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“t/soutiieun SENTINEL
/ IS PUBLISIIKD
e /rV THURSDAY MORNING,]
/ 15 V V--.AV ‘
j T. LOMAX & CO.
/ TEXNENT LOMAX, editor.
O'lire in Kandolph street.
Citnranj Department,j
;.NIH*CTKO 8Y... CAROLINE LEF. HENTZ. ]
iWRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.! !
THE STOLEN CHILD.
A SKETCH FROM LIFE.
BV CAROUSE I.EE HENTZ.
PART SECOND.
“God help me, in my grievous need,
G'mJ help me, in my inward pain,
Which cannot a.-k for pity's meed,
Which ha? no license to complain;
Which must be borne, yet who can bear
Hours tong, days long, a constant weight,
The yoke of absolute despair,
A sutJeriiig wholly desolate?”
Two weary days passed away, and no ti
dings of the lost child. l lie wild agony of
tin- mother had settled down into a kind of
stupor, the rest.lt of despair. Mrs. Elliott
kept her in the house, and by giving little
Bessy entirely to her charge, tried to inter
est her feelings and divert her attention from
her own sorrows. She did this in kindness, j
hut perhaps it was an error in judgment, for j
the sight of the beautiful child, blooming in ;
the security of homo, reminded her only j
more vividly of her own wandering boy. i
She would sit for hours, gazing with a dull, j
vague look oil the little scarlet dress, so fan- j
cifully margined with jetty braid, hanging j
conspicuously on the wall.
“Some how or other, mi-tress,” she said :
mournfully, “that looks just like Jim s shroud,
if 1 look at it long, it turns all over black. ’
“You will see little Jimmy wear it before
long,” ieplied Mrs. Elliott kindly. “AA hen so
many arc interested in his recovery, it is al
mo-t impossible that he should not be found. ’
“Oh, mistress, that black horse goes like
the wind. Nobody could catch him. ’Taint
like /her horses. O dear! OLord! howl
wish I’d never let Jimmy get up with that j
awful man.”
The second night, one ol the men return- J
ed, weary and unsuccessful. He hail perceiv- j
ed no trace of the fugitive, and convinced j
they must have taken some other route, j
thought it best to return. The next morning
the other two also came back, but without ;
the child. One of them, however, imparted ;
information of great interest. He had follow
ed in the track of a young man, mounted on i
a fiery black horse, who had been seen at j
earlv dawn, riding along, with a little child ]
before him. The description corresponded i
exactly to Wild Jack, and the man was sure ]
of overtaking the robber, bat he soon came ;
where four roads met, and knew not which I
way to turn. In his perplexity, he stiffereu ,
one of the superstitions ol his childhood to j
guide him, and he directed his course to the j
rising sun. In the course of the day, he 1
heard of a slave trader who had passed that j
wav, with a large number of slaves, and j
among them was a little boy, of the age of;
Jim, who was represented, like him, to be I
black as polished ehonv. There was no j
doubt that Wild Jack had had an understand- j
ing with the man. and sold to him the stolen ‘
cliiii
The emissary, who was not a bold man, ;
thought not of contending with one of these :
desperate characters, but immediately turn- ;
ed his face homeward, to communicate the j
facts which had come to his knowledge.
Dark were the clouds that now gathered i
round the fate of little Jim. While the man !
was returning, he was borne stili further from j
them, on a wild, unfrequented road, and per
haps even then he was transferred to some
other master, who might he bearing him
away on the wings of the morning.
Mr. Elliott sat with the President in his
office, with an anxious and troubled counte
nance. While they were engaged in earnest
conversation on the subject, the door opened
and Mr. Green, the father of Wild Jack, was
announced.
He was a meek, sorrowful looking man,
with a stooping frame and downcast coun
tenance. One might look in vain in his pale,
dim eyes, thin cheeks and melanc-hoiy mouth,
for any resemblance to the bright, fierce,
wicked face of \Y ild Jack.
There was something in his appearance
that appealed irresistibly to the compassion
ate feelings of the gentlemen, and the Presi
dent, moved by commiseration, as well as by
habitual politeness, addressed him kindly,
and offered him a seat, by the ample and
blazing fire. But he would not be seated.
He stood with his hat crushed between bis
knees, with an expression of conscious un
worthiness, and the worn and crushed hat
seemed a meet emblem of his crushed and
grief-worn heart. The father of a wicked,
law-defying son, whom he had in vain en
deavored to “train up in the way he should
go, ’ must feel abject and wretched.
“Are there any tidings of your son, sir?”
asked the President, breaking the silence
which began to be irksome.
