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the southern sentinel
IS PUBLISHED
EVERY THURSDAY MORNING,
BY
T. LO3l AX & CO.
TENNENT LOMAX Principal Editor.
Ofice on Randolph street.
octrq -3WU j
TIIOU WILT NEVER -MEET 3IE MORE.
Thou art gone, bat I am keeping
[ri mv heart thy Uea-nred name,
It’ I’m smiling— it I'm weeping,
Thon it.-r with me alt the fame.
Yea,the link at !u-t i- riven,
All o ir pleasant dreams are o'er
An I nnlc.-- we mt etin Heaven,
Thou wilt never meet me more.
O.icc the summer sun alighted
Om the petals of the ro -e,
And although her leaves he blighted,
Still he lingered till Life’s close.
Thus the heart can sometime* cherish
Thoughts that wear away the soul,
Giving pleasure while we perish,
’-Ne-itii this strange yet sweet control.
m tsccllaneons.
[roß THE SENTINEL ]
SKETCHES Flt 0 M LIFE.
In the autumn of the ever memorable year !
1840, l arrived at the town of—-———, situa
ted on a bold bluff of the Chattahoochee ‘
Gvrr, The furor of the Harrison campaign j
was at its flood. It seemed to my inexpe- I
rienccd eyes, that society was shaken to its
very foundation, and tottering to its over
throw. I was amazed at the rancor and
violence which seemed to grow hotter and
fiercer the further I penetrated into the grand
old woods of the western world.
The favorite resort of all the red hot poli
ticians of —, was the portico of the prin
cipal hotel of the place, which was romanti
cally situated on the brink oi the bluff, anil
commanded an extensive view of the rich
levels and romantic hills ot our beloved
Georgia. It was the evening of the day of
our Presidential election. Conversation turned I
open this subject, and the result was looked j
for with longing anxiety.
The fiercest disputer i:i these street con- ;
troversies, was a middle aged gentleman, of!
n heavy and rotund figure, familiarly ad
dressed by the title ot “Doctor, but face- |
tiouslv known as “The Mud-Sill of Democ- j
racy.” lie habitually sat firmly in his seat, j
planted both Ids feet flat upon the ground, j
and carried ids head proudly erect. He in- j
formed his audience boastingly, during the ;
hot debates of the day, that he was born in
Georgia; that his father before him was a
Georgian, and had fought through the revolu
tionary war, and died in Savannah jail, where
he had been thrown by the and and Tories and
British. The remembrance of these heredi
tary honors, and glorious recollections, set
the blood of “The Mud-Sill” on fire. At the
close of this family history, he sprung to his
feet, and slapping his hand upon his thigh,
announced in a voice of thunder, “that he
hoped in God that tiie contest between t'ne
Democrats and Whigs would be changed to
an appeal to arms, that he might use Ids
father** sword in killing the enemies of nis
country/’
These fierce and bloody sentiments were
eagerly responded to by an old man by the
name of U . He was even more red
hot than the “Doctor,” though he spoke iu a
low, husky tone of voice, which he ground
mil between his teeth. He was, however,
not so well off in the world as his friend the
Doctor, and did not command the same at
tention from his partisans. He was iu his
shirt sleeves, and sat doubled tip in his chair,
with his feet resting upon its rounds, and his
hands clasped upon his lap.
Shocked and sickened by the violence of
these “red republicans,” I left them, and re
tired to my bed-room at an early hour. My
room was immediately over the portico iu
which the party of the “Doctor” was assem
bled. I was just falling into a sweet sleep,
when I was startled by a wild cry of triumph,
which a roistering crowd of “coons” rung
out from a grocery hard by, proclaiming,
“Huzzali for Old Tippecanoe! We have car
ried Georgia bv an overwhelming majority,
lluzzah! huzzali!”
This was unwelcome news to the “Doctor”
and his friends, and was received with angry
curses bv them. Again, and yet again, the
rallying cry rent the welkin. “Huzzali for Old
Tippecanoe! lluzzah for old Georgia! God
bless her-”
This was too much for our old friend
It - II e lost both his temper and man
ners, and rising abruptly from his seat, ad
vanced towards the exulting crowd and
shouted through his clenched teeth, “G—d
and n Georgia! You are all a pack of
and and fools!”
The old man had hardly uttered his curse
before l heard a sharp, quick voice exclaim,
just under my window, “I was in that crowd,
do you apply those remarks to me ?”
Springing up, I advanced to the balustrade
of the upper portico, expecting to witness one |
of those terrible fights with pistol and bowie- \
knife, at the recital of the cruel barbarities of |
which, in the peaceful solitudes of academic
groves, upon the banks of the Roanoke, mv \
youthful blood had curdled and my hair stood
on end.
The antagonist of old R was a little
fellow, familiarly called “Squire,” who really
seemed to be bent on a row. He had,
however, an opponent who evidently felt no
reluctance to accommodate him in that sort of
amusement He replied to the query of the
“Squjro,” “I don’t care ad nif you were. I
sav still, G—d and n Georgy ; and that you
are a pack of d—m fools!” When
the “Squire” discovered who was his opponent,
he turned on his heel in disdain, saying, “If
you were not beneath my notice, old R }
I would chastise you, as you deserve.”
