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TIIE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
IS PUBLISHED
EVERY THURSDAY >lO RNI N G
By WILLIAM 11. CHAMBERS,
EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR.
O'/ice on Randolph street.
~><o P 0 ftnj.3*^
f From the Yankee Blade.]
FORBEAR THAT UXIiIN’D Yt >KO.
BY HELEN C. GAGE.
Forbear! breathe not that unkind word,
That trembles on thy thouyhtle-s tongue ;
KnowVt thou how many a faithful heart
To sudden anger it hath stung ?
Hast thou a care save for thyself,
I last thou a thought ol pity born 1
Then cheek thine own rebellious heart—
Plant thou the rose and stay the thorn.
Talk not of woman’s destined lot,
As though ’twere her’s alone to bear—
The measure of earth’s common woes
it well becomes thyself to share ;
Talk not of her submissive grace.
As though she were your servile slave ;
Remember, she is frail—there lies
But one step ’twixt her and the grave.
If thou could’st know, if thou could’st feel,
One half her suff&inq, pain and care,
Where would thy Job-like patience he !
Thy boa ted resignation whe-p !
O, then, forbear that unkind word—
Withhold that look -o harshly ste.rn :
The heart that ice I- - o much tor thee .
Needs only kindne s in return.
TIIE OLD AR3I CHAIR.
BV ELIZA COOK.
1 love it, 1 love it; and who slinll dare
To chide me for loving that old artn chair ?
I’ve treasured it long asa sainted prize,
I’ve bedew'd it with tears, and (unbraced it with sighs;
‘Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
-Not a tie will break, not a li k will start,
Would ye learn the spell ? a mothc; at there,
And a sacred tiling is that old ann chair.
In childhood’s hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give
To lit tne to die. and teach me to live.
She told me shame would.never betide,
With truth for my creed and God lor my guide ;
She taught tne to lisp my c:trli<-t prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm chair.
I sat and watched her many a day.
When her eyes grew dim, and her locks were gray ;
And 1 almost wor-hipped her when she siniied,
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled 011, but the lust one sped—
My idol was shattered, my earth star lied ;
1 learnt how much the heart can bear,
When 1 saw her die in that old arm chair.
‘Ti- past ! ‘cl- past! but 1 gaze, on it now,
With quivering breath, and throbbing brow ;
’Twas here she “nursed mo, ’tw is there she died ;
And memory flows with lava tide,
Say it i-i lidly, and deem me weak.
While the -cabling drop-* start down my check,
But 1 love it, 1 love it, and cannot tear
,My soul from a mother’s old arm chair.
1 ’ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘’ : I
ißliscflUncons. j
WIIATS IN A NAAIE?
BY T. S. AIiTIITJK.’
A most important event had occurred in
the family of Mr. Pillsbury ; an event long j
looked for with strange and doubtful feelings, j
Mr. Pillsburv, in his station, hardly knew
what to do with himself; and Mrs. Pillsburv
was so happy that site did nothing hut smile I
all the time. lie would have laughed out- |
right at least a dozen times an hour, so ex- |
ceedinglv joyful did she feel, had it not been
fora certain grave-faced, matronly personage, !
whose business it was to see that she did not i
get over-excited about anything, and thusen- j
danger her health. But we are getting no
nearer to what we are trying to say, than
when we began. No we shall have to come
bolt out with the truth, in plain, understand- j
able English, and tell the reader that Mrs. j
Pillsburv had a baby. Being the first baby
that had appeared in the family, of course it j
was the dear?** little darling that ever blessed j
a mother’s delighted eves.
What a sensation did the little stranger’s ,
advent create! What new hopes and feel
ings were awakened! How the minds of:
the parents enlarged with higher views ol j
their responsibility in life! They had never i
been so happy; had never regarded each oth- J
er with so tender a love as now pervaded j
their bosoms. An hour, and, sometimes two 1
hours earlier than usual, would the father re- j
turn from his store in the evening, and for no 1
other reason than to gratify the desire he felt
to see the baby. He was far more punctual ,
at dinner time than he had been, and rarely I
ever went out at night. Before the baby
came, Mr. Pillsbury had acquired rather a
bad habit of spending his evenings away i
Iron* home.
The first few weeks that succeeded to the
baby’s appearance, was Paradisaical in their
peace ami joy; and there is no telling how long
this delightful state would have remained, had
not the questions been daily asked by new
and old visitors—
‘•What’s its name?’’ “Huvn’t you named:
the baby yet?” “How do you call the little
dear?” And so on in a hundred varied ways.
“Name it William,” said one.” “Call it
Edward,’’ suggested another. “Oh! Ferdi
nand is such a beauty of a name: Call him
Ferdinand,’’urged auothei. And so it went
on, until almost every Christian and unchrist
ian name in the whole catalogue had been
■brought forward.
But, of the names that had been offered or
suggested to her own mind, only one was
considered by the mother as worthy of her
baby. As for your common, unmeaning,
Johns, and llenrys, and Peters, she could
not tolerate them. Mr. Pillsbury had differ-
ent views.