“I’ve heard of the lost child, sir,” lie re
plied meekly, “and I’ve come to tell you
that if you’ll stop the search after him, he
shall be brought back day after to-morrow
night. Acs, sir, I’ll swear on the Bible, if
you say so, that what I say is the truth.”
The gentlemen looked at each other in
surprise. They knew hut little of Mr. Green,
and judging of him by the character of his
son, as people are apt to do, imagined him
to be a man with very dim perceptions of
right and wrong. He was considered a poor
man, owning a small farm and a few negroes,
wiiose work he shared, while he superintend
their labors. Jack was his only son,
VOL 111.
whose birth and his mother’s death were sim- j
uitaneous events. Poor Jack! had he ever
known a mother’s restraining influence and
tender watchfulness, his evil propensities
would never have acquired their present rank
and poisonous luxuriance.
“This is very strange,” said the President,
fixing his eyes sternly on his agitated and
working features. “Am I to consider you j
an accomplice with your son in this felonious ;
act?”
The poor man looked up to Heaven with I
an humble, deprecating air, and tl e President
felt something knocking against his heart, I
painfully and reproachfully. He had no son
of his own, but he could comprehend what
were a father’s feelings, and he knew those (
of a man.
“I didn’t come here to criminate or defend j
myself, sir. Neither did 1 come to defend i
my son. It wouldn’t do any good, il I did,
for you all know him. I don’t pretend to
deny that lie s carried off the child. 1 know j
if he's taken, his life will be forfeited. But I j
don’t think lie can be. He’s got a way that j
nobody ever had before. J sometimes think i
an evil spirit is in him—but he is my son, for
all that—all that I’ve got in the world. He’s
bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh, giv
en me by his mother, now in Heaven. You •
can’t catch Jack, but you can keep him from j
coming near me as long as 1 live. You will
advertise him and set a price on his head,
and it wilt be all right.”
“To be sure, it will,” interrupted the Presi- \
dent emphatically, and Mr. Elliott’s clear eye :
p onounced amen.
“You can do it,” continued Mr. Green,
“hut with all that, it is very doubtful wheih- :
er you ever see him or the boy either. But 1
1 promise you solemnly, gentlemen, if you’ll i
all keep quiet and say nothing, that day af
ter to-morrow right, at about midnight, the 1
child shall lie in front of Mr. Porter’s tavern. 1
If he’s not there, you may take me, put me in
jail, ami itaug me in place of my son.”
There was an air of such earnestness and
!
sincerity about the man, combined with such
profound melancholy, that they were both
deeply impressed. They were beginning to
be convinced of the hopelessness of pursuit, ;
and were ready to listen to any proposition
which reason might sanction and justice ap
prove.
“If we put fui h in your promises and sus
pend our present efforts,” said the President,
whose inflexible justice upbraided him for a
too easy surrender of his judgment, “and your
son should appear again in our midst, we can
not suffer so dangerous an individual to be ;
at large. The law must claim its due.”
“He never shall appear among you. He
never again shall disturb the peace of this
community. We will both seek a home re
mote from this, where, I trust, lie will begin
anew and better life.”
“Well, then,” said the President, looking
at Mr. Elliott.
.Mr. Elliott bowed Ins head in token of as
i sent, and Mr. Green was assured that on the
i faith of his promise, they would suspend the
: pursuit and wait the coming of the child.
“1 pray you,” said Mr. Green in departing,
I “not to aliow a crowd to collect round the
i tavern. Let the mother be there waiting, but
! say nothing to any body else. If any thing
| happens to keep the child, you will find me
; at my farm, ready to give myself into your
i hands, for imprisonment or death.”
It is not strange that Dilsy should not be
i °
lievo the promise of Mr. Green, or that she
! should consider her boy as lost forever.—
j Two more long, weary days were to pass,
! before the appointed hour, in heart sickness
! and anguish. She could not sit still, but
j wandered like a restless ghost about the
j grounds, with little Bessy warmly clasped in
! her arms, who would fix her soft blue eyes
! in mute wonder, on her dark, despairing
j countenance, and sometimes wipe away a
large tear from the mulatto’s cheek, with her
: snow-white, dimpled hand. She would stand
! at tiie gate, and look up and down the road,
; till her strained and dazzled glance could see
nothing in the bright sunshine, bat a painful
! glitter, obscure as darkness.
“You are wrong to give up to despair, Dil
sy,” said Mrs. Elliott, “when so much has
j been done tor you. You’ve told me some
i times that you had no friends—that a poor,
free mulatto couldn't have any. You see you
j are mistaken. If my Bessy was stolen awav,
there could not be more active measures ta-
I ken to restore her to mv arms. You must
i not be ungrateful, Dilsv.”
