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THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
Is published every Thursday Morning,
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MADDEN.
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Columbus, March 7, 1850, 10 “
NORTH CAROLINA
Mutual Life Insurance Company.
LOCATED AT RALEIGH, N. C.
rpHE Charter of this company gives important advan
.L tages to the assured, over most other companies.
The husband can insure his own life for the sole use and
benefit of his wife and children, free from any other
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Nov. 13,1819. _
TO RENT,
TILL the first day of January next. The old printing
office room ot the “Muscogee Democrat
Apply at this office. 1® “■
County Surveyor.
TIIC undersigned informs his friends and the Planters
of Muscogee county, that he is prepared to make
official surveys in Muscogee county. Letters addressed
to Post Office,Columbus, will meet with prompt atten
tion. VVM. F. SERRELL,
County Surveyor.
Office over E. Barnard Sc Co.’s store, Broad St.
Columbus, Jan. 31,1850. 5 ly
NOTICE.
rpHF, firm name of “M. H. Dessau. Agent ” is changed,
1 from this date, to M. H. DESS AU.
Columbus, Feb. 7, 1850. ®
Williams, Flewellen & Williams,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW,
CO T.U MBITS, GEORGIA.
May 23. 1850. 21
M Globe Hotel,
BUENA VISTA, MARION CO., GA.
BY J. WILLIAMS.
March 14,1850. ts
Williams & Howard,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW,
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA.
KOBT. R. HOWARD. CHAS. J. WILLIAMS.
April 4,1850. 14 ts
J. D. LESNARD,
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
TALBOTTOX, GA.
WILL attend to business in Talbot and the adjacent
counties. All business entrusted to his care will meet
with prompt attention. „. .
April 4, 1850. H ly
KING & WINNEMORE,
Commission Merchants,
MOBILE, ALABAMA.
Dec. 20,1849. [Mob. Trib.] 15 tl
THIS PAPER
IS MANUFACTURED BY THE
Rock Island Factory,
NEAR THIS CITY.
Columbus, Feb. 23, 1850. 9 ts
WANTED.
1A A AAA R AGS - for clean cot
IUIf.UUU ton or linen rags—3l cents per pound,
when delivered in quantities of 100 pounds or more ; and
3 cents when delivered in small quantities. For old
hemp, bagging, and pieces of rope, 11 cents, delivered
either at Hock Island Factory or at their store in Co
lumbus, in the South comer Room ol Oglethorpe House.
D. ADAMS, Secretaiy.
Columbus, Feb.’28,1850. 9 tt
WHEAT ! WAEAf ! WHEAT!
ONE Dollar and fifty cents paid for strickly prime
white wheat, and one dollar and 37 cents paid for
strictly prime red sun dried wheat, at Winter's Palace
Mills, in cash. If required, it can becleaased at the
mill free of expense.
JOE JEFFERSON, Miller
3!av30,1850. 22 ts
YOL. I.
From the Knickerbocker for May.
Song—A Lesson itself Sublime.
BY MRS. SARAH T. BOLTON.
A lesson in itself sublime,
A lesson worth enshrining,
Is this : ‘I take no note of time
Save when the sun is shining.’
These motto-words a dial bore,
And wisdom never preaches
To human hearts a better lore,
Than this short sentence teaches:
As life is sometimes bright and fair,
And sometimes dark and lonely,
Let us forget its pain and care,
And note its bright hours only.
There is no grove on Earth’s broad chart
But has some bird to cheer it;
So hope pings on in every heart;
Although we may not hear it:
And if to-day the heavy wing
Os Sorrow is oppressing,
Perchanee to-morrow's sun will bring
The weaiy heart a blessing:
For life is sometimes bright and fair,
And sometimes dark and lonely,
Then let’s forget its toil and care,
And note its bright hours only.
We bid the joyous moments haste,
And then forget their glitter;
We take the cup of life and taste
No portion but the bitter;
But we should teach our hearts to deem
Its sweetest drops the strongest :
And pleasant hours should ever seem
To linger round us ‘ongust;
As life is sometimes bright and fair,
And sometimes dark and lonely,
Let us forget its toil and care,
And note its bright hours only.
The darkest shadows of the night
Are just before the morning,
Then let us wait the coming light,
All boding phantoms scorning ;
And while we’re passing on the tide
Os Time’s fast-ebbing river,
Let’s pluck the blossoms by its side,
And bless the Gracious Giver :
As life is sometimes bright and fair,
And sometimes dark and lonely,
We should forgets its pain and care,
And note its bright hours only.
[From the Lady's Book.]
THE SURPRISE PARTY.
BY T. S. ARTHUR.
Mr. nnd Mrs. Atherton, and their two
daughters, Helen and Alice, were sitting one
evening in January 7, enjoying anew book,
which one of the latter was reading aloud,
when a ring was heard. The reader paused,
and, for a few moments, they remained, list
ening and expectant. A servant went to the
door.