“Give the child a good, plain name. One
•that he will never he ashamed of as a hoy or
a man. William is an excellent name; so
iis Henry; so is Edward; and so is Alfred.
In Fact, there are dozens of names, any one
of which will sound as musical as a flute in a
week’s time.”
But .Mrs. Pillshury shook her head in a
■most positive way at all these suggestions.
No vulgar Dicks, Toms, Bills, or Neds for
Iter. On this subject she was, lam sorry to
admit, positively rude, at times, to her hus
band. It she didn t say outright, she thought
—“I reckon its my baby; and I’ll have some
say in naming it.'’ The “some” proved, in
lhe end, to be all the “say.”
There was one name, it has been admitted,
worthy, in the mind of Mrs. Pillshury, to dis
tinguish her baby from all other babies. Mrs.
Pillshury was a pious woman, and every Sab
bath, when she could get to church, she sat
under the teachings of the excellent and be
loved Parson King (Tabtree. In her eyes,
earth had never seen such a mail as the good
Mr. Crabtree; and, as the name is significant
of quality, Crabtree always fell upon her
ears with a peculiar music, and brought to
her mind images of things good and beautiful.
To every suggestion of a name by her hus
band, of course Mrs. Pillshury shook her
head.
VOL. 111.
“What, then, trill you have him called?” at
last asked Mr. Pillsburv, in despair.
“King Crabtree,” replied the young moth- 1
er, firmly.
‘‘On, dear!” There was pain in the ex
! pression of Mr. Pillsbury’s voice. “Why,
j Emeline! Are you really beside yourself
“Not by any means,” said the lady, draw
ing her lips firmly together. “I speak the
words of truth and sobertiees. 1 wish him
j named Kiner Cm’ tree, after our dear, good
I r.” *
“Horrible! Horrible! Crab—tree —Kin r r!
Why not call him Catamount, or Sn.npping-
I tin tie at once, and be done with it? Oh 110,
i no, no, no ! I’ll never!”
Mrs. Pillsburv had but one answer to make \
to this—but one weapon with which to light
! her battle. A plentiful shower of tears
; came gushing over her cheeks, and turning !
her face from her husband, she c > mnenced
! grieving and sobbing most piteously. Poor
Mr. Pillsburv felt that the odds were against
: him. He already saw his beautiful hoy with
i the mill-stone, King Crabtree, hung about his ;
j neck, and his heart sunk within him. As
! for the parson, he had never been one of Mr.
Pillsbury’s favorites. In fact, he had little
’ faith in him. But, in llie eyes of Mrs. Pills
! bury, and the major part of the ladies of ids
1 congregation, he was little loss than nut. j
I Already some half dozen young urchins had j
been christened King Crabtree, and there ;
was a fair prospect of a dozen more being ;
blessed wtih the same heautif.il na n .
Well, the father stood out as long as a mor
tal could well endure the va ious influences
brought to bear upon him. At last he with
drew his positive refusal to have the baby
named alter the good parson —he never
would give his consent —and the christening
took place.
It was along time before Mr. Pillsburv could
say “Crabtree,” although he heard the word j
sounded in his ears as often as fifty times a !
day. The best he could do was to “King,” 1
: the little fellow, and that went terribly against
i the grain. But the child grew hourly more
| beautiful and interesting to the father, and
• liv the time lie was three years old, lie almost
j forgot the unmusical name he bore, and could
1 sav “Crabtree’’ with the rest, and feel no un
pleasant jarring of his nerves.
As for young King Crabtree, he had no
fault to find with any one on the subject of
his name during the years of babyhood, nor j
hr a certain period of time after the days of
jaeket-aud-trowsers came. To him, Crab
tree was as good as any other name, and a
little better, for it meant himself, and he eu
-1 tertained for himself, quite naturally, we
i must admit, a particularly good opinion.
I But, as his mind opened and he began to un
j derstand the meaning of words, and, more- j
i over, began to come in contact with boys at
{ school, he was made sensible that there was
i something wrong. One sharp-witted lad
j called him, in a deriding way, “Crab”—
another dignified him with the title of “Par
son Crabtree,” and a third cried after him, as
he passed homeward from school, “Hallo
there, Mr. Lamlcrah!” Grieved are we to
record the fact, but it must be told—young
King Crabtree Pillsbury had not fully attain
ed the age of seven mature years, when he
! scandalized the name of the good parson
after whom he had been called, by using the j
carnal weapons of fists and feet in kicking |
a young chap of a year older than himself!
for calling him “Crabapple.”
“Oh, Crabtree! Crabtree!’’ exclaimed the ‘
grieved mother, when she learned the fact,
“what will our good parson say, when he
hears this of you ? You who bear his name! .
Oh ! it is dreadful!”
“Served the young rascal right!’’ mutter
ed Mr. Pillsbury, aside. “Glad he’s got
some spirit in him-. Hope the parson will
hear it.”
As for Crabtree himself, the reproof of his
mother did not make a very deep impression,
as was plain, from the fact that, while sin
talked, he kept jerking his head over his left
I shoulder in a threatening way, and saying—
. “He called me ‘Crabapple,’ so he did! and I !
! won’t s’and it! The boys are always calling
’ me names, so they’ are.”