“I don’t mean to be, mistress—you’re too
good. I knows it—l feels it—but I can’t talk,
i Ah, mistress, nobody would think of stealing
i your baby. Nobody would buy a white
I baby.”
A flush passed over Mrs. Elliott’s white
: cheek, as she replied—
“ White children are sometimes stolen, as
; many a weeping mother can bear witness.
But it is not often the case in this country.
, But, Dilsy, Mr. Eliiott firmly believes Mr.
; Green’s promise, and is sore that Jimmy will
j come back again. You should put trust in
’ God, if not in man, for his promise never
j fails.”
“I can't think of any promise to comiort
me,” said the poor mulatto.
“He suffers not a sparrow to fall to the
I ground without His knowledge, and He feed
oth the young ravens when they cry.”
“That may mean little Jimmy- He’s
black like the raven,” said Dilsy, thoughtful
ly, “and he’s got nobody to feed him now if
God don't.”
She brought the white muslip apron of i
Bessy’s which she had moistened with tears
on the ’.light of Jimmy’s abduction, and pre- !
sented it nicely washed and starched, to Mrs. |
Elliott.
“Beg pardon, mistress,” said she. “1 didn’t
know nothing of what I was doing, or I
wouldn't have used it so.”
“\ou have not hurt it, Dilsv. A mother’s
tears are sacred. Keep it, and when Jimmy ;
comes back, you must dress him in tlle scar- j
let tunic, and this pretty’ apron, and carry
him round as a show boy. They who sow in
tears shall reap in jov, Dilsv.”
As the night appointed for the child’s res- ;
toration drew on, Mr. Elliott himself lust his j
sanguine hopes, and became anxious and ,
restless. He feared that lie had been duped i
by the elder Green, who had probably had;
recourse to a stratagem, to gain time for his J
son’s escape from justice He thought he j
would feel very foolish to wait half the night, j
as he intended to do, at the tavern, for the
fulfilment of a solemn promise, and then find
lie had been baffled and deceived.
It would be better perhaps to let Dil--y go j
alone, for should his doubts be confirmed, he |
could not bear to witness her grief and do- ;
spair. Yet, when night came on, an irresisti- ,
hie impulse urged him to the spot, where a
crowd was already assembled, and among j
them was the grave and reverend President.
This gathering was “tru in the bond,” for ,
secresy had been enjoined, but Dilsy could ;
not keep her own counsel. Her heart was
too full not to overflow, and the curiosity of
the whole neighborhood was excited by the j
information.
The President was obliged to make a long
harangue, before he could induce the people
to condense themselves within doors, so as ;
not to frighten away the living, whoever it j
might be, whose mission it was to restore the i
stolen child. His words had the desired es- \
feet, and Dilsy was left alone, in the piazza, I
counting each moment of the waning hours j
by the quick heatings of her throbbing heart, j
Mr. Elliott hail lent, her his large, warm cloak
to wrap around her, for the night air was
I cold and frosty. She did not feel it, howev
i er, so great was the tension of her mind. If
: she walked the length of the niazza once. ;
!■I , ‘
; she did hundreds of times, wnile the big tav- ;
i ern clock, that great auctioneer of time, kept
ringing with its iron tongue, “going, going,
gone.” Yes! the hours were going, slowly
but surely. Ten, eleven—twelve was near
:vt hand,
It was a clear, cloudless night. The moon
; shone with the pallid glory peculiar to a
! Southern wintry night, ns sweetly and calm
ly, as if there were no scenes of rapine and
i anguish passing beneath her holy beams.
Large pine fires were blazing in the chimneys,
throwing a red glare upon the window
j panes, and lighting up, with more than nomi
! day brightness, the promiscuous groups with
in. It was strange to see the majestic Pres
j idem and dignified Professors in such com
; pany, especially at that unwonted hour. It
j must have been a strong motive to induce
them to leave their families and homes du
] ring the silent watches of the night—to haunt
i a tavern, too—such sober, pious men as they
. were: and this motive was the restitution of
the wrongs of a poor mulatto, the restoration
!of a little negro boy. Verily, there is some
j humanity, some Christian benevolence at the
South, notwithstanding the strenuous efforts
! to prove the contrary.
; Hark ! the clock strikes twelve—that is the
i appointed hour. Yes! just at twelve, said the
i elder Green, the hoy should be returned.
The people rushed to the doors and windows,
and would have passed into the street had
they not been restrained by the commanding
voice of the President.
