Newspaper Page Text
"7
BY G Ri EVE & 0 R M K, State Printers.]
MILLEDGEVILLE, GEORGIA, TUESDAY, JULY 7,‘lS40.
[NO. 25—VOL. XXI
7= Tlie Recorder is published weekly, on Han-rock
street, nearly opposite the Masonic Hall, at Three Dol-
t ut? per antifim, payable in advance, or Four Dot.i.ars
j',- n „ t paid before ttie end of the year. No paper sent out
nf the State, to any new subscriber, without being first paid
for in ADVANCE.
ADVERTISEMENTS conspicuously inserted at the usual
rates. Those sent without a specification of the number ol
insertions, vill be published until ordered out, and charge
accordingly. * „
Smes of land and negroes, by Administrators, Executors,
or Guardians, are required by law to be held on the first
Tuesday In the month, between the hours of ten in the fore
noon and three in the afternoon, at the Court-house of the
oo mty in r-liich the property is situate.—Notices of these
sales , nust be given in a public gazette SIXTY days previous
to the day of sale. .
Notices for the sale of personal property must be given
in like manner, FORTY d iys previous to the day of sale.—
i notice to the debtors and creditors of an estate must be
published for forty days.
\ T >t oe that application willbe made to tlieCourt ofOrdina-
"f jr leave to sell land, must be published for FOUR MONTH?.
‘ \;i business in the line of printing, will meet with
prompt ittei.tion at the RECORDER OFFICE.
'letters (on business) must be post-paid.
Y Our readers, in requesting the direction of their pa-
ner •handed from one Post Office to another, are desired, in
evnrv instance, in making su h requests,to inform us as well
of ]i(‘ name of the Post Office from which they desire it
changed. as that to which they may thereafter wish it sent.
4 N ACT to alter tlie3d,7tli and 12tli sections of the first
;\ article, and the 1st, 2d and 3 1 sections of tlie 3d article,
and tiie loth section of tlie 4th article of the Constitution of
‘'“whereas a part of the 3d . ection of the 1st article of the
Constitution is in the following words, viz: The Senate
shall be elected annually; and a part ol the 7th section of
the 1st article, is in the following words: The Representa-
tivt-s shall be chosen annually; and a part ot the 1 ~th sec-
tion of the 1st article is in the following words: The meeting
„fthe General Assembly shall be annually ; And whereas a
part of the 3d section of the 3d article is in the following
words : There shall he a State’3 Attorney and Solicitor ap
pointed by the Legislature and commissioned by the Gov
ernor, who shall hold their office for the term of three years ;
and a part of the 15th section of the 4th article is in the fol
lowing words: The same shall bn published at least six
uiotitlis previous to the next ensuing annual election, for
members of the General Assembly: And whereas the before
recited clauses require amendments—
SECTION 1. He it enacted by the Senate and Honse. of Jleprc-
sentitives of the State of Georgia in General Assembly met and
it is hcre.bg enacted by the authority of the same. That so soon ns
this act shall have passed, agreeably to the requisitions of
tli,. Constitution, the following shall be adopted in lieu of
i!m foregoing clauses: In the 3d section of the 1st article,
t ] ie following? to wit: The Senate shall be elected bi-annually.
after the passage of this act; the first election to take place
on the first Monday in the year one thousand eight hundred
and forty-three. In lieu of the 7th section of the 1st article,
the following : The Representatives shall be elected bi-an-
ntiailv. after the passage of this act, tlie first election to take
place fin the first Monday in October, in the year one thou
sand eisni hundred and forty three ; and in lien of the clause
in the 12th section of the 1st artic.e, the following : The meet-
;„g of the General Assembly shall he bi-aunually, aftei the
passage of this act, on the first Monday in November. And
m lie u of the clause in the 3d section of the 3d article, the
following, to wit: There shall be a State’s Attorney and So
licitor elected by the Legislature, who shall hold their office
for the term of four years; and in lieu of the clause in the
1,1th section of the 4ih article, tlie following: The same shall
lie published at least six months previous to the next ensoing
lii-annual election for members of the General Assembly ;
the provisions nf this act not to go into ellect until tlie year
one thousand eight hundred and forty-three.