“What do they call you?” asked the
| mother.
“Why, they call me ‘lobster,’ and ‘crab,’ j
; and ‘Parson Crabtree,’ and everything.”
“Just as I expected. Confound the name!” I
grumbled Mr. Pillsburv, in a low voice: not
j so low but that his words reached the ears of
his wife, who cast upon him an offended look.
; As soon as they were alone, she tried to read
I him a little lecture, hut he broke the cere- !
tnonv short off by declaring that Crabtree
was an awful name, and would curse their
! child through life.
“Beelzebub is nothing to it,” he added, by
way of making his denunciation emphatic.
There was no way to meet this but by the
old dernier method of tears. As soon as Mr.
Pillsbury saw the approach of these, he made
a hasty retreat.
! Long before Crabtree attained his twelfth
vear, be was known as the most fiery young
belligerent in town. It took a boy who
could bear to stand a good blow, or one far
over the size of this pugnacious lad, to ven
ture upon the experiment of saying “crab,
j “lobster,” or “parson,’’ within reach ol his
ea rs.
“I’m sorry to hear had accounts of you,
ray lad, said Parson Crabtree to the boy, in
the presence of his mother.
Crabtree hung his head and hit his finger j
nails.
“I am told that you have a fight with some
jof the boys at school almost every day. I his
is very wicked. How comes it ?”
“t he boys won’t let me alone,” replied
Crabtree, looking up,
on't let you alone ?”
“No, sir.”
“What do they do to you ?”
“ They call me Parson Crabtree.”
“Call you Parson Crabtree!’’ exclaimed the
minister, a little taken by surprise,
j “Yes, sir.”
“Well, they call me that, too; hut I don’t
see any cause to fight about it,’’ said the par
son, recovering himself.
“But I’m not a parson! And then they
call me ‘King Crab,’ and ‘land crab,’ and
’lobster,’ ‘crab apple,’ and everything, it
they’d let me alone, I’d let them alone; hut
they won’t?”
“The parson said no more on the subject.
Something struck his mind at the moment,
and he addressed himself to Crabtree’s moth
er on a matter touching the welfare of the
church.
For the first time, a dim impression that an
error had been committed, stole into the min-d
of Mrs. Pillsbury. She saw that the name of
1 her boy was, to some extent, at the bottom
:of his quarrelsome temper. “Quarrelsome”
Was the word that she, as well as others, ap
plied to the boy’s disposition to resent the
many insults and indignities he almost, daily
suffered. Lads not half so amiable by na
ture, nor with half the good qualities he pos
sessed, who were so fortunate to be only
Charles, or llenrys, or Williams, got on well
enough. No one charged them with being
quarrelsome. With half as much to pro- j
voke them as Crabtree suffered, they would
have doubled their fists with the most hearty
| good will.
Yes, the error was dimly seen. But, by
the time King Crabtree reached his fifteenth
year, it was seen far more clearly. For
| some tiir.e previously a few “enemies’’ of
Parson Crabtree, as they were called, had
hinted at certain scandalous things, most dis
graceful to the minister and the church.
Once the parson had boldly demanded of his
congregation that said allegations should be j
investigated; but his friends in the church
said, that no one who knew him asked such a j
thing ; and moreover, they prudently enough
laded, that the least said about a charge
the one preferred against the parson, the
I better. And so all remained quiet for a time, j
But, t’tie “enemies of the parson continued j
io grow bolder, and to gain daily 7 in numbers.
Things of a scandalous and wicked nature j
were boldly alleged to have been done by the
clerical gentleman ; and hints of an inten
tion to cite him before the civil courts were
at length thrown out. The good people of
his congregation could no longer shut their
ears to what was passing. Common decen
cy required them to sift the matter to the
bottom: and so the leading and official men
were called, the parson cited to appear, and
witnesses, said to know, ot his deliiiqueuces,
i called in and examined. Some pretty hard
1 stories were told by 7 some of the latter; but,
: as they were generally based upon what Mr.
! or Mrs. Such-and-Such-a-one said, the elo
quent parson, by virtue of his peculiar oral
.-iliiliiies, backed Lv tears at pleasure, suc
ceeded in making it believed that he was a
basely persecuted and deeply injured man.
He was fully acquainted with the evils laid
to bis charge.
This was a great triumph to the parson’s
friends. Still, the tongue of scandal was not
hushed. Fretted at this, threats of prosecu
tion for defamation of character were thrown
out; but these did not produce the silence
expected. Two or three members of the
congregation, who took the matter most se
riously to heart, were actually about institu
ting proceedings against one of the busiest of
their minister’s defamers, when the whole
town was electrified by the news that Parson i
Crabtree had been cited to appear before one !
of the civil courts to answer for crimes of a
most heinous character. What these crimes
were, or at least a part of them, delicacy for
bids us to state. But they were minutely de
tailed in evidence before the court, and
spread, in newspaper reports, all over the
country. The position of Parson Crabtree,
not only as a picaclier of the gospel,
but as the author of one or two re
ligious books, ma le him a conspicuous ob- i
jeet to all. There was not a newspaper !
reading man, woman or child in the whole ;
country, who did not become familiar with j
his name, and the offences charged against i
him. The trial lasted for weeks, during
which time, the public mind, every where, I
continued to be greatly excited. At last, the |<
court summed up the evidence, and the case j
was left with a jury of twelve men, four of :
whom were members of the parson’s own j
congregation. In ten minutes a unanimous |
verdict of “guilty’’ on all the charges was J
found; though the wretched criminal, under j
the influence of a false humanity, was recoin- j
: mended to the mercy of the court. Upon j
this recommendation, however, the court did 1
! not see that it was right to act. The posi
tion, standing, and influence of the culprit, !