VOL. 111.
No sooner was this indignity hurled at the
old man, than all the tiger in his nature was
roused. He jerko I an old rusty knife from \
liis pocket, and lira dishing it in the air, ;
rushed with savage fury upon the “Squire,” j
shouting—
, °
“<-—d and :i you, I will make you no
tice me!”
By the interposition of indifferent persons, j
the “Squire” was shielded from the savage I
spring of old II , and hurried against
l his will down an alley, and thus for a time |
j ended the row.
After a delay of ten minutes, however, the
“Squire” and his friends returned in a body ;
lie, however, leading*them, and exclaiming,
“Now let him cone—now let him come!”
‘Phis was an awful moment. I saw in the
angry cloud of these men’s passions, the
gleam of forked lightning, portending death j
to some, and gaping wounds to all of them.
And its aspect was rendered still more threat
ening when I saw the “Doctor’’ deliberately
rise from his seat and approach the parties, i
His stern old ancestor, red with blood—the i
revolutionary musket clotted with gore—the
dreadful carnage of the glorious war of the !
. . I
revolution, arose before my sight. He car
ried in his hand a large swordome, in a po- j
sition to draw t’oe fatal dagger which
it concealed, and exclaimed in a calm, firm,
but loud voice, and in a tone of command
which sounded to mv unpracticed ears as I
worthy of Napoleon on the eve of a great !
battle, “Not I step into the crowd /” Quick
as thought a huge min in shirt-sleeves,
emerged IVoai the alley before mentioned,
placed himself directly in front of the “Doc
tor,” and brushing his great fists ia disagree- ‘
able proximity to his rosy face, shouted iu his !
| ear, “I am tiie man for you ! I am the man
for you!” Tiie scene was now painfully in
teresting. I expected at this moment to see j
the sharp sword of the revolutionary scion j
penetrate the huge belly of his antagonist, :
and the next moment to wave over the crowd
dripping with blood in token of victory. But
no. That “calm, firm, but loud voice,” again I
arose above the angry murmurs of the
crowd, a little lowered —not quite so loud, but i
j equally firm—equally commanding, and seem- ;
! ingly in continuation of a sentence not quite !
1 finished—“l step into the crowd to command
the peace there shall be no fighting here.” i
i And as often as the huge man with the great
| fists would bristle up to the Doctor for a
i right, he would exclaim even more resolutely j
than before: “I step into the crowd to com- j.
! inand tho peace; there shall be no fighting I
here.”
And there was no fighting there that night.
Asa summer cloud, which we occasionally
see loom up dark and threatening above the
horizon, muttering sounds of sullen wrath,
passes away with a few gusts of wind and
i spattering drops of rain, before the mild rays
| of the evening sun, so did the angry passions i
. of the excited little crowd at dissolve !
1 ia threatening gestures and angrv vows before j
the sc thing words of the good “Doctor ’ —
j“1 step into the crowd to command the
• peace; there shall he no,fighting here/’
i Alas! poor “Doctoi . The last time I saw
him he was raised from a bed of death to swell j
] by his presence, and cheer by his feeble voice,
• the numbers and applause of the friends o! j
his cherished principles. lie was indeed
“The Mud-Sill of Democracy.” His last act j
i was to deposit a vote in favor of the candid
ates of his party.
rOTi'S’ BREECHES.
“You remember Dr. Potts, don't you ?”
said Jones to me, yesterday, over our toddy.
“To lie sure 1 do; he sued me for a doo
-1 tor’s bill. Do you think 1 can ever forget
| that ?”
“No, certain not,” said Jones. “We!!, did
you ever hear why he was separated iron:
j his wife ?”
“Yes; he heat her once.”
“But do you know what for?”
“No; 1 suppose he was jealous.”
“Not a bit of it. It was about 1 is breeches!”
“What,she wore them?” said I.
“No; she sent them to him one day at a
lecture. It happened thus: You know old
’ Potts was dismally eccentric. He was the
; most absent man mall New York, especially
when called upon to pay anything. Well, he
; thought nothing of going without his dinner
!or his gloves. He was a very stingy man,
| and never had but one suit of clothes at the
same time. However, meeting his tailor, one
day, lie gave him an order lor anew pair of
breeches, which were sent home unknown to
the Doctor's wife. Having to lecture that
; morning, he put his new ones on, and left the
| old ones on his library cluur Soon after lie
. had gone out, Mrs. Potts entered the library ;
j site saw the breeches, and at once concluded
the Doctor had gone to lecture, “sanscidollcs.
Putting the breeches up in a parcel, she, to
prevent the possibility of a mistake, took it
I herself to the lecture room. Giving the par
j cel to the porter, she told the man to give it
to the Doctor immediately. She herself then
went home. The Doctor was lecturing to a
fashionable assembly on the wonders of
chemistry, when the parcel was put into his
hand. As his wife was often in the habit of
sending him diagrams, &c\, which he had
left behind him, the Doctor concluded this
was something connected with his lecture,
which he had forgotten. Me therefore open
ed it before the audience, and, to his astonish
ment and indignation, displayed to them all
his cast-off inexpressibles. The roar of laugh
ter which followed, compelled him to con
clude his lecture immediately. Rushing out,
he went home and beat his wife. Never inter
fere with your husband.