Sec. 2. And be it further enacted bg the authority aforesaid,
That whenever it shall so happen that the term of office of any
of the ludnes, State’s Attorney or Solicitors, shall expire at
any time during the recess of the General Assembly, then
and in that case it shall be the duty of bis Excellency the
Governor to fill such vacancy, by appointment, until the
next General Assembly thereafter to be held, when such
vacancy shall be filled by election by tlie Legislature, until
the next election of Judges, State’s Attorney or Solicitois
shall take place.
JOSEPH DAY,
Speaker of the House of Representatives.
ROBERT M. ECHOLS,
President of the Senate.
Assented to, December 23d, 1839.
CHARLES J. McDonald, Governor.
Match 31, 1840. 11 6m
CENTRAL BANK AGE1KCV.
r|AHE undersigned ofler their services as agents in the
it renewal of Notes at the Central Bank. They will at
tend to all Notes entrusted to their care, for the customary
fee of one dollar; also, to the taking out and forwarding
Grams at one dollar each. ,
They w ill also attend to the offering of Notes for discount,
at tlie distribution of the Central Bank, advertised to ccrin-
mence oil the 16th July, and ail orders in regard to the dis
position of the money will be promptly attended to.
OCF 1 Letters enclosing notes or money mast be post paid.
THOMAS RAGLAND,
THO. H. HALL.
Milledgeville, June 16, 1840 . 22 tf
[£F The Columbus Enquirer and Sentinel and Herald,
will insert three times.
CENTRAL BANK Of GEORGIA.
Milledgeville, 11th June. 1840.
R ESOLVED, That a distribution of seven hundred and
fifty thousand dollars be made among the several coun
ties of this State, to be loaned on accommodation notes, which
may be offered for discount on the days and in the order
3tated in tlie foilwing table, viz :
County,
Appling,
Baker, “
Baldv/in,
Bibb,
Bryan,
Rullpch,
Burke,
Butts,
Cobb,
Columbia,
Coweta,
Crawford,
Decatur,
DeKalb,
Dade,
Forsyth,
Franklin,
Gilmer,
Glynn,
Greene,
Harris,
Heard,
Henry,
Houston,
Irwin,
Lee,
Liberty,
Lincoln,
Lowndes,
Lumpkin,
Macon,
Madison,
Murray,
M itscogee,
Newton,
Oglethorpe,
Paulding,
Richmond,
Seriven,
Sewart,
Sumter,
Talbot,
Taliaferro,
Upson,
Walker,
Walton,
Ware,
Warren,
GENERAL REGULATIONS.
The law requires that the money appropriated to each
county shall be loaned only to the citizens of such counties
respectively, and that the endorsers, as well as the makers
of notes, shall be residents ot tbe county. The Board will
therefore require in each case a certificate ol residence, both
ot the makers and endorsers; which may be signed by any
civil officer of the county, But it the money appropriated
to the counties respectively, shall npt. be applied tor and
loaned will,in thirty day3 from the offering days above speci
fied, then the above requirement of the law in relation to the
residence of endorses ceases; and after that time acertificate
ol residence of the maker only, w-iil be required.
All notes must be made payable at the Central Bank of
Georgia, three hundred and sixty days after date, and must
have two or more good endorseis.
Every note presented for discount must be accompanied with a
written affidavit of the maker, in which he shall state that the note
ojered is for the only use and benefit of him, the maker, and not
for the use, benefit, or interest, of any other person, or persons
whatsoever; which affidavit shall be certified by a magistrate or
other officer legally authorised to administer said oath.
Certificates of the taxable property of the makers and en
dorsers of the notes offered, will be regarded as the best ev
idence of their solvency.
No note will be discounted having on jt the name of any
person indebted to tlie State, either as principal or security,
which debt is due and unsettled ; or who is the maker of or
endorser on, any note or bill heretofore discounted by tlie
Central Bank, and which is past due and unattended to.
No note will be received for discount after the hour of nine
o’clock, A. M. of the days above specified.
Tlie proceeds of tlie discounted notes willbe paid to tbe
check of the last endorser only.
By order of the Board of Directors.
A. M. NISBET, Cash'r.
June 16. 82 tf
Thursday
1Gth July.