I rather increased than lessened the guilt of his
offences. lie was, therefore, sentenced to
; pay a certain amount of damages, and to be
imprisoned at hard labor for the term of three
i years.
: At the age of sixteen, the son of Mr. Pills
| bury was sent to college. He entered as K.
C. Pillsbury.
“What do these initials represent?” asked
the president, on receiving the lad, and ma
king a minute of his name. There was a
slight hesitation, and then the boy replied—
! “King Crabtree.’’
“Indeed! Ah? I’m sorry you havn’t a bet
ter name. T suppose you were called after
that rasca’iy parson who flourished in your
town so many years?’’
ing said yes. though he was sorry for it.
“Os course it’s no fault of yours, my lad,”
returned the president, encouragingly. “And 1
as long as you have to carry the name about 1
you, let it lie vour business to redeem it from
disgrace.
This was a much harder task than the pros- ‘
ideut supposed, at the moment he made the
suggestion. A name once disgraced, and in i
a public and scandalous manner, cannot be j
redeined in a single generation ; often not in
ages. It was soon known among the stu- j
dents that the new coiner’s name was King
Crabtree. Some said he was the parson’s
nephew; and others declared that he was
actually the parson’s son. Certain little per
secutions followed, that fretted the boy’s
temper, and made him so unhappy that, in
six months lie went home, and stubbornly re
fused to return to college. His parents, who 1
intended him for one of the learned profes
sions, were greatly troubled at the perverse
ness of their sou’s temper. But, neither
threats, remonstrances nor persuasions were
of any avail. He remained firm to his dec
laration. Daily he was becoming more and
more morbidly sensitive to the disgrace at
tached to his name; and rather than bear a
month longer what he had suffered at col
lege, he would go before the mast as a com
mon sailor. This state of his feelings he
was bold to declare. It made not the slight
est impression on him for his mother or fath
er to say—
“ Don’t be so weak and foolish, King”—
even thev had dropped the Crabtree—“Be
more manly.”
But young Crabtree knew where the shoe
pinched; and felt the slightest pressure thereon
as painful.
About this time a good opening occurred
in a shipping house in the town. A clerk had
been sent out as supercargo, thus leaving a
vacancy iu the establishment, which the part-
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, FEBRUARY 5, 1852.
ners were desirous of filling with a smart, ’in
telligent lad. The situation was a most de
sirable one, and some friends of Mr. Pills
bury suggested to him that it was just the
place for his bov, and said they would speak
to Mr. Green, the principal member of the
house, if he desired it. The father was
much pleased at this prospect, and so was the
son, when he heard of the place. Mr.
Green was accordingly spoken to on the sub
ject, and said that lie would like to see the
lad. So King was sent to the store,
j “You’re the son of Mr. Pillsbury ?” said the
merchant, when the lad introduced himself.
“Yes, sir,’’ was modestly replied.
“You’re a fine looking lad. And so you
would like to be a merchant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well—let me see—what is vour name ?’’
The color mounted to the boy’s face, as he
half stammered out,
“King Crabtree Pillsbury.’’
“King Crabtree. Hum—m —m. Rather
an unfortunate name.”
’Phe boy remained silent. Mr. Green sat
and thought for some moments. Then he
: said—
“Very well, my lad. I will think about
you. There are half a dozen applicants for
the place, and we will not decide about it for
a week to come.”
The boy departed with a weight upon his
feelings. He was satisfied that he would not
get the place.
“I’ve seen Mr. Pillsbury’s son,” said Mr.
Green, on meeting, shortly afterwards, one
of the individuals who had interested himself
in the boy’s favor.
“Have you?”
“Yes.’’
“How do you like him?”
“Fine, smart looking boy; but lie has a
dreadful bad name.’’
“Bad name! I never heard of it. Who
says so ?”
“Himself. Do you want a worse name
than King Crabtree?”
“Oh!”
“It may be prejudice; and, probably is;
but I couldn’t have any one about me with
that name. Besides, I understand the boy’s
mother is distantly related to the old rascal
ly parson after whom she called her child.’’
“I never heard that.”
“I reckon it will be found true. Be this,
however, as it may, I cannot take the lad. 1
never could like him, nor (rust him, with that
name, and its no use to try tire experiment.
His parents had better have drowned him at i
the christen ing.’’