‘Are the ladies at home V was heard asked,
in a man’s voice.
Then a movement, as of two or three per
sons entering, was noticed.
‘I wonder who they are V said Alice.
‘Some one has gone up stairs/ remarked
Mrs. Atherton, who had been listening. You’d
better go and see who it is, Helen.’
The daughter was about rising to do as her
mother had suggested, when one of the par
lor doors opened, and a young gentleman,
dressed with care, presented himself.
‘Mr. A ! How are you this evening ?
I’m very happy to see you !’ said Mr. Ather
ton, advancing to meet the young man, and
welcoming him cordially.
The others greeted him in return, and he
then took a seat among them.
‘l’m sure some persons went up stairs/ said
Mrs. Atlienton, speaking aside to Helen.
‘True. I heard them plainly/ And Hel
en retired from the room. As she came to
the foot of the stairway in the passage, she
was a little surprised to find a light in the
room which opened from the first landing,
and to perceive, through the half-opened door,
the figures of the three persons moving with
in. She went up quickly and entered. Three
young girls, intimate acquaintances, were
there, all tastefully dressed, and displaying a
profusion of ornament.
‘Why, Anna!—Jane!—Cordelia!’ fell
from the lips of Helen, as she grasped a hand
of each in succession, and exchanged saluta
tions. Then there came a pause. Helen’s
countenance assumed a quick, thoughtful air;
while her young visitors were full of life, and
every nerve quivering in anticipated pleas
ure.
‘Walk down into the parlors/ said Helen.
‘Father and mother and sister are there/
As they were leaving the room, Helen’s
eyes rested upon the lamp that burned upon
a table. It was a small, fancy, gilt lamp, and
bad never before been seen by her. She no
ted the fact, but her mind was too much ex
cited at the moment to reflect on so singular
a circumstance.
The appearance of the three rather elabo
rately dressed young ladies, as an addition to
the family party below, very naturally creat
ed some surprise, and disturbed the mental
equilibrium of those in the parlor. But
the Athertons were well-bred people, and
not easily drawn off their guard by anything
mal-apropose. The social circle widened
with graceful ease, and the unexpected visi
tors of the evening were quickly made at
home.
In about a quarter of an hour the bell rang
again when two more elegant-dressed young
ladies, with a male attendant, appeared. They
were also intimate acquaintances, and joined
the company in the parlor in that familiar, ‘of
course’ kind of way, that mystified the Ather
tons, who, by this time, began to fear that
some misunderstanding had Liken place, like
ly to produce unpleasant and mortifying re
sults. But, as before said, they were well
bred people, and manifested no signs of dis
comfiture or surprise.
A third addition of this kind caused Alice
and Helen to retreat to their chamber, in or
der to give some little attention to their toilet;
and Mrs. Atherten soon followed their exam
ple. While this was going on, the bell con
tinued to ring, and company to arrive every
few moments; and, by the time they descend
ed again to the parlors, a party of between
twenty and thirty were assembled there, most
of them particular acquaintances, and all
perfectly at home. Additional lights w 7 ere
now ordered, and things made to correspond
as perfectly as possible with the suddenly
changed order of affairs, and with little appar
ent hurry and no apologies.
A family council, composed of Mr. and
Mrs. Atherton, and Helen, was now 7 called,
in order to fix upon some concerted action
in so strange an emergency.
‘What does it mean?’ said Mr. Atherton,
in a whisper, so soon as they were alone.
‘There is some mistake/ remarked Mr.
Atherton, gravely.
‘A very strange kind of a mistake. We’ve
sent out no invitations to a party/
Mr. Atherton shook his head, and com
pressed his lips.
vTIlc Soutljcrn .Sentinel.
‘Somebody has taken a very unwarranta
ble liberty with us. I fear/ he remarked.
‘No doubt all of these persons have received
regular invitations to attend a party at our
house to-night, and are here, as they believe,
at our instance/
‘ls it possible any one could do a thing
like that V said Mrs. Atherton.
‘les. There are persons who take a
strange pleasure in annoying others who with
practical jokes, and the greater the annoyance
they can produce, the higher is their gratifi
cation. To someone of our friends, who
seeks enjoyment in this ungenerous mode,
we are no doubt indebted for the affair on
our hands this evening. I can only say, that
I have particular reasons for regretting the
mode he has chosen to annoy us. But as our
friends are here, innocently, we must not on
ly do our best to entertain them, but avoid the
slightest intimation that they were not ex
pected.’
In this all agreed. While conversing, the
bell was kept constantly ringing, and party
after party of guests arriving.
‘I wonder how many more are coming?’
remarked Mrs. Atherton, as she listened to a
mingling of several voices in the passage, af
ter the street door had been again opened.