Amount.
County.
Amount.
$2,372
Camden,
5,606
3.013
Campbell,
5,912
7,183
Carroll,
5.104
10,136
Cass,
8,251
2,904
Chatham,
21,354
3,836
Cherokee,
5,598
12,521
Chattooga,
4,224
b.l 06
Clarke,
11,403
Thursday. 30‘h July.
7,540
Dooly,
4,991
l',069
Early,
4,953
11,534
Effingham,
2.775
8,712
Elbert,
12,479
5.546
Emanuel,
3,621
13,196
Fayette,
7,513
1,119
Floyd,
4,224
Thursday, 20th Avgust.
13,493
6,359
Gwinnett.
11,650
Habersham,
9,972
1,990
Hall,
9,881
3,899
11,349
Hancock,
10,099
Thursday, 3d September.
14,863
Jackson,
13.962
5.602
Jasper,
12,040
14,762
Jefferson,
6,087
13,177
Jones.
10,473
2,182
Laurens.
6,035
Thursday, 1"
'th September.
3,510
Marion,
5,179
6,812
McIntosh,
5,266
6,178
Meriwether,
16,122
5,849
Monroe,
15,594
7,592
Montgomery,
2,321
5,417
5,613
Morgan,
9,877
Thursday, Is/ October.
4,053
Pike,
10,191
17,641
Pulaski,
5,399
13,795
Putnam,
11,507
11,691
Rabun,
Randolph,
2,494
2,981
7,137
Thursday, 15th October.
13,875 '
Tattnall,
2,94.9
5,132 ;
Telfair,
3,147
11,463 !
Thomas,
6.591
4.882
Troup,
16,624
15,84 4
Twiggs,
8,827
5,006
Union,
2,935
Thursday,
9th October.
14.957
Washington,
10,806
5.484
Wayne,
1,704
11 984
Wilkes,
11,235
2,598
11,140
j Wilkinson,
7,653
MISCELLANEOUS.
THE COFFIN.
11Y ST. LEGER L. CARTER, OF VIRGINIA.
The Coffin is come ! ’tig a dreadful sound !
And tears are gushing anew ;
For the Family, wrapp’d in grief profound,
Have caught that sound as it flew.
It sendeth a shock to each selling heart,
Suspending with awe ihe breatli;
It says that the living and dead must part,
And seems like a second death.
How heavy and slow the bearers tread
Ascendingthe winding stair;
And the steps which are echoing overhead
Awaken a wild despair.
They know by the tread of those trampling feet
They're lilting the silent dead.
And laying him low in his winding sheet,
In his dark and narrow bed.
Come follow tlie corpse to the yawning grave;
The train is advancing slow;
See children and friends and the faithful slave
In a long and solemn show;
Hark ! hark! to the deep and lumbering sound
As they lower the coffin down !
’Tis the voice of earth—of the groaning ground,.
Thus welcoming back her own.
Now—ashes to ashes ! and dust to.dust!
How hollow the coffin rings !
And hands aie uplifted to God the Just l
The merciful King of Kings.
“ Farewell for ever * For ever farewell!”
Is heard as the crowds depart,
And the piteous accents, they seem, to swell
From a torn and broken heart.
OLD FATHER MORRIS.
A Sketch from Nature*
BY MRS. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
Of all tbe marvels that astonished ray child
hood, there is none I remember to this day with
so much interest, as the old man whose name
forms my caption. When 1 knew him, he was
an aged clergyman, settled over an obscure
village in New England. He had enjoyed
the advantages of a liberal education, had a
strong original power of thought, an omnipo
tent imagination, and much general informa
tion. But so early and so deeply had the hab
its and associations of the plough v the farm,
and country life wrought themselves info his
mind, that his after acquirements could on
ly mingle with them, forming an unexam
pled amalgam, like unto nothing but itself.
He was an ingrain New-Englander, and
j whatever might have been the source of his
; information, it came out in Yankee form,
I with the strong provinciality of Yankee dia-
Ilect.
It is in vain to attempt to give a full picture
i of such a genuine unique ; but some slight and
! imperfect dashes may help the imagination to
a faint idea of what none can fully convince,
but those who have seen and heard old father
Morris.