Mr. Pillsbury never guessed the reason j
why Mr. Green did not take his son; but j
King Crabtree understood it fully. For a ‘
year the unhappy boy loitered away his j
time, and then, almost in despair, accepted a
place as mail-packer in a printing office, at a
dollar a week. But he did not stay long in
his situation. Some light remark about his
name, caused him to assault a small lad in the
office, and this caused his dismissal. Dis
gusted and disheartened with every thing, the
poor lad next set his heart upon going to sea. |
This was opposed until opposition wore itself
out. Then he was permitted to go on board j
a vessel trading to South America. On the |
first voyage he behaved himself so well, that
the Captain took him for his clerk, in which
capacity he sailed three times to Rio and
back. During the last voyage home, one of
the men took occasion, several times, to he
rude to Crabtree. Repeating this rudeness in
a more aggravated form than usual one day,
•the young man caught up a handspike, and,
in the heat of the moment, knocked the sailor
down. The blow was heavier than Crabtree
intended to give, and the result more disast
rous than lie expected. One of the sailor’s
arms was broken, and ho was severely
bruised by his fall over a piece of wood that
lay on the deck.
As soon as the vessel arrived in port, the
sailor made complaint against Crabtree, who
was arrested and placed on trial. The pros
ecutor made out a very clear case, and the
young man was found guilty of the assault
charged. The court ordered him to pay five
hundred dollars damages, and to suffer an
imprisonment of sixty days.
“Were this not your first offence, King
Crabtree Pillsbury,” said the judge, in pass
ing sentence, “your age and the provocation
alledged to have been received, would have
inclined the court to visit your conduct with
a lighter penalty. But though young in years
you come before this court as an old offend
er. In the hope that you may be led to
change your evil courses, I give you sixty
days imprisonment as a time for sober re
flection.”
Utterly confounded by such a declaration
on the part of the judge, the unhappy young
man was taken from the court room and con
veyed to prison. The captain with whom
he had sailed, and who was much attached
to him, was present dining the trial, and at
its conclusion. He was no less confounded
j than Pillsbury, at the strange assumption of
! the judge. As soon as the court adjourned, !
he called upon the judge and said to him— j
“You appear to belaboring under some er
ror in regard to the young man you commit
i ted to prison ?”
i “What young man ?” enquired the judge.
“The one arraigned on the charge of beating
a sailor ?”
“Yes.”
“In what respect ?”
“You spoke of him as an old offender.”
“And so he is. Already he has been before
this court twice for outrages on the rights
of others.”
“King Crabtree Pillsbury !”
“Yes.”
“Depend upon it you are in error, judge.”
“Oh, no ! Do you think I could ever for
get that name, rendered infamous by a cer
tain parson who is still, I trust in the peniten
tiary ?”
“Are you certain that the offender of whom
you speak was named Pillsbury ?”
The judge thought a few moments
“ Not absolutely certain,” he replied.—•
j “But surely there cannot be found another
! man on the face of tne earth, with such a
j christain name ?”
! “It is barely possible, judge. Os one thing
lam very sure, my clerk has not been before
this court or any other in the United States,
within the time you mention.”
“You are positive of that ?”
“Positive.”
“The docket of cases tried will show,”
said the judge.”
Accordingly there was an examination
’ made, when it turned out that the previous
! culprit was named King Crabtree Parker.—
i He was from the same town with Pillsbury,
and had been named in compliment to the
good Parson Crabtree. His name had doubt
-1 less proved his ruin.
This discovery altered the case entirely.—
; The unhappy young man was brought before
i the court, and the sentence commuted to a
i fine.of one hundred doll ays.
“And now, young man,” said the judge in
■ dismissing him, “take my advice and petition
the Legislature to change your name; lor de
pend upon it, while you bear the one you
now have, no good fortune can ever find you
in this world. It is as bad as* the mark upon
the forehead of Cain.”
This piece of advice was acted upon by
Pillsbury immediately. The Legislature be
ing in session, he sent up a petition, and in
less than four weeks he was plain John Pills
bury. From that time he felt like anew
man, and when he wrote his name, he did so
without the sense of disgrace, that had lor ;
years haunted him like a blasting spectre. —
He became more cheerful, and companiona- j
hie, and more confident as he looked into the !
future. In a year or two, he became mate
of the vessel, and in a few years afterwards,
on the captain’s retiring, was elevated to his ‘
place. About this time he married. On the j
birth of bis first child, its young mother had !
a fancy to name the hoy after an uncle for
whom she had a warm affection, and propos
| ed to call him Lloyd Erskine.
“No, no,” said the father most positively,
“let it be Tom, Dick, or Harry, just as you
please. Any plain common name is good
enough, and will carry him safely through j
life. But I woldn’t call a child of'mine after |
angel Gabriel.”
“Why not?” innocently enquired the wife, j
“Simply because, if the angel Gabriel were
to fall and disgrace bis name, my boy would
have to bear a part of the stigma. No—no.
Never name a child after anybody; lor all
are human, and therefore liable to fall into
evil. Aruold was once thought to be an hon
orable man ; and during this period of his
life, some relative or friend may have called
a child after him. If so, how deeply disgra
ced must that second-hand bearer of the name, j
Benedict Arnold, have felt through his whole j
life. No—no. Let it be plain John, V\ iiliam, I
or Edward, as you fancy; but nothing i
more.”