‘lt w ill be a large party, without doubt/
replied Mr. Atherton ; for when an affair of
this kind is gotten up, it is rarely a halfway
piece of work/
‘We will have to procure refreshment/ said
Hellen.
‘Certainly. The company are here upon
our invitation, as they suppose, and we must
give them a suitable entertainment/
‘lt is too late to provide a regular supper,’
suggested Mrs. Atherton.
‘Yes; that is now out of the question. We
shall have to confine ourselves principally to
cake, wine, fruit, and confectionary/
‘And make a pretty liberal order for that,
if the company continues to assemble much
longer at the present rate/ said Mrs. Ather
ton.
Her husband did not answer to the remark,
but suppressed a sigh that was throwing it
self involuntarily from his bosom.
‘We must decide this mattersoon/ suggest
ed Mrs. Atherton.
‘Yes. In half an hour or so we will be
able to make some estimate of what will be
wanted. Then I will send round an order
to Parkinson for ice-cream, cake, confection
ary, &c., for a party of a given number ; and
to our grocery for wine and fruits/
This and other little matters pertaining to
the entertainment being settled, they returned
to the parlors and rejoined the company. As
Mr. Atherton was entering the rooms, noxv
pretty w r ell filled, he was still more surprised
than he had y 7 et been, to hear the movement
of a bow across the strings of a violin. This
w 7 as repeated three or four times, and then a
familiar air came from the instrument, and
there w r as a movement in concert on the floor.
In other words, a cotillion had been formed ;
and w r hen Mr. Atherton w 7 as able to take a
survey of the rooms, he discovered a grinning
negro fiddling aw 7 ay in one corner, and the
obedient dancers threading their mazy circles
in harmony with the strains he was drawing
forth.
Here w r as a new 7 and not so easily explain
ed feature in the affair. Who had ordered
the music ? That puzzled him. But, as he
dwelt upon it, light came in. It was one
of the harmonious parts in the practical joke.
The individual who had amused himself with
sending invitations, in the name of the fami
ly, had, in the name of the family, ordered a
fiddler. So that, after a little reflection, was
explained.
Self-composed, affable and attentive, the
Athertons moved amid their company with
an easy familiarity, so well amused that few
could have detected, even with close obser
vation, the restless surprise that lay beneath
all.
About nine o’clock, and just as the} 7 were
about sending an order for refreshments, tw r o
colored men entered and bore a large basket
between them through the passage into the
dining-room. Here they made themselves
perfectly at home. The tables in the room
w r ere set out, and covered with clothes which
they had brought with them. Upon these
were arranged elegant china dishes, plates,
saucers, etc., w ith knives, forks, and spoons.
‘Well, I am confounded !’ exclaimed Mrs.
Atherton to her husband, as the two met in
one of the chambers above for further consul
tation. ‘I don’t know wliat to make of it.’
‘Nor do 1/ returned the husband. I con
fess to being entirely puzzled/
‘lt is plain that a supper has been ordered
by someone/
‘Yes, that is evident enough/
‘Wouldn’t it be well to ask some questions
of these colored waiters who have taken pos
session of the dining-room, without so much
as saying by your leave/
‘No—no,’replied Mr. Atherton; ‘w r e will
ask no questions; that w 7 ould betray our ig
norance and surprise too much/
‘There is no need of our sending for refresh
ments/
‘None at all. Instead of considering our
selves entertaners, w 7 e may as w 7 ell place our
selves among the entertained, and have no
further care for anything/
And so the Athertons acted from that time.
It was in vain that efforts w r ere made, through
the most careful observation, to detect the
master of ceremonies in this affair. No one
appeared more forw r ard than the others ; but
all acted in such perfect concert, that it was
plain to Mr. Atherton, at length, that some
general understanding existed among the
w r hole party.
At eleven o’clock, one of the strange wai
ters came up to Mr. Atherton and announced
to him that supper w 7 as ready.
‘Very well/ replied Mr. Atherton, as nat
urally as if he had ordered the supper himself,
and then gave notice to the company to pass
into the dining-room for refreshments. A
splendid entertainment had been provided,
consisting of all the delicacies served up on
such occasions, both light and substantial,
with an abundance of choice wines and rare
and delicicious fruits.
It can hardly be a matter of wonder, that
the continued surprise of the Athertons took
away all appetite for the dainties set forth in
such tempting profusion. They were active
and attentive to all during the gay repast,
but took of little themselves.
After supper the company went back to
the parlors. Asew 7 more cotillions w 7 ere danc
ed, and then they all retired. At half-past
twelve o’clock the Athertons were alone. The
waiters who brought in the supper had reraov-
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, JULY 18, 1850.
ed everything, leaving scarcely a trace behind
them.
‘lt’ this isn’t a dream, it’s the strangest wak
ing adventure in social life that I have ever
heard of/ said Mr. Atherton.