Suppose yourself one of half a dozen chil
dren, and you hear tlie cry—“Father Morris
is coming 1” You run to the window or door
and you see a tall bulky old man, with a pair
of saddle bags on one arm, hitching his old
horse with a fumbling carefulness, and then
deliberately stumping towards tbe house.—
You notice his tranquil, florid, full moon face,
enlightened by a pair of great round blud eyes
that roll with dreamy inattentiveness-on all
the objects around, and as he takes off his hat,
you see the white curling wig that sets off his
round head. He comes towards you—and
as you stand stat ing with all the children a-
round, he deliberately puts his great hand on
1 your head, and with a deep rumbling voice in-
i quires,
“ How d’ye do, my darter ?—is your daddy
at home ?
“ My darter” usually makes off as fast as
possible in an unconquerable giggle. Father
Morris goes into the house, and we watch him
at every turn, as with the most literal simpli
city, he makes himself at home—takes offhis
wig—wipes down his great face with a check-
i ed pocket handkerchief—helps himself hith-
■ er and thither to whatever he wants, and asks
for such things as he cannot lay his hands
on with all the comfortable easiness of child
hood.
I remember to this day, how we used to
peep through the crack of the door, or hold it
half ajar and peep in, to watch his motions—
and how mightily diverted we were with his
deep slow manner of speaking, his heavy
cumbrous walk, but above all, with the won
derful faculty of hemming, which he posses
sed.
“ His deep, thundering, protracted a-hem-
em was like nothing else that ever I heard ;
and when once, as he was in the midst of one
of those performances, the parlour door sud
denly happened to swing open, 1 heard one
of my roguish brothers calling in a sup
pressed tone, “Charles—Charles,Father Mor
ris has hemmed the door open 1”—and then fol
lowed the signs of a long and desperate titter
in which I sincerely sympathized.
But the morrow is Sunday. The old man
rises in the pulpit. He is not now in his own
humble little parish, preaching simply to tbe
hoers of corn, and planters of potatoes—but
there sits Governor D., and there is Judge R.
and Counsellor P., and Judge G. In short, he
is before a refined and literary audience.—
But Father Morris rises—he thinks nothing of
thi—he cares nothing—he knows nothing, as
he himself would say, but “Jesus Christ and
him crucified.” He takes a passage of scrip
ture to explain—perhaps it is the walk to
Emmaus, and the conversation of Jesus with
his deciples. Immediately the whole start
out before you, living and picturesque—the
road to Emmaus is in a New-England turn
pike—you can see its mullen stalks—its toll
gates. Next the disciples rise, and you have
before you all their anguish, and hesitation,
and dismay, talked out to you in the language
of your own fire-side. You smile—you are
amused—yet you are touched, and the illusion
grows every moment. You see the approach
ing stranger, and the mysterious conversation
grows name and more interesting. Emmaus
rises in the distance, in the likeness of a New
England village, with a white meetinghouse
and spire. You follow the travellers—you
enter the house with them—nor do you wake
from your trance until with streaming eyes the
preacher tells yon that “ they saw it was the
Lord Jesus \ and what a pity it was they could
not have known it before!”
It was after a sermon on this very chapter
of Scripture history, that Governor Griswold,
in passing out of the house, laid hold on the
sleeve of his first acquaintance, “Pray tell
me,” said he, “who this minister is?”
“ Why, it is old father Morris ”
“ Weii, he is an oddity-=-and a genius too !
I declare!” he continued, “I have been won
dering all the morning, how I could have read
the Bible to so little purpose as not to see all
these particulars he has presented.”
I once heard him narrate in this picturesque
way the story of Lazarus. The great bustling
city of Jerusalem first rises to view, and you
are told with great simplicity, how the Lord
Jesus “ used to get tired of the noise”—and
how he was “tired of preaching again and
again to people who would not mind a word
he said”—and how, “ when it came evening,
he used to go out and see his friends in Betha
ny ” Then he told about the house of Martha
and Mary—“a little white house among trees,”
he said, “you could just see it from Jerusa
lem.” And there the Lord Jesus and his dis
ciples used to go and sit in evenings, with
Martha, and Mary, and Lazarus.