And so the child was called John Pillsbu
ry. We will simply remark in conclusion,
I that unlike bis father, he was never ashamed
! of his name.
THE WIDOW. OF COLOGNE.
In the year 1641 there lived in a narrow,
obscure street of Cologne, a poor woman,
named Marie Marianni. With an old female
servant for her sole companion, she inhabit
ed a small tumble-down, two-storied lionso,
which had hut two windows in front. Noth
ing could well be more miserable than the
furniture of this dark dwelling. Two worm
eaten four-post bedsteads, a large deal press,
two rickety tables, three or four old wooden
chairs, and a few rusty kitchen utensils, forin
j ed the whole of its domestic inventory.
Marie Marianni, despite the wrinkles which
nearly seventy years had left on her face,
’ still preserved the trace of former beauty.—
There was a grace in her appearance, and a
dignity in her manner, which prepossessed
strangers in her favor whenever they happen
ed to meet her; but this was rarely. Living
in the strictest retirement, and avoiding as
much as possible all intercourse witii her
neighbors, she seldom went out except for the
purpose of buying provisions. Her income
consisted of a small pension, which she re
ceived every six months. In the street where
she lived, she was known by the name of
“The Old Nun,” and was regarded with con
siderable respect.
Marie Marianni usually lived in the room
on the ground floor, where she spent her time
in needle-work; and her old servant Bridget
occupied the upper room, which served as a j
kitchen, and employed herself in spinning. j
Thus lived these two old women in a com- i
plete isolation. In winter, however, in order j
to avoid the expense of keeping up two fires, j
Marie Marianni used to call down her domes- I
tic, and cause her to place her wheel in the (
chimney-corner, while she herself occupied a
large, old easy chair at the opposite side.—
They would sometimes sit thus, evening after
evening, without exchanging a single word.
One night, however, the mistress happened j
to be in a more communicative temper than!
usual, and, addressing her servant, she said— ‘
“Well, Bridget, have you heard from your j
son ?”
“No, raadame, although the Frankfort post
has come in.”
“You see Bridget, it is folly to reckon on i
’ the affection of one’s children; you are noi j
j the only mother who has to complain of their
| ingratitude.”
“But, madame, my Joseph is not ungrate
-1 ful ,he loves me, and if he has not written j
j now, lam certain it is only because he ha j
i nothing to say. One must not be too hard !
upon young people.”
“Not too hard, certainly ; but we have a j
right to their submission and respect.”
“For my part, dear lady, I am satisfied
! with possessing, as I do, my son’s affection.”
“I congratulate you, Bridget,” said her
mistress with a sigh. “Alas! I am also a
mother, and ought to be a happy one. Three
sons, possessing rank, fortune, glory ; yet here
I am, forgot ton by them, in poverty, and con
sidered importunate if I appeal to them for
help. You are happy, Bridget, in having an
obedient son—mine are hard and thankless.” j
“Poor, dear lady, my Joseph loves me so
fondly !”
“You cut me to the heart, Bridget; you
little know’ what I have suffered. An unhap
py mother, I have also been a wretched wife.
j After having lived unhappily several years, i
i my husband died, the victim of an assassin,
i And whom, think you, did they accuse of in
stigating his murder ? Me! In the presence
| of my children—aye, at the instance of my
eldest son—l was prosecuted for this crime !”
“But, doubtless, madame you were acquit
ted ?”
“Yes; and had I been a poor woman, with,
out power, rank or influence, my’ innocence
j would have been publicly declared. But,
having all these advantages, it suited my ene
mies’ purpose to deprive me of them; so they
i banished me, and left me in the state which
I am ?”
“Dear mistress!” said the old woman.
! M arie Marianni iiid her face in her hander
chief, and spoke no more during the remain
! dor of the evening. •
As the servant continued silently to turn
her wheel, she revolved in her mind several
circumstances connected with the “Old Nun.”
She had often surprised her reading parch
ments covered with seals of red wax, which,
on Bridget’s entrance, her mistress always
hurriedly replaced them in a small iron box.
One night, Marie Marianni, while suffering
from an attack of fever, cried put, in atone ol
unutterable horror—“No —I will not see him!
Take away your red robe—that man ot blood
and murder!”
T 1 lese things troubled the simple mind of
poor Bridget: vet she dared not speak ot them
j to her usually haughty and reserved mistress, j
I On the next evening, as they were sitling :
’ silently at work, a knock was heard at the !
door.
“Who can that be at this hour?’’ said Marie
Marianni.
“I cannot think/’ replied the servant; “ ’tis j
nine o’clock.”
| “Another knock! Go Bridget, and see
who it is, but open the door with precau
j tion.”
j The servant took their solitary lamp in her
hand, and went to the door. She presently
i returned, ushering into the room Father
1 Francis a priest who lived in the city. He .
| was a man of about fifty years old, whose j
hollow cheeks, sharp features, and piercing ’
eyes wore a sinister and far from hallowed |
expression.
“To what, father, am I indebted for this \
late visit?” asked the old lady.
“To important tidings” replied the old
priest, “which I have come to communicate/’
“Leave us Bridget,” said the mistress. The !