! Dilsv pressed forward, and winding one
| arm around a pillar of the piazza, for she felt
suddenly very weak, leaned out into the
’ moonbeams, that burnished with silver her
golden-colored forehead. All was still abroad
I —not an evergreen leaf quivered in the fros
!tv atmosphere. The road was white and
: sandy, and had a ghost-like look, stretching
j on, long and winding, into the dark pine
woods.
Dilsy stood panting against the pillar, when
, suddenly her eyes kindled with revengeful fire.
! “It was all a base sham ; they never were go
i ing to bring him back; master Elliott knew
it all the time; they were all making a fool
,of her; there was no truth in white folks, not
: one of them.” While these dark, vindictive
i thoughts rolled through her mind, she heard
; the distant sound of something, sue scarcely
; knew what. The soil was too sandy, along
the road, that ran along in front of the tavern.
! for hoofs t clatter, but still she knew that a
i horseman was approaching. A black speck
I seemed to be driven swiftly along over sandy
i waves —it grew larger and larger, came
i . .
swifter and swifter, till the outline of Wild
i Jack and his black horse was distinctly visi
ble—and perched in front of him was a lit
tle child, as black as a starless midnight,
i Dilsy gave a sharp, loud shriek and sprang
with one bound down the steps. The people
j rushed after her, with considerable volte
• mence. Whirling the child by one arm from
j the saddle to the ground, Wild Jack dashed
; his spurs into his horse’s flanks and went off,
j with the speed of the whirlwind. One might
!as well think of overtaking the whirlwind,
|as this fierce, wild youth. A yell, loud as an
i Indian warwhoop, rent the silence, and some
gbfflged into the sand, in a vain etfo. t of
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY .MORNING, DECEMBER 2, 1852.
“Oh! Jimmy, Jimmy!” exclaimed his i
mother, snatching up the shivering child, and
folding him in her cloak—“is it you?”
“Yes, it’s me, mammy,” answered a little,
weak voice. The mulatto burst into tears. —
Those little, feeble accents told a tale of suf
fering and privation.
“Bring him in, bring him in, to the fire,”
cried many voices, and Dilsy, staggering like
a drunken woman, made her way through
the crowd in the door-way and sunk down
on a seat near the fire.
Poor little Jimmy did indeed look as if he i
had endured sufferings, which he was too j
young to relate. His round fat cheeks were j
thin and hollow, and bis bright e3 - es had a !
dim, strange, bewildered look, that it was j
painful to witness. The back part of bis j
dress was all worn to tatters, and his woolly i
bead was all bristling with burs and tang- !
led with leaves. He was as cold as an icicle, j
and when brought near the hot blaze, lie i
. I
began to cry bitterly.
“Remove farthei from the fire—it makes ;
bis numb limbs ache,” said Mr. Elliott; “he
must be warmed gradually.”
Had Jimmy been a young Prince, instead
of an unowned negro child, he could not;
have been treated with more kindness and i
consideration. He had warm milk and nice j
warm buttered biscuit brought him to eat,;
and warm flannel rolled around him, till the ]
painful, bewildered expression of I.is face ‘
changed to one of dreamy satisfaction. They ;
began to question him, but all he could an
swer was—“ Don’t know.” His dawning fa- |
culties seemed obscured by the fright and
sufferings of the few past days, lie soon
fell asleep in his mother’s arms, that soft cra
dle from which the poor iittle fellow had been
so cruelly torn away.
Dilsy’s softened heart was now overflow
ing with gratitude to the white friends who
had exerted themselves so energetically in
her cause. She was ashamed of her hard, j
vindictive feelings, and inwardly resol veil nev- !
er again to cherish them. She had a good
deal of the Indian in her nature, as was in
dicated by her straight, shining hair. She
was quick to resent and slow to forgive an
injury, but the remembrance of blessings
conferred was lasting as life.
-Mrs. Elliott wept with joy, when her hus
band returned accompanied by the reunited ;
mother and child, and then she wept with
grief over his forlorn and altered appearance.
Sue!) a long .and terrible journey on horse
j back, as he must have had with Wild Jack
was enough to kill anViluer child. Little
; Jimmy must have been made of tough mate
j rials, not to have been shaken and butter* and to
; pieces. His flesh was sore arid bruised, and
1 in many places his dusky skin was lacerated
| and worn off. But kind bands anointed him,
] and the wounds of a child’s body are healed
I almost as soon as those of bis heart. After
i a day’s rest and nursing, be was bright
| enough to be arrayed in the dazzling scarlet
I suit and white muslin apron. The apron did
! not look quite in place, but Dilsy said she
! loved it better than anything she had, and
i she wouldn’t have him leave it off for ariy-
I tiling. Jimmy looked really quite magnifi
■ cent, in his royal-hued raiment, and as nil the
Imrs were picked out of his head, and his
cheeks were already beginning to round
themselves, “little Richard was himself again.”