Why is an active waiter like a race-horse ?
Ans.—He runs for the plate.
Why is a drowsy person like the track of a
slow sailing vessel ? Because he is hardly
! a-vake.
Selections from the Classics.
THE DRUNKARD.
BY KIT XORTH.
You look ns if you wished to ask who in
habits the Cottage— on tlie left hand yonder—*
that stares upon us with four front windows,
an-! pricks np its ears like a new-started hare ?
W hv, sir, that was once a Shooting-box. It
was built about twenty years ago, by a sport
ing gentleman of two excellent double-bar
relled guns, and three stanch pointers. He
attempted to live there, several times, from
the 12th of August till the end of September,
end went plulling disconsolately among the !
hills from sunrise to sunset. He has been
long dead and buried ; and tlie Box, they say, j
i< now haunted. It has been attempted to he j
let furnished, and there is now a hoard to that j
fleet hung out like an escutcheon. Pictur
esque people say it ruins the whole beauty of i
the glen; but we must not think so, for it is’
not in the power of the uglie-t house that ever
was built to do that, although, to effect such a
purpose, it is unquestionably a skilful contri
vance. Tlie window-shutters have been closed j
for several years, and the chimneys look as !
they had breathed their last. It stands in a I
perpetual eddy, and tlie ground shelves so all :
around it, that there is barely room lor a bar- ;
rel to catch the rain-drippings from the slate- i
eaves. If it be indeed haunted, pity tlie poor !
ghost! You may have it n a lease, short or i
long, for merely paying the taxes. Every year j
it costs some pounds in advertisement. What ‘
a jointure-house it would he for a relict! By
name, Wixdy-kxowe.
Nay, let us not fear to sketch the character
o! its last inhabitant, for wc desire hut to speak
the truth. Drunkard, stand forward, that we
may have a look at you, and draw your pic
ture. There he stands! The mouth of the
drunkard,*you may observe, contracts a sin
gularly sensitive appearance—seeming red
and rawish; and he is perpetually licking or
sin idling his lips, as if liis palate were dry
and adust. 11 is is a thirst that water will not
quench. He might as well drink air. His
whole being burns for a dram. The whole
world is contracted into a caulker. He would
sell his soul in such extremity, were the black
bottle denied him, for a gulp. Not to save bis
soul from eternal fire, would lie, or rather
could lie, if left alone with it, refrain from
pulling out tlie plug, and sucking away at de
struction. What a snout he turns up to the
morning air, inflamed, pimpled, snubby, and
siiortv, and with a 110 b at the end on’t like
one carved out of a stick*by the knife of a
schoolboy—rough and hot to the very Cve—a
nose which, rather than pull, you would sub
mit even to he in some degree insulted. A
perpetual cough hnrrasses and exhausts him,
and a perpetual expectoration. How his
hand trembles! It is an effort even to sign
his name: one ot his sides is certainly not hv
any means as sound as the other; there has
.been a touch of palsy there; and the next
hint will draw down bin chin to the collar
bone, and convert him, a month before disso
lution, into a slavering idiot. There is no oc
cupation, small or great, insignificent or im- 1
portanf, to which lie can turn, for any length j
of time, his hand, his heart, or his he;td.—
He cannot angle—for his fingers refuse to .
tie a knot, much more to husk a fly. The j
glimmer and tlie glow of tlie stream would]
make his brai i dizzy—to wet his feet now J
would, he fears, be death. Yet he thinks !
that he will go out—during that sunnv blink
of a showery day—and try the well-known
poo! i:i which he used to bathe in boyhood, ;
with the long, matted, green-trailing water- !
plants depending on the slippery rocks, and j
tlie water-ousel gliding from beneath tlie arch
that hides her “procrcant cradle,” and then j
sinking like a stone suddenly in tlie limpid!
stream. He sits down on the hank, and fum
bling in his pouch for his pocket-book, brings !
oat, instead, a pocket-pistol. Turning his fiery :
face towards the mild, blue, vernal skv, he !
pours the gurgling brandy down his throat—
first one dose, and then another—till, in an
hour, stupefied and dazed, lie sees not the sil
very crimson-spotted trouts, shooting, and
leaping, and tumbling, and plunging in deep
ami shallow ; a day on which, with one of ;
Captain Colley’s March-llrowns, in an hour :
jwe could till our pannier. Or, if it be autumn
i or winter, he calls, perhaps, with a voice at ]
once gruff and feeble, on old Ponto, and will j
take a plufl’at the partridges. In former days,
down they used to go, right and left, in potatoe
or turnip-field, broomy brae or stubble—but
] now his sight is dim and wavering, and his
i touch trembles on the trigger. The covey
i whirs off, unarmed in a single feather—and
! poor Ponto, remembering better days, cannot !