; servant took an old iron lamp, and went up j
j stairs to her tireless chamber.
“What have you to tell me?’’ asked Marie
Marianni of her visitor.
“1 have had news from France.’*
“Good news ?”
“Some which may eventually prove so.” j
“The stars, then, have not deceived me!”
“What, madame; said the priest, in a re-j
proving tone ; “do you attach any credit to j
this lying astrology ! Believe me, it is a temp- j
tation of Satan, which you ought to resist.—
Have you not enough of real misfortune,
without subjecting yourself to imaginary
terrors ?”
“If it be weakness, father, it is one which
! share in common with many great minds.—
Who can (lout t the influmce which the ce- j
iestial bodies have on tilings terrestrial?”
i
“All vanity and error, daughter. How j
can an enlightened mind like yours persuade I
itself that events happen by aught save the j
will of God ?”
“I will not argue the point, father ; tell me j
rather what is the news from France ?”
“The nobles’ discontent at the prime min
ister has reached its height. Henri d’ Efliat,
grandequerry of France, and the king’s favo
rite, has joined them, and drawn into the plot
the Duke do Bouillon and Monsieur his maj
esty’s brother. A treaty, which is upon the
point of being secretly concluded with the ;
king of Spain, has for its object peace on
condition of the cardinal’s removal.”
“Thank God !”
“However madame, let us not be too confi
dent: continue to act with prudence, and as
sume the appearance of perfect resignation.
Frequent the church in which 1 am a minis
ter ; place yourself near the lower corner of
the right hand aisle, and I will forewarn you
of my next visit.”
“I will do so father.”
Resuming his large cloak, the priest depar
ted, Bridget being summoned by her mistress
to open the door.
From that time, during several months, the
old lady repaired regularly each day to the
church; she often saw Father Francis,
but he never spoke or gave her the desi
red signal. The unaccustomed daily exer
cise of walking to and from the church, to
gether with the “sickness of hope deferred,”
began to tel! unfavorably on her health ; she
became subject to attacks of intermitting fe- :
ver, and her large, bright eyes seemed each i
day to grow larger and brighter. One morn
ing, in passing down the aisle, Father Fran
cis for a moment bent his head towards her,
and whispered—“all is lost!”
With a powerful effort, Marie, Marianni
subdued all outward signs of terrible emotion,
which these words caused her, and returned
to her cheerless dwelling. In the evening
Father Francis came to her. When they
we.e alone, she asked—“ Father what has
happened
“Monsieur de Cinq-Mars is arrested.”
“And the Duke do Bouillon ?”
“Fled.”
“The treaty with the king of Spain ?”
“At the moment it was signed at Madrid,
the cunning cardinal received a copy of it.”
“By whom was the plot discovered ?”
“By a s°crect agent who had wormed him
self into it.”
“My enemies, then, still triumph ?”
“Richelieu is more powerful, and the king i
more subject to him than ever.”
That same night the poor old woman was
| seized with a burning fever. In her delirium
| the phantom man in red still pursued her, and j
I her ravings were terrible to hear. Bridget, 1
seated at her bedside, prayed for her ; and |
at the end of the month she began slowly to
recover. Borne down, however, by years,
poverty, and misfortune, Marie Marianni felt
that her end was approaching. Despite Fa
ther Francis’s dissuasion, she agian had re
i course to the astrological tablets on which
i were drawn, in black and red figures, the
j various houses of tiie sun, and of the star
which presided over the nativity. On this oc
casion their omens were unfavorable ; and
rejecting the spiritual consolation—miserable
in the present, and hopeless for the future—
j Marie Marianni expired in the beginningof
‘ July, 1612.
As soon as her death was known a magis
| trate of Cologne came to her house, in order ,
to make an official entry of the names of the j
, defunct and her heirs. Bridget could not j
\ tell either; she merely knew her late mistress j
was a a stranger.
Father Francis arrived. “I can tell you the j
names of her heirs,” he said. “Write—the
king of France ; Monsieur the Duke of Orl- :
leans; Henrietta of France, queen of Eng
land.”
“And what,” asked the astonished magis
trate, “was the name of the deceased ?”
“The High and Mighty Princess Marie de
Medicis, widow of Henry IV. and the mother i
; of the reigning king. —Chambers Edinburg
COOLNESS. A TALE ABOUT A HEAD.
Jake was a little negro .who belonged to
Dr. Talliaierro, and was said to have in his
little frame a heart as big as General Jack
son’s—to say nothing of Napoleon Bona
parte or Zack Taylor. He didn’t fear even
our most respectable fellow-citizen, Old
Nick ; and as for coolness he was as cool as
the tip top of the North pole.
One day, Dr. Talliaferro, upon occasion
| of the commencement ot a Medical College
of which he held the chair of Anatomy,
gave a dinneer. Among his guests was a
well known ventriloquist. Late in the even
ing, after the bottle had done its work, the
i conversation turned upon courage, and the
Doctor boasted considerably of the lion-heart
of his favorite man, Jake. He offered to bet
I that nothing could scare him; and this bet
; the ventriloquist took up naming at the same
time the test he wanted imposed. Jake was
| sent for and came.