Dilsy carried him from house to house, in
triumph, while a younger nurse toted the fair
blue-eyed Bessy, who was only a satellite, to
! the primary’ planet Jim, on tins memorable
occasion. Jimmy was emphatically the young
j Lion of the day, and great regret was express
\ ed that he could not relate bis adventures.
: At first, all he could say was, “1 don’t know.’
Now bis invariable answer to every question
was, “Wild Jack.” That fierce, blight image
i was forever darting across his little mind,
and for a time it seemed doubtful whether
i any other would ever be imprinted there.
The ladies loaded him with presents, and
jt‘ Dilsy had suffered much, she also rejoiced
i much, and in consequence loved much. She
I was certainly better and happier after tin's
j event than before. She had cherished the
i idea that nobody cared anything about her
or hers. Even the kindness of Mrs. Elliott
| she thought selfish, because she was neeessa
; ry to her child. Now, she acknowledged the
| existence of disinterested benevolence, and
her heart warmed and expanded under its
1 genial influence.
The history of Jim, during his davs of ab
sence, was never known. It was conjectured
that Mr. Green had bought him back from
the trader to whom his son had sold him,
at the sacrifice of his little farm and posses
! sions, for they were all sold and the master
i departed to some unknown regions, proba-
I bly accompanied by bis reprobate son.
The wild equestrian was never again seen,
fly ing along on his raven steed, alter he had
darkened for a moment the moonlight night
;we have described Whether he has repent
ed of his evil ways, or keeps rushing on the
downward road that leads to death, we have
never learned.
The following summer little Jim was play
ing blithely on the given by the side of the
bine-eyed Bessv. He seemed to have for
gotten Wild Jack; yet if a horse came gal
loping by, be would jump up and run to his
toother,’ and bury his face in her lap.
There is no romance in the ’story of Jim
my, but there is truth, without any alloy ot
fiction. W e have related it, as one of many
instances, of Southern kindness and liumani
j tv, to a lowly race—whose feelings the South
ron is too often accused of disregarding and
lArf|ma|iug under foot. .
LETTER FROM GEORGE M. TROUP.
Valdosta, sth Nov., 1852.
Col. A. J. Pickett —Jhar Sir: I have
uniformly said to those who have -appealed to
me for facts connected with the history ot
persons and things in past time, and particu
larly such as relate to myself and family, that
I have not a scrap of paper in the form of re
cord, memorial or authentic manuscript, that
lias been preserved for the purpose, or, in
deed, any whatever to my knowledge, spa
red by time, or bv the yet more active de
stroyers—the rats and mice. I must except
the Bible, treasured by every family, and thus
saved from the w’astmg influences of both. F
have one of these, an old Oxford edition of
1772, in which is found recorded, in the
hand-writing (the most beautiful and legible
1 ever saw) of my father, the birth place of
six of his children. I copied this, word for
word, into anew Family Bible, and now
have both before me. The following is a lit
eral extract from the former, and all that ap
pears in my father’s hand-writing:
“John Mclntosh Troup, born the 3d of
December, 1778, at Mobile, in West Florida.
“George Michael Troup, born at Mclntosh’s
Bluff, on the river Tombigby, Bth of Sep
: tember, 1780.
“David Troup, born at London, Bth Nov.,
1881.
“Roderick William Troup, born at Charles
ton, South Carolina, on Friday, the 28th Feb
ruary, 1783, at half past 3 o’clock in the
morning.
“Robert Lockland Troup, born at Savan
nah, the day of December, 1784.
“John James MeGillivray Troup, born at
Savannah, the 31 si of August, 178 G.”
You would not rece : ve such an historical
fact better authenticated It was the posses
sion of this Bible which emboldened me to
send you any tiling for your History, touch
ing myself .and family. Its chronology and
register of places rendered it invaluable. It
seems that my mother or father, or both, were
in Mobile in 1778 Bluff, on
the Tombigby, in 1780—. at London in 1781
—at Charleston in the early part of 1783—at
Savannah in 1784, and in Savannah still in
1780; and finally, that having removed from
Savannah, be was (although not in bis hand
writing, but in. the hand-writing of bis chief
| clerk, an enlightened and educated man,) in
1788 in Mclntosh county, (oid Georgia, if
! you please,) at his-residence called Bellville,
where he lived, died, and was buried. Thus
you have, upon what 1 consider unquestiona
ble evidence, the fact of my birth place, to
which I never ascribed any importance, and
in which I could not imagine that aTviv, out
of our own family, would feel the least inter
est. I never for any moment of my life,
doubted that 1 was born on the Tombigby.