‘l’m puzzled entirely/ added Helen. ‘I
can’t understand it at all. I never heard of
such a thing. Like father, I’m half inclined
to think we are dreaming/
‘Who could have gotten up the affair, and
carried it through so adroitly?’ said Mr. Ather
ton. ‘I tried, all the evening, to detect some
one a little more officious than the rest, but
was not able to do so/
‘lt was well managed, to say the least of
it/ remarked Mr. Atherton; ‘but, being a
practical joke, the enjoyment was all on the
side of the jokers —1 say jokers, for it seems
to me, now, that it was a concerted thing;
and that all present understood each other
perfectly.’
‘Do 3 7 0 u think so?’ exclaimed Alice, strik
ing her hands together in sudden surprise.
‘So it presents it&lf to me/
‘You’ve guessed right, without doubt,’ said
Helen, as a light went over her face. ‘Now
I can understand a good deal that puzzled
me. Well, as you say, it was handsomely
managed/
‘But, as I said still further, the enjoyment
was all on one side. We had some of it, I
believe.’
‘lt was no pleasure to me/ remarked Mrs.
Atherton, seriously. ‘M3 7 heart was in a flut
ter all the evening, and it required quite a
struggle to keep my real feelings from coming
into manifestation/
‘That was my own case/ added Helen.
‘Surprise took away all my pleasure.
There has been a pressure on my bosom all
the evening, and I am still unable to breathe
freely/
Alice tried to express what she felt on the
occasion, but her lips quivered and tears came
into her e3’es. Mr. Atherton, seeing this, re
marked :
‘Ah, well, my children ; let us tr3 7 and for
get the whole affair, or think of it with as lit
tle feeling as possible. If it has given others
pleasure, let us be content with that/
‘I have felt a sense of humiliation all the
evening/ said Alice, who recovered immedi
ate^ 7 her self-possession. ‘No one who had
a proper respect for us could have committed
a social outrage like this—l call it by its
real name/
‘lt was certainly an indelicate invasion of
a man’s household—an intrusion within the
famil3 7 ciicle that nothing can justify/ replied
Mr. Atherton, seriously. ‘And Allice sug
gests truly 7, that, in the minds of the author
or authors of the affair, there must have been
a want of a proper respect for our characters
and position. This is self-evident. I have
felt it all the evening/
‘And so have I, most keenly,’ remarked
Mrs. Atherton. ‘ Suppose,’ she added, ‘that
we had just received intelligence of the death
of a near relative, or were in some serious
trouble? How much deeper would our af
fliction or trouble have been felt/
‘Or suppose/ said Mr. Atherton, ‘I were
embarrassed in business, and a creditor hap
pened to go b3 7 and discover that I was en
tertaining a large and gay company, would it
not prejudice him against me, and put me in
great danger ?’
Mr.Atherton spoke freely.
‘lt was wrong, viewed in any light/ re
marked Mrs Atherton. ‘Wrong—wrong.
Pleasure is well enough in its place; but
when it conies an intruder, and boldly invades
the famil3 7 circle, the act is nothing less than
an outrage/
Such was tne state of mind produced in
the family upon which had been played off
the practical “oke of a compulsory party 7 , for
the amusement of a set of thoughtless 3 7 oung
men and women, whose knowledge of hu
man nature was too limited to teach them a
decent respect for the sacred seclusion of the
home circle.
On the evening of thepart3 7 , a middle aged
man was passing slowly along the street in
the neighborhood of Atherton’s residence.
The sound of music and gay voices fell upon
his ears, and he paused to listen.
‘Ah, ha 1 ’ he muttered to himself, as he
moved on again. ‘A party! Yes—yes.
Well, I thought he had something else to
think of besides parties. And I suppose he
has. But extravagant wife and daughters.
Yes, that’s the secret. Hum—m—m
Well, if this is the game to be played, a ceck
mate had been better come now, than w hen
there are 01113 7 a few pawns on the board/
And thus he went muttering on his w r ay.
On the next morning, when Mr. Atherton
w 7 ent to his store, he found a note on his
desk. It w 7 as in these words :
Dear Sir: I find, on reflection, that I can
not make the arrangement about which we
conversed a day or two ago.
‘Yours, &c., D. ADAMS/
Mr. Atherton immediately become agitat
ed. The reason is soon explained. Two
or three heav3 7 losses had crippled him in bus
iness, so far as present resources w r ere con
cerned, and he had applied to this Adams for
aid in his extremity. Adams had the fullest
confidence in Mr. Atherton, and at once de
termined to ‘put him through/ as he express
ed it. He was himself a large creditor, and
had already 7 partly agreed to extend his own
notes, as w 7 ell as to make liberl loans. But
he had suddenly 7 , and, to Mr. Atherton, unac
countably changed his mind. The promis
ed arrangement could not be made.