“Jake,” said the Doctor; “I have bet a
large sum of money on your head and you
must win it. Do von think you can ?”
“Berry well, marster,” replied Jake, “je3
tell dis nigga what lie’s to do, and he'll do it,
sartin shure.”
“1 want ypu to goto the dissecting room.
Yon’ll find two dead bodies there. (Jut off
the head of one w ith a large knife which
you will find there, and brin£ it to ns. lou
must not take a light however; and take
care that you don’t get frightened !”
“Dat’s all is it ?” inquired Jake. “Oh, ber
ry well, I’ll do dat shore for sartin and as to
bein frighten, debble heself ain't gwyue to
frighten me.”
Jake accordingly set off, and reached the
dissecting room, groping about until he found
the knife and the bodies. He had just applied
the former to one of the necks ot the latter
when from the body he was about to decapi
tate, a hollow and sepulchral voice ex
claimed,
“7,r2 my head alone!’
“Yes, sah,” replied Jake, “I ain’t ’tic’lar
and tudder head’ll do jes as well.”
“lie accordingly put the knife to the neck
of the other corpse, when another voice
equally unearthly in its tone, shrieked out—
‘•Let my head alone.”
Jake was puzzled at first hut answered
presently.
“Look ayah ! Master Toliver sed I must
bring one of de heads, and you isn’t gwine to
fool me no how !” and Jake hacked away un
til he separated the head from tho body.—
Thereupon half a dozen voices screamed
out —
“Bring it hack ! Bring it hack !’*
Jake had reached, the door but on hearing
this turned round, and said—
“ Now —now, see yah ! .Tes keep quiet, you.
fool, and don’t wake up the women folks.—
Master’s only gwine to look at the bumps.”
“Bring back my head at once!” cried tho
voice.
“Tend to you, right away, salt! replied
Jake as lie marched off with the head; and
in the next minute deposited it before tho
Doctor.
“So you’ve got it, I see,” said his master.
“Yes, sah,” replied the unmoved Jake, “but
please be done looking at him soon, kase tho
gemplin told, me to bring him back right
away!’
NO. (3.
TIIE PREACHER AND TIIE LAWYERS.
Jesse Lee, one of the first Methodist
preachers in New England, was a man who
combined unresisting energy and tenderness
of sensibility, with an extraordinary propen
sity to wit. Mr. Stephens, in ids new work
on the “Memorials of Methodism,” gives tho
following specimen of Lee’s bonhommie.
As he was riding on horseback one day, be
. tween Boston and Lynch, he was overtaken
by two young lawyers, who knew that ho
was a Methodist preacher, and were disposed
to amuse themselves somewhat at his own ex
pense. Saluting him, and ranging their
horses one on each side of him, they entered
into conversation something like tbs follow
ingl
Lawyer—l believe you are a preacher, sir?
Lee—Yes ; I generally pass for one.
Lawyer —You preach very often, I sup
pose ?
Lee—Generally everyday, frequently twice,
or more.
Lawyer—How do you find time to study, -
when you preach so much ?
Lee—l study when riding, and read when
resting.
Lawyer—But, do yon not write your ser
mons ?
Lee—Not very often.
Lawyer—But do you not often make mis
takes in preaching extemporaneously?
Lee—l do, sometimes.
Lawyer—How do you then—do you cor
rect them ?
Lee—That depends upon the character of
the mistake. 1 was preaching the other day,
and I went to quote the text, “All liars shall
have their parts in the lake thaUburneth with
fire and brimstone,” and by mistake I said,
“All lawyers shall have their part—”
Lawyer, interrupting him—“ What did you
do with that ? did you correct it ?”
Lee—O, no indeed! It was so nearly true,
I didn’t think it worth while to correct it.
“Humph!” said one of them, (with a hasty
and impertinent glance at the other,) “I don’t
know whether you are the more knave or
fool!”
“Neither.” he replied, turning at the same
time his mischievous eye from one to tho
other, “1 believe that I am just between tho
two!”
Finding they were measuring wit with on©
of its masters, and excessively mortified at
their discomfiture, the knights of the greeu
bag drove ahead, leaving the victory to soli
tude and his own reflections.
Clerical Wit.— Watty Morrison a
Scotch, clergyman, was a man of great wit
and humor. On one occasion he earnestly
entreated an officer at Fort George, to par
don a poor fellow who had been sent to hal
berds. The officer offered to grant him his
request if he would in turn grant him the first
favor he would ask. Mr. Morrison agreed to
this, and the officer immediately demanded
that the ceremony of baptism should be per
formed on a puppy. The clergyman agreed
to it, and a party of gentleman assembled to
see the novel baptism.
Mr. Morrison desired the officer to hold up
j the dog, as was customary in the baptism ot
[ children, and said :
As I am a minister of the Church of Scot
land, 1 must proceed according to the cere
! monies of the church.
“Certainly,” said the Major, “I expect all
j the ceremony.”
Well, then Major, l begin by asking the
usual question—you acknowledge yourself to
be the father of this pupy ?
\ A roar of laughter burst from the crowd
and the olficer threw the candidate for bap
tism away.