Then the narrator went on to tell how Laza-
zus died—describing with tears and a clioak-
ing voice, the distress they were in—and how
they sent a message to the Lord Jesus, and he
did not come, and how they wondered and
wondered—and thus, on he went, winding up
the interest by the graphic minut'ce of an eye
witness, till he woke you from the dream by
his triumphant joy at the resurrection scene.
Among bis own simple people, this style of
Scripture painting was listened to with breath
less interest. But it was particularly in those
rustic circles called in New England “ Con
ference Meetings,” that his whole warm soul
unfolded, and the Bible in his hands, became
a gallery of New England paintings.
He particularly loved the Evangelists—
following the footsteps of Jesus Christ—dwel
ling upon his words—repeating over and over
again the stories of what he did, with all the
fond veneration of an old and favored servant.
Sometimes too, he would give the narration
an exceedingly practical turn, as one example
will illustrate.
He had noticed a falling off in his little cir
cle that met for social prayers, and took occa
sion the first time he collected a tolerable au
dience, to tell concerning the “ conference
meeting that the disciples attended,” after the
resurrection.
“But Thomas was not with them.”—
Thomas not with them ! said the old man, in
a sorrowful voice. “ Why !—what could keep
Thomas away ? Perhaps,” said he, glancing
at some of his backward auditors—“ Thomas
had got cold-hearted, and was afraid they
would ask him to make the first prayer—or
perhaps,” said he, looking at some of the far
mers, “ Thomas was afraid the roads were
bad ; or perhaps,” he added, after a pause,
“ Thomas had got proud, and thought he could
not come in his old clothes.” Thus he went
on, significantly summing up the common ex
cuses of his people. And then with great
simplicity and emotion he added—“ But only
think what Thomas lost! for in the middle of
the meeting, the Lord Jesus came and stood
among them ! How sorry Thomas must have
been !” This representation served to fill the
vacant seats for some time to come.
At another time, Father Morris gave the
details of the annointing of David to be king.
He told them how Samuel went into Bethle
hem—to Jesse’s house—and went in with a
“how d’ye do, Jesse?”—and how when Jesse
asked litm to take a chair, he said he could
not stay a minute— that the Lord had sent him
to annoint one of his sons for a king—and
how, when Je-?se called in the tallest and hand
somest, Samuel said “ he would not do”—and
how all the rest passed the same test, and at
last how Samuel says, “ Why, have not you
an-y more sons, Jesse ?” and Jesse says, “ Why
yes, there is little David down in the lot”—
and how, as soon as ever Samuel saw David,
“ he slashed the oil right onto him”—and how
Jesse said “he never was so beat in all his life!”
Father Morris sometimes used his illustra
tive talent to a very good purpose in the way
of rebuke. He had on his farm a fine orchard
of peaches, from which the ten and twelve-
year-old gentlemen helped themselves more
liberally than even the old man’s kindness
thought expedient.
Accordingly lie took occasion to introduce
into his sermon one Sunday, in his little parish,
an account of a journey lie took; and bow he
was very warm and very dry ; and how he
saw a fine orchard of peaches that made his
mouth water to look at them. “ So,” says he,
“ l came up to the fence and looked all around,
for I would not have touched one of them
without leave, for all the world. At last I
spied a man, and says I, “ Mister, won’t you
give me some of your peaches ?” So the man
came and gave me nigh about a hatful. And
while I stood there eating, I said, “ Mister,
how do you manage to keep your peaches?”
“Keep them!” said he, and he stared at me
—“What do you mean f” “ Yes sir,” said I,
“don’t the boys steal them?” “Boys steal
them!” said lie; “no indeed!” “ Why sir,”
said I, “ I have a whole lot full of peaches, and
I cannot get half of them”—here the old man’s
voice grew tremulous—“ because the boys in
my parish steal them so.” “ Why sir,” said
he, “don’t their parents teach them not to
steal?” “And 1 grew all over in a cold sweat,”
and I told him “ I was afear’d they didn’t.”—
“ Why how you talk,” says the man, “do tell
me where you live?” “Then,” said Father
Morris—the teais running over—“ I was
obliged to tell him I lived in the town of G.”
After this Father Morris kept his peaches.