Fully confiding in Adagis, Mr. Atherton
had sought aid in no other quarter. No won
der that he w r as agitated w'hen it is know r n
that he had nothing in bank, w r hile notices for
the payment of over five thousand dollars in
drafts and bills, due that day, were lying on
his desk. It took nearly an hour for the al
most paralysed mind of Mr. Atherton to come
back to its usual state of vigor and activity.
At first all become dark and hopeless ; for he
had no borrowing facilities, having in the con
duct of his business alway 7 s preferred keep
ing it within his own control. But bis ex
tremity w r as great, and it w 7 ould not do to fold
his hands in inactivity and let swift detection
fall upon him. So, after a deal of earnest
thought, he w 7 ent to work with some spirit,
and before one o’olock was in possession of
the required amount of money. In obtaining
it, however, he had been compelled to make
some heavy 7 sacrifices. But this w r as over
coming only the first dfficulty in a way crowd
ed w 7 ith impediments; and, with each suc
ceeding day, he found himself more embar
rassed and crippled.
About a week subsequent to the party
which w r e have described, a young man nam
ed Bonnel, who had only a short time before
commenced business, came into the store of
Mr. Adams, and, w'ith much concern in his
face, said:
‘Have you heard about Mr. Atherton ?’
‘Nothing very particular. What’s the mat
ter V
‘l’m told that this paper was laid over to
day/
‘All! F."i sorry/ replied Mr. Adams, evinc
ing much regret. ‘But it is wdiat I have ex
pected/
‘lt is ! I never dreamed of such a thing.
I thought him one of our soundest men/
‘So he has been. But lie’s met with heavy
losses of late.’
‘I wish I had knowrn that/ said Bonnel, look
ing very grave.
‘ Why ? Does he owe you ?’
‘Yes. I sold him a pretty heavy bill w 7 eek
before last/
‘I am sorry for that/
‘Do you think it will be a bad Failure ?’
‘I cannot tell. I have always had great
confidenee in him; but that has become slight
ly 7 impaired. I know he w 7 as in deffiulties,
and was about helping him through them,
when a circumstance occurred that made me
decline doing so. I felt there w 7 ould be too
much risk. The fact is, his family are too
gay and extravagant/
‘I never heard that charged upon them/
said Bonnel; ‘and I know them intimately/
‘lt’s no good sign/ replied Adams, ‘for a
merchant, w 7 ho is crippled in his business
through heavy losses, to indulge in large and
costly parties/
‘Atherton has not done so/
‘Beg your pardon. I happen to know that
a large party w r as given at his house not over
a w 7 eek since. I was about affording him all
the assistance he needed; but, when I saw
that, felt bound, in justice td myself, to de
cline an arrangement that might involve me
in loss.
‘And was that your only reason for refus
ing aid ?’ said Bonnel, in surprise.
‘lt caused a train of reflections in my mind,
that led naturally to the decision formed/
‘You were unjust to him, Mr. Adams/ said
Bonnel, firmly.
‘Show me my error/ w 7 as calmly repli
ed/
‘Mr. Atherton did not give that part/
‘lt w r as at his house/
‘No matter. He had no more to do with
getting it up than you had. It w 7 as a sur
prise party/
‘And pray what is that V
‘Did you never hear of a surprise party ?’
‘Never/
‘lndeed ! They’re quite the rage this win
ter. The particular friends of some family
arrange to give them, or rather, compel them
to give a party. They fix upon the night—
the family being kept in total ignorance of
the fact—and go, with their own music and
refreshments, and take them by surprise.
The greater the astonishment and confusion
of the family, the greater the enjoyment of
those w'lio go. I planned the party at Ather
ton’s ; and, I can assure you, it w r as a most
delightful affair/
‘lt may 7 have been fun to you; but, like
the frogs in the fable, it w 7 as death to them,’
said Mr. Adams, seriously.
‘How so?’ asked Bonnel.
‘You placed them in a false position, and
forced upon them the disadvantage of a wrong
judgment. On that very 7 day I had made up
my 7 mind to put Mr. Atherton through. He
had fully confined to me his difficulties, and
I had resolved to help him over them. But,
in passing his house at night, I was surprised
to find him giving a large party 7 . For a man
in his position to indulge in a party-giving,
w r as not the thing, in my estimation. It did’nt
look very well. Something is wrong there,
said I to my 7 self. And my final conclusion,
upon which I acted, was to risk nothing with
him/
‘Can this be possible ?’ exclaimed Bonnel,
exhibiting much distress.
‘lt is true, as I tell .you/
‘I did not dream of such a consequence. It
was but a piece of innocent sport on our part/
said Bonnel.
‘lt was a liberty/ replied the merchant, se
verely, ‘for which there is no excuse on any
ground. I can scarcely conceive of a great
er social outrage than the one yoa have in
dulged. Suppose intelligence had been that
day received of the death of a near relative;
or some family trouble was oppressing the
minds of all; how greatly would your un
timely sport have increased the pain they were
suffering. Knowing, as I do, the state of Mr.