I was as much a native of Georgia as if born
on the Southern bank of the Savannah river,
where Oglethorpe built bis town, whether in
! possession and under the jurisdiction of the
S Spaniards, Englishmen or Americans. The
I English occupation was short-lived and ac
quired by force. Our constitutional and
| chattered rights were undoubted, arid were
never to be surrendered without our consent.
The civilian may differ, but if driven to the
wall, l would be a Georgian or Alabamian
by the law of Postliminium.
You will see that what the registry of the
family Bible exhibits, T implicitly adopt.
What I bad presumed to submit to you from
the store house of my frail memory I deemed
unreliable, arid already I thb*k that errors
may be detected in that part which relates to
the connection and alliances between the dif
ferent branches of the Mclntoshes—a part
which could only have been learned from my
family and their friends, and in my earlier life.
Major William Mclntosh, of Savannah, son
of Col. John, and brother of the late Colonel
who fell so gallantly under the walls of Mex
ico, can, better than any body else, make the
connection, and if they interest you at all,
you can use them as you please. There have
been other mistakes besides the birth place,
j and more amusing. Some of my kind friends,
to assure themselves of my personal identity,
have set me down in print and in writing j
with a middle name which 1 do not answer
to, and Mclntosh has been preferred to Mi
chael, on account, I presume, of my mother’s
I name and genealogy and iny known connec
; tiou with that family.
i But certainly I have written enough on
f this subject, writing from a sick bed and
snatching intervals of pain. First, your ur
gent request, second, the claims of truth even
in little things, and third, the gratification of
gratifying the rational and harmless curiosity
of esteemed friends, will be my apology,
which will, l think, have been anticipated
! before you come to it. A’et I cannot dose
it without saying that my friend, Col. J. W.
i Jackson, had written a memoir, published in
| White’s Statistics of Georgia, in which he
! not only eschews the mistake, but gives the
true place and time as if from the original-
No mail is more sensitive to every omission
I or departure from truth, and it would have
pained him to have committed the most inno
cent error. This work, entirely of his own
; observation and research, according to the
best lights extant, (1 could afford him noth-
I ing,) was the offspring of ah affluence of
1 friendship, was penned with a sedulous re
gard to matter-of-fact, and lofty disdain of
| every thing that woqhi *a%.of flattery or
: embellishment. Whilst he h#s most happily
■ succeeded in the first, lie may not, with all
j his care, have been so e ntirely successful in
the last; but as far ns it goes, and as far as
purposed, it is -i ttue history, and greatly bet
ter than any I could have written myself, and
has saved me a vast deal of trouble.
Very truly and respectfully, your friend,
G. M. TROUP.
P. S. It surprised me exceedingly that
you should have found among the old white
Indian traders any memorial or tradition of
our family, although we had an uncle who
was one of them—an uncle on our mother’s
side, and named Mclntosh—a very respecta
ble man, I believe, for I never saw him but
once, when a very small boy, he came from
the Nation on a visit to my mother. He must
have been tiie son of Capt. John, of Mcln
tosh's BlutF. It is yet more remarkable they
should have corroborated our Bible, as they
assuredly did, when they said I was taken
from the Tombigby when I was two or three
years old. A few years after, I was a child
at school with Miss Stuart, at Savannah.
G. M. T.
j DEATH OF ONE OF BURNS’ HEROINES.
Some sixty-six years ago, Robert Burns,
the Scottish poet, lived in the vicinity of the
town of Mauehline. He was then in the
twenty-fifth year of his age, a jolly young
bachelor, and of course, (a3 what bachelor
i in a country town is not?) on speaking terms,
I with all the fair maids in the locality. Beau
| ty, then as now, was abundant in and around
i Mauehline, but there were six of the fair sis
; terhood who seemed to have found especial
| favor in the eyes of the bard, although, as
| might have been expected, there was one who
excelled all her compeers in bis estimation.
The names and attractive qualifications ol
the six bonnie lassies are thus entwined in a
stanza, which the poet wrote at the period
; alluded to :
“In Mauehline there dwells six proper young belles,
The pride of the place and the neighborhood a’ ;
Their carriage and dress a stranger would guess
In London or Paris tlie’d gotten them a’ ;
Miss Miller is fine. Miss Maikland's divine,
Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Hetty is bravv ;
I There’s beauty and fortune to get \vi’ Miss Morton,
I But Armour’s llie jewel for me o’ them a’.”
