Who is your aster, Sebastian ?” “ You,” replied the boy, in a voice scarcely audible. J “I mean vour drawing master,” said Mu I pllu, Vol. VI—No. 40. “You. senor,” again replied the trembling slave. “ It cannot be ; I never gave you lemons,” ’ said the astonished painter. “ But you gave thorn to others, and I lis tened to them,” rejoined the boy, emboidoiieM by the kindness of his master. “ And you have done better than listen ; you have profited by them,” exclaimed Muril lo. unable longer to cot.cent his admiration, “Gentlemen, docs this boy merit punishment or reward?” At the word punishment, Sebastian’s heart beat quick ; the word reward gave him a little courage, but fearing that his ears deceived him, he looked with timid and imploring ayes towards his master. “A reward, so or,” cried ths pupils in 4 breath. “ That is well; but what shall it be ?” Sebastian began to breathe. “ Ten ducat,, at least,” said Mendez. ‘•Fifteen,’' cried Ferdinand. “ No,” said Gonzalo, “ a beautiful new dress for the next holiday,” “ Speak, Sebastian,” said Murillo, looking at his slave whom none of I hose ’awards sooth ed to move, “are these things wot to yo?r taste? Tell me what you wish for ; I am so much i pleased with your beautiml cempcsition, that I will grant any request you may make.—, Speak, then do not be afraid. “ Oh. master, if I dared—” and Sebastian, clasping his hands, fell at the feet of his mas, ter. It was easy to rend in tho half opened lips of the boy, and hrs sparkling eyes, some devouring thought within, which timidity pre vented him from utteiing. With the view of encouraging him, each of the pupils suggested soras favor for him to de, maud. “ Come, take courage,’’ said Murillo, gaily. “ The master is so kind to-day,” said For. dinand, half aloud, “ I would risk something ; ask your freedom, Sebastian.” At these words Sebastian uttered a cry of anguish, and raising his eyes to his master, he exclaimed, in a voice choked with sobs, “ The freedom of my father !~—the treedom of my father !” “ And thine also,” said Murillo, who no longer able to cunceul his emotion, throw his arms around Sebastian, and pressed him to bis breast. “ Y’our pencil,” he continued, “ shows that you have talent; your request proves that yo« have a heart; the artist is complete. From this day consider yourself n«»t only asm/pupil, but as my sou. Happy Murillo, I have done more thm paint—l have made a painter,” Murillo kept his word, and Sebastian Ge. tnez, better known. under the name of tho Mu rillo, became one of the most celebrated pain, ters of Spain. There may yet be seen in tba churches of Seville the celebrated p'eturo ; which ho had been found painting by his taas. I ter; also at St. Anns, admirably done a holy Joseph, which is extremely beautiful; and > others of the highest merit. Intolerance.— Dr. Franklin being in eom ! pany where intolerance was th® subject dia. closed, the Doctor, to illustrate same remarks 1 which he had made in favor of toleration, taak up a Bible, and opening at Genesis, read the following parable, to the surprise as th® h«ar. ers, who wondered that such a passage hades, caped their notice : “ And it came to pass al', ter these things, that Abraham sat in the door of his tent about the going down of the sun. And behold a man bent down with ago was ' commg down from the wilderness, leaning oh I a staff. And Abraham arose and ifiet him, a id said unto him, “ Come in, I pray thee, and ■ wash thy fket, and tarry the night.” Aud thu I old man said, “ Nay tor I will abide under this tree.” But Abraham pressed him gently, so he turned and went into the tent. And when Abraham saw that he blessed not God, he said unto him; “ Wherefore dost thou uut warship the most High God, Creator of Heaven and Earth !” And the mau answered and said, “ t - do not worship, thy God, neither do I eail up. I on his name, for I have made a God unto my. self, that dwelielh in iuy house aud pruvidulh 'ma with all things.” And Abrauiuu'a wrath was kindled against the mau, iuiJ beaieeeaud drove him forth into ths wilderness with blew®. Aud God said, “ Have I uot born with him these three hundred and eight years, and nnur. ished him and clothed him, notwithstanding he rebelled against me, couldst not thou, who art thyself a sinner, bear with hint one uight,?’’ Tub Finals to a Col-rtship.—“Flora—? )ah ! dearest Flora—l am come—ah! Flora I am come to—ah! you can decide my fatu —1 am come, my Flora—ah!” I “ I see you, Malcolm, perfe«tly. You are j come, you tell tne. Interesting iuteUigeuee, l certainly. Well, what next?” “ Oh, Flora ? I am esme to—to” “To offer m« your heart and hand, I pose ?” “Yes.” “ Well, do it like a man, if you can, and uu| like a monkey.” ! “Plague take your self- possession J” tx, claimed I, suddenly starting up from toy ku«*» upon which I had fallen in anattitudc that might ! have won the approval of Madame tie Mail lard Fraser; “you may make ma twhaiuod myself.” “ Proceed sir,” said Flora. “ You like brevity, it would se«m ]’* “ Yes,” replied Flora. ..'fhen—will you marry me?” “ Yes.” “ Will you give me a kiss?” “You may take one,” I took the' pisfertd kiss. “Now that is going to work rationMly.*, said Flora : “ wlrnu u thing is to be »md why may it not bo sud in two seconds, instead ot stuttering and stammering about it? Oh, Lpiw cordially Ido hale all nwirtes/” exclaimed the merry maiden, clasping her fciui<Uenerget ically. “ Well, then,” said I, “ humbug njwit, what day shall we fix for o» <r marriigo?” | Gov. Clark, or Kentucky.— This gen, I tieman in his late Message has spoken warm- Ily against th ’ nbnlitio lists. We are plea« 4 to this. Ke tm ky will probably in a short time, be closely connected with us by the great Rail Road, and it is important that a good im derstanding should exist between her, and us, on the subject of o’tf peculiar institmiotis. We cordially extend the hand of friendship, tu her distinguished men, who stand up ffir |I,J South, on the vital question of slavery.