Atherton’s mind on that occasion, I can well
understand how rudely jarred it must have
been. But that is nothing to the disastrous
consequences which have followed. Ruin
has been the result. An honest man has
been stricken down in the midst of his busi
ness career. It is some statisfaction/ added
Adams, bitterly, ‘that you, who confess your
self the author of this wrong, are involved in
some of the consequences. I will teach you
a lesson that may 7 be useful to y 7 ou hereaf
ter/
As he said this, he turned partly away from
Bonnel, who, feeling offended, left his store.
The struggle upon which Mr. Atherton en
tered, proved too much for him. Alone, he
could not contend successfully with his diffi
culties. After a day of anxious effort, he
found himself unable to meet the notes and
drafts which fell due, and the hour of three
came with his obligations still in bank. Up
to that time he had been in a st ate of deep
distress and agitation. But, when three strokes
upon the clock sounded the knell of bis bro
ken fortunes, and further effort was vain, a
calmness fell upon his mind; and he awaited,
with a sort of stoicism, the appearance of the
notary 7 , into whose hands his dishonored pa
per would be given for protest. The notary
came and went That ordeal, a deeply try
ing one, was passed. His reputation as a
merchant was not blasted. Hie apple of his
eye had been touched. But he had borne
the pain with a heroism that surprised even
himself.
This trial past, visions of future meeting
with creditors began to form themselves in his
mind, and his sensitive feelings were already
beginning to shrink painfully in anticipation,
when he saw Mr. Adams enter his store.
‘I am told that your paper has laid over to
day,’ said the latter, as he took the hand of
Atherton.
‘You’ve heard aright. The notary left me
but a little while ago/
‘For what amount have you been noted. ?’
‘Three thousand dollars,’
‘How much more will you need to carry
you through V
‘Not less than ten thousand dollars/
‘You shall have it, Mr. Atherton. I labor
ed under a false impression regarding you,
when I declined the arrangement you wished
to make a week ago. Here is the money
you need to-day/ And he drew forth his
pocket-book as he spoke. ‘Get your paper
out of the hands of the notary before he can
protest it. To-morrow I M ill see you and ar
range the rest/
Before Mr. Atherton could recover from
his surprise, and express his grateful feelings,
Adams had turned from him and was leaving
the store. On the next day all was arrang
ed as had been promised; and the merchant,
who had been on the very brink of ruin, and
actually falling over, w'as saved.
This W’as the last affair of the kind in M’hich
Bonnel ever engaged ; and the last intlicted
on the Athertons. It had like to have proved
more than a simple Surprise Party to them.
Scholastics of Kerry.
B. Here’s a fine, fat, bold-looking, bounc
ing B. Say Bee!
Terry.—Bee!
No, not Bay; try again, *
Terry—Bee!
Capital! That’ll do. Mind, its not a fly
ing bee, nor a humming-bee, nor ahuble-bee,
that sports yellow’ satin breeches, and wears
the point of a needle in its tail. It’s abetter
B than the B’s in your father’s garden, and
you may touch this bee over and over again,
and he’ll never sting you as the other B’s do;
but I’ll be after stinging you, maybe, to-mor
row, if you don’t remember him again; and
I’d wish you to observe that he stands for the
Baker, and Barber, and for Ballyheigh, and
Ballyclare, and Ballycleave, all noted towns
for fairs in our counthry, and maybe you’ll be
fighting at them yet, as your father and grand
father have done before you—(Terry grins)
—and don’t forget that B stands for beef, and
bacon, and butter, (if w r e could get at them,)
and for blarney, our renowned castle, besieg
ed by that thief o’ the night, Crow'nwell, who
thought to stop our mouths with his gunpow’-
dcr and cannon balls, but was very much mis
taken. I think you’ll know him W’ell now, so
move your finger down to
O, Oh! Did you ever seethe full moon
rounder than that ? Only the Kerry pippins
are round enough, every way, till ye begin to
bite them; and this poor fellow’ is as flat as a
pancake. Look at it, Terry, and just think
what sort of a noise you’d make, if I tuk a
fancy to give your ear a little bit of a pinch,
so. (Terry gets frightened, and roars out
‘O!’) There, didn’t I tell you so, my dear
boy ? And you’ll never forget it, now it’s
w'anst been pinched into you ? 0, that’s a
great letter entirely. What would Ibe with
out it ? or any of the ould O’Sullivans ? or
even the new branches—(but I’m of the real
stock) —or the O’Connells, or O’Tooles, or
O’Callaghans, or O’Byrens, or O’Gradys, or
O’Donnels, or O’Shaughnessys, or O’Far
theys, or O’Brines, and w hole regiments and
armies of O’s, that sprung out of our ancient
nobility ? Sure they might as well lose their
eyes or their ears, (that some of them did lose,
and could never get back again,) or their
very noses oc their faces, as lose their
their O’s. Then think of the round of a cart
w-heel, and of that big blackguard, Oliver
Cromwell, with Omedaw’s and Orthograph
ies, and cannonballs, and the pinch of the
ear, (Terry feelshis ear,) and I’ll go bail you’ll
never forget the O. But it’s time w'e’re los
ing.