! conceal his melancholy, falls in at his mas-
I ter’s heel, and will range no more. Out, as
; usual, comes the brandy-bottle—he is still
1 a good shot when his mouth is the mark ;
and having emptied the fatal flask, he stag
gers homewards, with the muzzles of his
j double-barrel frequently pointed to his ear,
! both being on lull cock, and his brains not
! blown out only by a miracle. lie tries to
: read the newspaper—just arrived—but can
! not find his spectacles. Then, by way of va
! riely, he attempts a tune on the fiddle; hut
! the bridge is broken, and tier side cracked,
and the bass-string snapped—and she is re
, stored to her peg among the cobwebs. 111
I comes a red-headed, stockingless lass, with
1 her carrots in papers, and lays the cloth for
: dinner—salt beef and greens. But the Ma
jor's stomach scunners at the Skye-stot—his
j eves roll eagerly for the hot-water — and in a
I couple of hours he is dead-drunk in his chair,
! or stoitering and staggering, in aimless dal
liance with the scullion, among the pots and
pans of an ever-disorderly and dirty kitchen.
Mean people, in shabby sporting velveteen
dresses, rise up as he enters from the dresser
covered with cans, jugs, and quechs. and
take off their rusty and greasy napless hats to
flic Major; and to conclude the day worthily
and consistently, he squelches himself down
among the reprobate crew, takes his turn at
smutty jest and smuttier song, which drive
even the jades out of the kitchen—falls back
insensible, exposed to gross and indecent
practical jokes from the vilest of the unhanged
—and finally is carried to bed on a hand-bar
row, with hanging head and heels, like a calf
across a butcher’s cart, and, with glazed eyes
and lolling tongue, is tumbling upon the quilt
—if ever to awake it is extremely doubtful;
but if awake he do, it is to the same wretched
round of brutal degradation—a career, of
which the inevitable close is an unfriended
death bed and a pauper’s grave. O hero! six
feet high, and once with a brawn like Hercu
les, -in the prime of life too-—well born and
COLUAIBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, FEBRUARY 12, 1832.
well hred—once bearing the king’s commis
sion—and on that glorious morn, now forgot
ten or bitterly remembered, thanked on the
field of battle by Picton, though he of the
fighting division was a hero of few words—is
that a death worthy of a man—a soldier—and j
a Christian? A dram-drinker! Faugh! faugh ! j
Look over—lean over that stile, where a pig j
lies wallowing in mire—and a voice, faint and ;
feeble, and far off, as it came from some dim
and remote world within your lost soul will j
cry, that of the two beasts, that bristly one,!
agiTiut in sensual sleep, with its snout snoring |
across the busk trough, is, as a physical, mar- {
al and intellectual being, superior to you,
lute Major in his Majesty’s regiment
of foot, now dram-drinker, drunkard, and do- j
tard, and self-doomed to a disgraceful 1
and disgusting death ere you shall have
completed your thirtieth year. What a
changed being from that day when you car
ried the colors, and were found the bravest of
the brave, and the most beautiful of the beau
tiful, with the glorious tatters wrapped round
your body all drenched in blood, your hand
grasping the broken sabre, and two grim
Frenchman lying hacked and hewed at your
feet! Your father and mother saw your name
in the “Great Lord’s” Despatch; and it was
as much as he could do to keep her from
falling on the floor, for “her joy was like a
deep affright!” Both are dead now; and bet
ter so, for the sight of that blotched face and 1
those glazed eyes, now and then glittering in
fitful frenzy, would have killed them both, nor,
after such a spectacle, could their old bones
have rested in the grave.
Alas, Scotland—ay, well educated, moral,
religious Scotland can show in the bosom of
her bonny banks and braes, cases worse than
this, at which, if there be tears in heaven, the
angels weep. Look at that gra vheaded man,
of threescore and upwards, sitting by the
wayside! He was once an Elder of the Kirk,
and a pious man he was, if over piety adorn
ed the temples—“the lyart haflets, wearing
thin and bare,” of a Scottish peasant. What
eye beheld tlie many hundred steps, that one
by one, with imperceptible gradation, led him
down down—down to the lowest depths of
shame, suffering, and ruin ? For years be
fore it was bruited abroad through the par
ish that Gabriel Mason was addicted to drink,
his wife used to sit weeping alone in the spence
when her sons and daughters were out at their
work in the fields, and tlie infatuated man,
fierce in the excitement of raw ardent spirits,
kept causelessly raging and storming through j
every nook of that once so peaceful tenement, :
which for many happy years had never been
disturbed by the loud voice of anger or re
proach. 13is eyes were seldom turned on
his unhappy wife except with a sullen scowl,
or fiery wrath; but when they.did look on
her with kindness, there was also a rueful self
upbraiding in their expression, on account of
his cruelty ; and at sight of such transitory ten
derness, her heart would overflow with for
giving affection, and her sunk eyes with un
endurable tears. But neither domestic sin
nor domestic sorrow will conceal from
eyes and the ears of men; and at last Gabriel
Mason’s name was a bye-word in the mouth
oi the scoffer. One Sabbath ho entered the
kirk in a state of miserable abandonment, and
from that day lie was no longer an elder.—
To regain his character seemed to him, in
his desperation, beyond the power of man,
and against the decree of God. So he deliv
ered himself up, like a slave, to that one appe
tite, and in a few years his whole household
had gone to destruction. His wife was a
matron almost in the prime of life, when she
died ; but as she kept wearing away to the
other world, her face told that she felt her
years had been too many in this. Her eldest j
son, unable, in pride and shame, to lift up his
eyes at kirk or market, went away to the ci
ty, and enlisted into a regiment about to em
bark on foreign service. His t.vo sisters
went to take farewell of him, but never re
turned ; one, it is said, having died of a fever
in the Infirmary, just as if she had been a
pauper; raid the other for tlie sight of sin,
and sorrow, and shame, and suffering, is ruin
ous to the soul—gave herself up, in her beauty,
an easy prey to a destroyer, and doubtless has
run her course of agonies, and is now at
peace. The rest of the family dropt down,
one by one, out of sight, into inferior situations
in far-off places; but there was a curse, it
was thought, hanging over tlie family, and of
none of them did ever a favourable report
come to their native parish ; while he the in- ]
fatuated sinner, whose vice seemed to have !