j In process offline, Burns, as all the world
j knows, got his jewel, his bonnie Jean ; Miss
Miller married a Dr. McKenzie ; Marklaml
the divine became the wife of an officer in
the Excise of Greenock, named Finlay ; Miss
Smith became the spouse of Mr. Candlish ;
Miss Betty (Miller) became Mrs. Templeton ;
and Miss Morton gave her beauty and her
fortune to Mr. Patterson, a merchant in
Mauehline. Time rolled on, and the rival beau
ties became mothers, and some of them ulti
mately grandmothers—“thus runs the work!
away.” In 1850, according to Robert
Chambers, only two of the famous “belles”
(for the simple and somewhat rude line3 of
Burns have bfci.lijfame.s,nd will be immortal
ity to them) remaiuts&iin the laud of the liv
ing. These were Mrs. Candlish, mother of
Dr. Candlish, of the Free Church, ai.J Mrs.
Patterson, then a respectable widdw lady.
We have now to announce the demise ofthe
latter. This event, which, considering the
I advanced age of the lady, need scarcely be
j called melancholy, occurred at Mauehline,
| on Friday morning the loth of October. —
Christiana Morton, or Patterson, the decoas
! ed, was in her 87th year at the period of her
| * P
j dissolution. Almost to the last she retained
! her faculties unimpaired, and on one of her
| grandsons asking her, a lew hours previous
I to her decease, if she still remembered Burns,
\ she at once replied,*“Ay, bravvly that.” Mrs.
Candlish is, therefore, the last of Burns’
“proper young belles” of Mauehline.
SCENE IN A FASHIONABLE HOTEL.
Dimno Room.— Yankee eating soup
Yankee—l sa’ay, waiter ! this ’ere soup
ain’t so clean as I have seen.
Waiter— Sir, I don’t know what yer
means by such an insiueration. I must go
to Carvinknife about that.
(Waiter runs to head waiter, and brings
that officer to Yankee's chair.)
H. W.—Beg pardon, sir. Did you ’ave
the honor of making a remark respecting the
soap ?
Y.—Wall, I did. There ain’t no use in de
nying that.
H. W.—(Looking very red in the face) —
Sir, shall 1 have the pleasure of saying to the
Superintendent that you remarked the soup
is dirty ?
Y.—(Throwing himself back in his chair)
—Look here! You can report to the Sevvper
intendent if you’ve got such an officer over
ye. I s’posed they had Sewperintendents in
Sunday Schools, but I never heard of one
in a tavern before—you can just say tew him
what l said to that linen jacket feller there—
and mind now, es you pervart the truth, I’ll
teach ye that gods of theheathing are a vain
thing, in jest no time at ail. Tell ver Sew
perintendent what I said, but don’t yer lie.
S.—Anything the matter here ? Anything
wrong, sir ?
W.—He says the soup ain’t clean, please
sir.
Y.—That’s a teetotal lie. I didn’t say ’twas
dirty—l didn’t say ’twas clean. 1 shouldn't
have said any thing about yer soup at all, es
i that linen jacket feller hadn’t poked a bill
; for the dinner in my face afore I began to
| eat. I shan’t pay in advance. He had more’n
j forty things charged on it—more’n l could
; eat in tew fortnight Had a lot of wine char
i ged when I belong to the Sons. What I
i hev 1U pay when the work’s done. This
! house was recommended to me for a fust-rate
itavern.
TEIiMSOF PUBLICATION.
One Copy, per annum, il paid in advance,. ..$2 00
“ “ “ “ “ in six nior.ihs, 250
“ “ “ •* “ at end of year, 300
RATES OF ADVERTISING.
One square, first insertion, - • - - - $1 00
“ “ each subsequent insertion, - 50
A liberal deduction made in favor of those who
advertise largely.
NO. 49.
B.—My dear sir, that was only our bill of
fare, designed simply to indicate what dish
es mav be called for. Our prices for dinner
are uniform.
Y.—The deuce it is ! Well, the fact is, I
didn’t mean anything agin yer soup. W hat
I was agoin ter say is this, that the soup
wasn’t so clean as I hev seen ; for yer see,
when I was travailin’ in Pennsylvania, they
had some soup at one tavern so clean, that
if ver should dip a white cambric handker
chief inter it, ‘twouldn’t grease it.
[F.xit Superintendent and the “linen jack
et fellers,” and great laughter from the com
pany.]
DUFRESNY.
’Phis poet —always in love, notwithstand
ing his two wives and innumerable mistress
es ; always poor, in spite ot the millions giv
en him by Louis XIV.; always singing, even
when in iii luck—was descended in a more or
less direct line, from a poor devil of a prince
of Navarre, often in love, for a long time al
ways singing—in a word, from Henry IV.—
and there have been poets of worse descent,
lie was the image ol his great grandfather,
and also of his great grandmother, the pret
ty flower girl of Anet, “the fairest rose of
my garden,” as Henry I\ . called her.