8. Here, now—isn’t this a lovely letter,
Terry ? Did you ever see a sw'an in full sail ?
That’s him to the life, if there was only a sup
of w'ater under him. You must call out ‘Ess/
Terry.—Ess!
Ye have it nate. See how stately he is ’
a mighty elegant, stout, clever-looking letter,
and one of the best in the w'hole alphabet, be
ing the father and grandfather, and great
grandfather of all the Saints in the blessed
calendar—there would be no Saints at all, but
for his introduction. So you must rivirince
the S beyant all other letters ; and remimber
that he stands for Sunday, and soap wanst a
week, before going to overtake the mass ; and
salt w’ith the potatoes that day, anyhow; and
Saxons, (bad scran to them!) that driv us in
to h oles and comers, (myself, of the raal old
stock, that say that;) and school, where yer
getting into great learning already, and will
soon come to the history of Scipio, king of
the ould Romans, and Solomon, that built the
biggest chapel in the W'orld ; and Sampson,
that pulled it dow'n again over his shoulders
And now, Terry dear, don’t forget S stands
for straw; and remind yer father of the holes
there in the roof, that he promised to mend
up agin witer—and that it’s for an O’Sullivan!
T. Down you pop to T—a rale nate let
ter, balanced as true as a rope-dancer at the
Fair. Ball out ‘Tee ’
Terry.— Tay !
No, that’s tay what the quality do be drink
ing w'ith crame and lumps ofsugarinit. Try
again—‘Tee!’
Terry—Tee!
That’s right, my dear—and you’ll know
him again when you’ll see Mick Holloran
coming up from the river, w'ith the two pig
gings of watlier hanging acrass the lift over
his shoulders. You must know he stands
for the tutor—and I being your tutor, he
stands for me—and likewise for turf and two
pence, (the regulations of his flourishing Ac
ademy,) and Tiber, the great river that runs
through Rome, and Throy, a big city in the
Aste, that was taken by the Phenishons, just
before they came to settle in ould Ireland. It
also stands for Tara, in the country Meath,
the capital of the counthry in ancient time,
and twice the size of Dublin—that’s only a
new city, and them that lives in it none of
the raal Irish at all, but mostly new’ comers,
an’ very troublesome people, and hard to
plase. My hand t’ye, I wouldn’t give a stone
out of ould Thrinity for all the burnt brickß
and smokey chirnbiys in Dublin, that were
never heard tell of in ould times! Move along
now! — Dublin University Magazine.
“ Tommy,” said a toping father, a little
“tight,” to his son—“ Tommy, hie —my boy,
mind your daddy, and never walk in his—hie
—footsteps.” “That might do, perhaps,”
replied the juvenile,” “if 1 wanted to go into
the corkscrew or Virginia fence business.”—
The paternal guardian raised his cane, but
Tommy dodged it.
A married lady found her two sons quar
reling, and in hope of putting an end to their
difference, uttered the following threat:-
“You young rascals, if you don’t desist di
rectly, Ml tell both your fathers.”
Eating Ice-Cream Raw.
On a very sultry evening during the sum
mer of ’4B, as Dr. B and myself were
seated in a fashionable saloon of our tow n,
indulging in the cool luxuries which the pro
prietors of the establishment know so well
to prepare, and chatting the whole while up
on such objects as fancy and caprice sug
gested—a tall, limber-looking individual of
about 23, made his appearance, and after
looking about him for some time in bewilder
ment and doubt, seated himself at a table
close by the one at which w’e were sitting.
The young man w r as apparently a strang
er, and from the country; and the illu
minated sign, with “Ice-cream,” “Confection
aries,” &c., blazoned thereon, had evidently
taken him in. Knowing the Doctor to have
a good propensity for practical joking, I
turned to see what effect it would have upon
him; and one glance at his restless, twinkling
eye, satisfied me that there W'ould be sport —
the tiger was already in imagination gloating
over h is prey.
After sitting sometime as if uncertain how
to proceed, the young man plucked up suffi
cient courage to address us, and inquiry
w hether he could “get some ice cream and a
couple of confectionariesstating at the
same time, that he had ‘never been at the
canawd afore, and didn’t know’ how’ people
acted at sich places/ He w'as informed bv
the Doctor that if he W'ould ring the small
bell which stood upon the table, his wishes
w’ould be gratified. The green ’un did as he
w’as directed, and in due time w as served with
the ice-cream and confectionaries. After
eyeing for a few moments the articles before
him, he took the spoon from the glass, took a
small quantity of the cream and put it to the
tip of his tongue, and then looked about the
room with an air of satisfaction and delight.