worked all the wo, remained in the chains of!
his tyrannical passion, nor seemed ever, for ;
more than the short term of a day, to cease
hugging them to his heart. Semblance of all
that is most venerable in the character of,
Scotland’s peasantry ! Image of a perfect pa
triarch, walking out to meditate at eventide !
What a noble forehead! Features how high,
dignified, and composed ! There, sitting in the
shade of that old wayside tree, he seems some
religious Missionary, travelling to and fro ov
er the face of the earth, seeking out sin and
sorrow, that he may tame them under the
word of God, and change their very being in
to piety and peace. Call him not a hoary
hypocrite, for he cannot help that noble—that
venerable—that apostolic aspect—that digni
fied figure, as if bent gently by Time, loath
to touch it with too heavy a hand—that holy
sprinkling over bis furrowed temples of the
silver-soft, and the snow-white hair—these
are tlie gifts of gracious Nature all—and Na
ture will not reclaim them, but in the tomb?
That is Gabriel Mason—the Dunkard! And
in an hour you may, if your eyes can bear
the sight, see and hear him staggering up and
down the village, cursing, swearing, preach
ing, praying — stoned by blackguard boys
and girls, who hound all the dogs and curs at
his heels, till, taking refuge in the smithy or
the pot-house, he becomes the sport of grown
clowns, and, after much idiot laughter, rueful
ly mingled with sighs, and groans, and tears,
he is suffered to mount upon a table, and urged,
perhaps, by reckless folly to give out a text
from the Bible, which is nearly all engraven
on his memory— so much and so many other
tilings effaced for ever—and there, like a wild
Itinerant, Ue stammers forth unintentional
blasphemy, till the liquor he has been allowed
or instigated to swallow, smites him suddenly
senseless, and falling down, he is huddled off
into a corner of some lumber-room ; and left
to sleep—better far for such a wretch were
it to death,
A French horse-dealer was asked if an ani
mal which he offered for sale was timid. “Not
at all,’’ said he, “he often passes many nights
together by himself in the stable,”
[From Arthur’s Home Gazette.]
EXTRACTS FROM TIIE JOURNAL OF A
TRAVELER.
XO. IV. —•WANDERINGS IN SILESIA.
It has always been to riie particularly in
teresting to linger around frontier or border
provinces in which two great nations, of dif
ferent language and origin, arc seen either
flowing side by side without commingling, or
are observed for a certain distance on either
side of the line, in various degrees of trans
fusion and interpenetration. This 1 had the
pleasure of witnessing daily at the mineral
springs of Saltzbrun. It was as though the
billows of two different oceans, the waters of
which are of different color and consistency,
were ebbing and flowing through and around
each other, without ever attaining a perfect
union of natures.
The German blood and the Sclavonic!
Can these ever assimilate, or form a homo
geneous compound? And yet, day after
day, I saw them drinking health from the
same waters, listening to the same music,
passing up and down the same avenues, and
sitting under the shade of the same trees.
The graceful, vivacious Pole, superb in his
dress, proud in his bearing, his nation down
trodden, himself as erect and lofty as ever,
can lie ever form a hand-and-glove friendship
with the German, so much less showy in ex
terior, but so much more masfcive and power
ful in reality?
That there is something about these Scla
vonic nations, especially when in union with
“high birth and tine education, very captiva
ting, every one must have felt, who has seen
a group of Polish ladies with'their long flow
ing robes, or the Hungarian imperial guard
at Vienna in their splendid uniforms, and all
mounted upon milk white horses. About
them all, cavaliers as well as ladies, there is
fin air of spirit and grace which may chal
lenge the world for its equal. The very
plumes above their heads seem to me to
wave more gallantly than when worn by any
other nation. Something lordly and noble
seems stamped upon the mould of their limbs;
something iu the roll of the eye, in the mo
tions of the hand, in the port of the body, in
the very expression and outline of the beard,
tell to the eye at a glance, that they are a
brave and magnificent people.
The Poles were much more numerous at
Saltzbrun that summer than the Germans.