At sixteen, tired of books, Dufresny star
ted out to “push his fortune,” and toward
evening of bis first day, getting very tired
and hungry, lie threw himself on bis knees
before the image of the > irgiu, near the pos
tern of a chateau park. He was interrupted
in his praver by the sound ot the voices of
two lovers, who were sauntering along a re
tired part of the park, partially obscured bv
the gathering twilight. He turned his head
mechanically.
“What are you doing there, my child ?”
said the gentleman who had just perceived
him
‘•Faith, sir,” said the boy, without much
hesitation, “l was praying for a supper; now,
madame, has not my prayer been heard ?”
“He is as beautiful as a Cupid with his cull
ing locks,” said the lady ; “we must receive
him into the chateau. Come, monsieur, open
the gate, l will help you.”
The Marquis obeyed with a smile. Scarce
ly Jiad tbe gale moved when Dutresny slip
ped through like a bird, and threw himself
at the lady’s feet. He was taken to the cha
teau, and straight to the saloon, where the
women were toying, the men playing the but- j
terfly, and the old people busy at ombre. jYk
“1 have brought you a prodigal son, .auntj|jfß
said the Marquis, “a pretty schoolboy, \yb©
wants to go on bis travels by himself.”
“Where does this amiable vagabond ©orfie-,
from ?” said the old mistress of ‘the chateau.
“1 rillin’ from Haris,” answered Dufresny,
timidly advancing.
“Where are you going ?”
“1 don’t know.”
“Your family ?”
“The King of France is my cousin.”
“Truly ?” said the Marquis.
“Yes,” answered Dufresny,“and still better,
we are said to resemble each other. One
may resemble a more distant relation, for I
am descended from Henry IV., by the grace
of God, and the pretty flower girl of Anet.”
“Aii, ha! the young fool is joking. He has
plenty of wit. 1 will present him at court;
iho king v : U give this,new prince of the biood
a good pfeY ntioii.’
“At eou. !” exclaimed Dufresny ; “I know |
the way to it well ; but it is not i\ *. Ary amu
sing place ; my grandfather died there of the
ennui.”
“His grandfather at court! what the devil,
did lie do there ?” JkHs
“Nothing much, l suppose, like agep|||
many other- - . By the by, some chafitaUp
soul was talking about making my fiiyfaanffip
which is very lucky, but if meanwhile
some supper.”
Now you may talk about ‘(young Ameriiißßpjj
and its velocity, but if that isn’t a specimen’ of l
rapidity for old France—France in sixteen
hundred and something—then the teiegrtsijp);
and Talbotype are slow. Louis XIV. in
stalled the poet in his palace.
“I’m a made man,” said Dufresny ; “here’s
plenty of sunlight, a garden, fine clothes,
good suppers, and nothing to do—God be
praised, and long live the King!”
When Boileau presented the “Passage of
the Rhine” to the King, Dufresny was pre
sent. After Boileau left he read the fine poet
ical fiction himself.
“I don’t recollect this,” he said at the end
of every verse. “Does M. Boileau imagine
that we passed through the infernal regions,
or rather through Styx I”
“Be oft’,” said the king, pettishly, “it is only
the poets who understand how to write the
history of Kings.”
“Well, my poor Chariot,” said the king to
him a month after the wedding, “what do
yon think of marriage ?”
“Alas, sir,” was the reply, “this land of
marriage is one which foreigners have a
great desire to inhabit, while the native in
habitants would gladly be exiled from it;
or rather it 13 a community of goods in which
there is nothing good in common, at the end
of eight days.”
“Do you pay your debts f’ said a friend
to him.
“ The small ones only,” was the reply; “as
for the great ones, 1 content myself with pay
ing the interest to the poor.”
He had sent a comedy for revision to Reg
nard. After keeping it a long time, it was
returned, decorated with a great number of
crosses. “Do you take my comedy for a
cemetery ?” said Dutresny.
After having got into had odor at Court,
Dufresiiy, for no oilier reasoif than because
she had twelve hundred francs,; married his
washerwoman. The news of this marriage
was soon extended tar and wide, thanks to
a bon mot (not told, however,) of the Abbe
Pellegnn, who had been present at the cele
bration. Dufresn v, some days after, rallied
him at \ ise’s for always wearing dirty linen ;
the Abbe, piqued at this, retorted, that every
body was not so fortunate as to marry a wus/i
----enmman.
‘‘ln a word,” says he, “most women are
peacocks on the promenade, doveai in a tete
a-tete, and mqgpi .’s in domestic life.?