Soon, however, another idea seemed to strike
him, he rammed the spoon deep into the
glass, took it out heaped full, and in a mo
ment its contents had disappeared.
At this instant, 1 felt a tw itch at my side—the
next, the Doctor w'as on his feet—and clutch
ed mv arm convulsively, and with one hand
pointing toward the victim, almost screamed:
‘My God ! that youmg man is eating his
ice-cream raw!’
Down went ice-cream, spoon, confection
aries, and table, upon the floor; out leaped
the victim at least ten feet tow’ard the middle
of the room, gasping for breath—eyes pro
truding from their sockets —and countenance
exhibiting marks of the greatest terror and
helplessness. In a moment the doctor was
by his side—felt his pulse—unbuttoned hi*
coat,-w’aistcoat, and shirt-collar, as if to ad
mit fresh air; then fanning him w'ith the skirt
ot his coat. It w’as then that the victim’s
tongue first became loosed, and with
imploring look—‘Oh, kin I live V Upon this,
the Doctor looked mysterious, felt his pulse
again, examined his tongue, and then in a
solemn tone, replied:
‘lt may be, young man, by implicitly fol
lowing my directions, you can yet escape the
consequences of your rash folly. I would
advise you to’—
‘Anything, I’ll do anything you tell me, so
as I can git over this spell, and find my way
home again/
‘Well, then, sir, take off your coat/ The
young man did so—‘tie a handkerchief about
you,’he was obeyed. And now, sir, go to
the door, run three times around this square,
with all the might that is in you, and then
come back to me, and I will tell you what
further to do/
The young man vanished and we resumed
our seats; in a few minutes, how'ever, he re
turned ; puffing and blowing, and apparently
in better spirits.
‘Now',’ said the Doctor, ‘do you put on
your coat, button it up close to your chin ; go
to your lodging place, and turn into bed im
mediately ; and let me advise y’ou, young
man, that hereafter, that before you under
take to eat ice-cream, see that it is properly
prepared; and let me particularly charge you,
(and here he assumed a very serious air,) nev
er again do you attempt to eat ire-cream raw /
Theyoung man stammered forth his thanks
for the service, and then left, we following
soon after.
Jonathan’s Hunting Excursion.
“Did you ever hear of the scrape that 1 and
uncle Zekiel had duckin’ on’t the Connecti
cut?” asked Jonathan Timbertoes, W'hile a
musing his old Dutch hostess, who had agreed
to entertain him under the roof of her log
cottage, for and in consideration of a bran
new milk pan.
“No, I never did—do tell it,” was the re
ply*
“Well—you must know that I and uncle
Zeke took it into our heads one Saturday af
ternoon to go a gunning arter ducks, in fath
er’s skiff; so in w r e got and skulled down the
river. A proper sight of ducks flew back
wards and forwards, I tell ye—and bimeby
a few’ on ’em lit down by the marsh, and went
to feeding on muscles. I catched up my
peauderhorn to prime, and it slipped right
out my’ hand and sunk to the bottom of the
river. The w'ater w’as amazingly clear, and I
could see it on the bottom. Now I couldn’t
swim a jot, so I sez to uncle Zeke, “you’re a
pretty clever fellow—jest let me take your
peauder horn to prime,” and don’t you think
the stingy critter wouldn’t. “Well,” says 1,
“you’re a pretty good diver, an’ if you’ll dive
and git it, I’ll givey'ou a pritnin.” I thought
he’d leave his peauder horn, but he didn’t;
but stuck it in his pocket and down he went
—and there he staid.”
Here the old lady opened her eyes with
w'onder and surprise, and a pause of some
minutes ensued, when Jonathan added*
“I looked down, and what do you think
the critter was doin’?”
“Lord!” exclaimed the old lady’, “I’m sure
I don’t know.”
“There he was,” said our hero, “settin’
right on the bottom of the river, pourin’ the
peauder out of my horn into hizen.”
A New Drama. —The following is an
extract from a forthcoming Drama:
“You come from—”
“Yes.”
“And you go to—”
“Yes.”
“And you had a father and mother ?”
“I did.”
“And y’ou had a sister?”
“I did.”
“And that sister’s name was—”
“It was,”
“And y’ou name is—”
“The same as my father’s.”
“I knew’ it. Rush to my arms.” Again
I clasp my long lost brother!’—Again I do!
—Again !—Again!—Again ! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
[Faints, falls on the stage, rolls over and
“shoots” a pistol at the prompter.}
“Mine fren, have you seen von little poo
die dog, with his tail slit and hisears cut short
off behind, w hat I did lose next week, as I
w’as walking up de river in de steamboat?”
“I did not Monsieur, but expect to every
minute.” “Begar, if he be drow-n I will kill
him six several times in two plates.”
NO. 29.