They were the only persons present wiio
made anv pretensions to style and splendor
either in dress or equipage. The Germans
there were plainer than I had ever seen them
at any other place in their great fatherland.
The contrast was on this account the more
striking.
Thus, two streams, flic one ripply and flash
ing, the other deep and strong, were con
stantly running through and across each
other, without either losing its individuality,
ft was a strange spectacle: almost as much
so as it would be to see the gaudy-spotted
leopard and the tower-hearing elephant drink
ing out of the same fountain, or to observe a
fat muscovy-duck, with its awkward wad
diings and nodding, in company with a bril
liantly painted peacock.
The manner in which the Polish ladies sa
lute each other.whcn they meet, struck me as
being peculiarly graceful and appropriate.
Instead of that eternal kissing which is
practiced so indiscriminately and under all
kinds of bonnets, by our fair ones, even
when they are scarcely acquainted, the Polish
lady, with a swan-like arch of her proud neck,
bends over the shoulder of her companion, first
to the right and then to the left, so low as bare
ly to touch with her lips the spotless ganrient,
and anon rises again to her own stately
height. The operation is a beautiful one to
the spectator, and seems easy of performance
to the operator. On the contrary, promis
cuous and universal kissing is often inconve
nient and difficult of execution, and, what is
of more importance, renders stale and com
mon an act which nature seems to have in
tended as the outward expression of our
warmest and tenderest feelings. In cases
where there is not much love between the par
ties, or what is worse, actual dislike, what
can lie more Judas-like and chilling?
These fair daughters of Poland i admired
only at a respectable distance. Their jewels,
rich silks, and costly furs never glittered near
my eye or rustled near my ear; curiosity and
imagination were kept always awake; there
was a novelty about them which never wore
off. Every fair day I could see a long line of
them, each seated upon a donkey, winding
their way in single file up to a neighboring
height called Wilhelm’s Hohe, for the sake of
enjoying the prospect from its summit. The
contrast between the beautiful riders and un
gainly animals beneath them, rendered the
spectacle the more striking. Thus they came
and wont mysteriously before my eyes like
enchanted ladies from fairyland—not one
word of their sweet language (sweet, indeed,
as it flowed from their lips) could 1 under
stand—they seemed to be in the world and
vet beyond it, beautiful spirit-ladies from a far
country, moving in a higher sphere than that
which was occupied by myself and my Teu
tonic companions.
Bv the kindness of the Breslau professor,
I was made acquainted with several German
ladies of noble birth and high-sounding titles.
1 found them good Matured, fat, and enthusi
astic in their admiration of good beer. I often
had the pleasure of drinking with them and
the professor. On such occasions each lady
had before her, filled to the brim, a huge glass
which could scarcely have been less than
eighteen inches in height, which I never
knew her to leave without draining it to the
bottom. These potations seemed to cheer,
but never to intoxicate. They were always
lady-like and decorous iu their manners;
plump and cosy in their appearance; playful
without being boisterous in their mirth; ro
mantic in spite of their fondness for white
beer; and fascinating even when compared
with the daughters of Sarmatia.
The Power of the Press. —The Metho
dist Book Concern in New York employs 8
! presses and 200 hands; the Bible House
1 10 presses 500 hands, the Tract House 13
j presses and 275 hands, and the Harpers 20
j presses and 400 hands—total iu the four es
tablishments 51 presses and 1175 hands, of
j whom 420 are females. The Appletons also
; keep 18 presses running a good part of the
’ time. j
“Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed?
i What is your verdict ?” “We find the pris
not guilty, if he will leave the town!”
THE ORPHANS.
Mrs. Ormond was very poor. It was with
difficulty that she could supply herself and
two children with bare necessaries of life;
and with these but sparcely. Minerva and
James were very thinly and coarsely clothed.
It was nothing uncommon for them to pass
half the winter without shoes. But notvnlh
standiug this little family suffered sorely in
consequence of poverty, there w:?s much
pleasure experienced at its fire. Mrs. Or
mond was truly pious, and knowing toe dan -
ger to which her little children would be ex
posed in consequence of tho social position
into which their circumstances would throw
them, she labored to train them up in the fear
of the Lord, and often encouraged their con
fidence in their Father in heaven.
Mrs. Ormond was not at all qualified for
the kind of work which she had to perform.
She was a seamstress anti her close attention
to sewing was making inroads upon her
health. Tier friends noticed a cough which
they prophesied would soon terminate her
earthly troubles, and take her to that place
where “The weary are at rest.” Mrs. Or
mond knew well that disease was making ra
pid inroads upon her strength, and nothing
grieved her more than the prospect of having
her little tender children thrown upon the
charity of a cold world. Often did this poor
woman weep, as she saw her little daughter
and son affectionately embracing each other,
when she thought of her declining health and
their eventual separation.
By degrees Mrs. Ormond’s health failed
until she was prostrated and dependent upon
the goodness of a few charitable members of
the congregation to which she belonged. It
was not long after her confinement until
symptoms of a speedy decease were exhibit
ed. Her physician told her that she was con
sumpted beyond hope, and that a few weeks
at the farthest must close her present exist
ence. This announcement, although Mrs.
Ormond thought oft of death, rather startled
her. llow could her helpless children do
without her. When the Doctor left the room
Minerva and James came slipping in and ap
proaching the bedside, Minerva said with
childish earnestness, “Mother, does the doc
tor say that you are better.”
“No iiiy dear child,” replied the mother as
calmly as possible, “he fears that I am not
any better. lam afraid Minerva that I will
soon be taken from you.
“No one shall take von away mother,” re
plied little James. “I will bolt the door.”
“Ah! James you cannot bolt death out of
the house. lie comes in and goes out in spite
of bolts. My dear children, the doctor says
that I must soon die. Then you will be left
alone.”
“No, mother,” replied Minerva, “you know
that yon often told us that we had a Father
iu heaven who would never leave us; who
would take care of us when you would die,
and bring us to you, if we would trust in him
and pray to him.”
“That is true .Minerva; you have a very
kind Father in heaven; “He will give his an
gels charge over thee, to keep thee, in all thy
ways. They will bear thee up in their
hands.’’ Audi feel happy notwithstanding
I must leave you, when 1 think that perhaps
God may send me to watch over you and
take care of you.”
“Oil ! Mother can we see the angels which
take care of us?”
“No, my daughter; they cannot be seen.”
“How can we know whether the angels are
with us?”
“Because God has promised to send them,
and they are His “ministering spirits sent
forth to minister for them who shall be heirs
of salvation.’ ’’
Next morning after the above conversa
tion Mrs.Ormond died. Poor little Minerva
now felt the burden of responsibility which
rested upon her. She was only twelve years
old, while her brother was but six. Death
came into this humble dwelling and carried
away the mother, leaving the children with
out an y one who cared for them or wished to
be troubled with them.
After the corpse was given to the grave by
the Overseers of the poor, Minerva and James
were taken to the poor-house, and an adver
tisement inserted in a newspaper that they j
would he bound out. This advertisement ,
caught the eye of a benevolent lady, who had
long wished to obtain a little girl to adopt.—
Without delay she called at the poor-house
to see Minerva. Upon being introduced to
her, Minerva was very timid. Mrs. Galbraith
was pleased with Minerva’s appearance, and
calling her to her side said,“My little daugh
ter would you not like to come and live at my
house?
“Yes, ma’am, I would,”-replied Minerva,!
“If brother would come too.”
“Where is your brother Minerva? That is
a very pretty name you have, (so tell your
brother that I want to see him.” *
In a moment little Jimmy was introduced.
“Oh ! what a fine boy. Gome tome James.
Won’t you come and stay* with Minerva?
She says that she will live with me if von
will
“I es ma’am, I will go wherever Nerva
goes.” Every tiling being arranged Mrs.
Galbraith started, leaving the Orphans to
come to her residence the next day.
Mrs. Galbraith was a pious woman and she
expected that her adopted children would
need much information of a religious kind.—
Her surprise was great to see Minerva and
James, before going to bed, kneeling at the
bedside and to hear them repeating their pray
ers. After they arose she ventured to inquire
who taught them. They replied “Mother
taught us, and mother told us the night before
she died that God would always lie with us
if we would pray to him, and that lie would
send angels to take care of us,’’replied Min
erva, “but if she hadn’t told as that we couldn’t
see angels, Mrs. Galbraith I would have
thought that you was one.’’
“God bless you my dear children, I hope I
may prove a good angel of God to you. Now
my dear children always after this call me
mother ; for God has taken your mother away,
and given you to me. Now kiss me dear
children and go to sleep.”
READER HE KIND TO THE POOR.
A New Isthmus Scheme. —A company
is forming in New \ork to undertake in
j earnest the construction of a canal to connect
! the Atlantic with the Pacific, by anew and
: more Southern route. The company’ is styled
the Atrato Intercoceanic Canal Company.—
The route possesses advantages which Baron
Humboldt long since proclaimed to the world
and which are in part recorded in Congres
sional document*.
TERMS OF PUBLICATION.
O.ie Copy per annum, if paid in advance,.. S>-,2 00
“ •• “ “ “ ** ia six months, i W
“ “ “ * *’ “ at end of year, 300
RATES OF ADVERTISING.
One square, first insertion. SI 00
” “ each subsequent insertion, - 50
A liberal deduction made in. favor ot those who
advertise largely.
NO. 7.
THE JOXINC CLERGYMAN.
A correspondent of the Boston Transcript
relates the following anecdotes of the Rev.
Mather Bytes, the well known joking clergy
man of Boston. Dr. Byles lived in the tuna
of tlie revolution, and was a Tory.
The distillery of Thomas Hill was at the
corner of Essex and South streets, not tar
from .Mr. Belknap's residence in Lincoln
street Dr. Byles called on .Mr. Hid, and in
quired—
“Do you still ?”
“ That is my business,” Mr. Hill replied.
“ Then,” said Dr. Kyles, “will you go with
toe and still my wife ?”
As he was once occupied in nailing some
list upon the doors, to exclude the cold, a
parishioner said to him—
“ The wind bloweth wheresoever it listcth,
Dr. Byles/’
“Yes,” said the d.ictor, “and man listeth
whosesoever the wind bloweth.”
He was intimate with Gen. Knox, who
was a bookseller before the war. When the
American troops took possession ol the
town, after the evacuation, Knox, who had
become quite corpulent, marched in at tl. *
head of his artillery. As he passed o .
Byles, who thought himself privileged on os.
shores, exclaimed, loud enough to be heard--
“I never saw an ox (a Knox) fatter in my life.”
But Knox was not in the vein. He felt of
fended by this freedom, especially from Byles,
who was then known to be a Tory, and re
plied in uneourtly terms.
“In May, 1777, Dr. Byles was arrested as
a Tory, and subsequently tried, convictc
and sentenced to confinement on board of
a guardship, and |to be sent to England with
his family, in forty days. This sentence was
changed by the board of war to confinement
in his own house. A guard was placed over
him. After a time his sentence was removed,
when the doctor exclaimed that he had been
“guarded, regarded, and disregarded/’ lie
called his sentry his “ob-serv-a-lory !’\ *
Perceiving, one morning, that the sentinel,
a simple fellow, was absent, and seeing Dr.
Byles himself pacing before his own door,
with a musket on his shoulder, the neighbors
stepped over to inquire the cause.
“You see,” said the doctor, “I begged the
sentinel to let me go for some milk lor my
family, but he would not suffer me to stir. I
reasoned the matter with him, and helms gone
himself to get it for mo, on condition that I
keep guard in his absence.”
One bitter December night he called Ids
daughters Iron the bed simply to inquire ii
they lay warm.
lie had a small collection of curiosities.
Some visitors called one morning, and Mrs.
Byles, unwilling to be found at tier ironing
board, and, in the emergency, desiring to hide
herself, as she would not be so caught by tho
ladies for the world, the doctor put her in tho
closet and buttoned her in. After a few re
marks, the ladies expressed a wish to see tho
curiosities, which he proceeded to exhibit,
and after entertaining them very agreeably for
several hours, lie told them he had kept the
greatest curiosity to the last; when, proceed
ing to the closet, le unbuttoned the door,
and exhibited Mrs. Byles.
He had complained long, often and fruit
lessly, to the select-men, of a quagmire in
front of his dwelling.
One morning, two of the fathers of tho
town passing in a chase, after a violent rain,
became stuck in the bog. As they were
striving to extricate themselves, and pulling to
the right and to the left, the Doctor came forth,
and bowing with great politeness, exclaimed :
“1 am delighted, gentlemen, to see you
stirring in this matter at last.”
A candidate for fame proposed to fly from
the North Church steeple, and had already
mounted, and was clapping Ids wings, to tho
great delight of the mob. Dr. Byles, ming
ling with the crowd, inquired what was the
object of the gathering.
“We have come, sir, to see r. horse-fly, 1 *
said one.
“Poll! poll! I have seen a horse fly,” re
plied the Doctor.
Upon the 19th of May, 1730, the mem
orable Dark day, a lady wrote to the Doctor
as follows:
“ Dear Doc.'nr —llow do you account for
this darkness?”
And received his immediate answer—
“ Dear Madam —l am as much in the dark
as you are.’’
This, for sententious brevity, has never been
surpassed, unless by the correspondence be
tween the comedian, Sam Foote, and his
mother.
“ Dear Sam —l am in jail.”
“ Dear Mother —So am 1.”
He had at one time a remarkably stupid
Irish girl, as a domestic. With a look and
voice of terror, he said to her in haste—
“Go sav to vour mistress, Dr. Byles has
put an end to himself!”
The girl flew up stairs, and, with a face of
horror, exclaimed at the top of her vpice—
“Dr. Byles has put an end to himself!”
The astonished wife and daughters rushed
into the parlor, and there was the Doctor
calmly walking about, with a part of a cow’s
tail, that he had picked up in the street, tied to
his coat or cassock behind.
From the time of the Stamp Act, 1765, to
the period of the Revolution, the cry had
been repeated in every form of phraseology,
that our grievances should 1m; redressed. On
a tine morning, when the multitude had gath
ered on the Common to see a regiment of red
coats paraded there, who had recently ar
rived, the Doctor said—
“ Well, l think we can no longer camplaia
that our grievances are not red-dressed !”
“True.” said one of the laughers, who was
standing near, “but you have two ds, Dr.
Byles.”
“To be sure I have,” the Doctor replied;
“I had them from Aberdeen, in 1725.”
At the time when Whitfield was in Boston,
drawing crowds to listen to his eloquence,
Dr. Byles remarked, one day, ‘hat he “would
go sooner to hear Whitfield than any other
preacher.” The jierson addressed marvelled
at the remark, because Whitfield's doctrines
were not consonant with the Doctor’s feel
ings, and he said to him—
“ Why so, Doctor?”
“Because,” said the wag, “if I didn’t, I
j couldn’t get in.”
Hud not this eccentric man possessed some
’ very excellent and amiable qualities, he
| could not have maintained his relation so the
I llollis street Church and society for forty
( three years, from 1733 to 1765, and have sep-
S aiated from them at last, for political consid
eration 5 alone,