Our old friend was not less original in the
logical than in the illustrative portions of his
discourses. His logic was of that familiar
colloquial kind, which shakes hands with com
mon sense like an old friend. Sometimes too,
his great mind and great heart would be
poured out on the vast themes of religion, in
language which, though homely, produced all
the effects of the sublime. He once preached
a discourse or the text, “ the High and Holy
One that inhabiteth eternity”—and from the
beginning to the end it was a strain of lofty and
solemn thought. With his usual simple ear
nestness, and his great rolling voice, he told
about “the Great God—the Great Jehovah—
and how the people in this world were flus
tering and worrying, and afraid they should
not get time to do this and that and t’other.”
“ But.” he added, with full hearted satisfac
tion, “the Lord is never in a hurry, he has it
all to do, but he has time enough, for he in
habiteth eternity.” And the grand idea of in
finite leisure and almighty resources, was
carried through the sermon with equal strength
and simplicity.
Although the old man never seemed to be
sensible of any thing tending to the ludicrous
in his own mode of expressing himself, yet he
had considerable relish for humour, and some
shrewdpess of repartee. One time, as he was
walking through a neighboring parish, famous
for its profanity, he was stopped by a whole
flock of the youthful reprobates of the place:
“ Father Morris—father Morris—the Devil’s
dead !” “ Is he ?” said the old mau, benignly
laying his hand on the head of the nearest
urchin, “you poor fatherless children!”
But the sayings and doings of this good old
man, as reported in the legends of the neigh
borhood, are more than can be gathered or re
ported. He lived far beyond the common age
of man, and continued, when age hadimpared
his powers, to tell over and over again the
same Bible stories that he had told so often
before.
1 recollect hearing of the joy that almost ! on talkin’ agin, about Katy Stokes* quiltin’
broke the old man’s heart, when after many ■ party, and who’d be there, and whether we’d
years diligent watching and nurture of the 1 go or not, and says I, Miss Susan, when
good.seed in his parish, it began to spring into ! are you goin’ to have your quiltin’partv ?’
vegetation, sudden and beautiful as that which j ‘ I don’t know, says she, that I shall ever
answers the patient watching of the husband- j want anv quilts.’
Many a hard, worldly hearted man—
many a sleepy inattentive hearer—many a
listless, idle young person began to give ear
to words that had long fallen unheeded. A
neighboring minister who had been sent for
to see and rejoice in these results, describes
the scene, when on entering the little church,
he found an anxious, crowded auditory, assem
bled around their venerable teacher, waiting
for direction and instruction. The old man
was sitting in his pulpit almost choking with
fulness of emotion as he gazed around. “Fa
ther,” said the youthful minister, “ I suppose
you are ready to say with old Simeon, “Now
Lord, lettest thou thy servant depart in peace,
for my eyes have seen thy salvation.” “ Sar-
tin, sartin,” said the old man, while the tears
streamed down his cheeks, and his whole
frame shook with emotion.
It was not many years after, that this simple
and loving servant of Christ was gathered in
peace unto him whom he loved. His name is
fast passing from remembrance, and in a few
years, his memoiy, like his humble grave, will
be entirely grown over and forgotten among
men, though it will be had in everlasting re
membrance by Him who “forgetteth not his
servants,” and in whose sight the death of his
saints is precious.
The Father—an instructive Sketch.
It is the duty of mothers to sustain the re
verses of fortune. Frequent and sudden as
courtship and kissing. they have been to our own country, it is im-
Wal, arter that me and Susan went over to portant that young females should possess
naber Simonson’s with Rachael', and staid a some employment, by which they might ob-
little while, and then went home with Susan. | tain a livelihood in case they should be redu-
The Deacon, as usual, managed to get asleep j ced to the necessity of supporting themselves,
between the kitchen corner and mug of cider i When the families are unexpectedly reduced
by the time we got home, and was making I from affluence to poverty, how pitiful and con-
pretty considerable noise all to himself. Old ! temptible it is, to see the mother despondin
Mammy Rampson began to talk about Rachael
the minut we got into the house. And from
that she got talkin’ about all the young gals;
and she kept on till she told all over how things
used to he when she was a gal; and she told
all over what she remembered about, when
the Deacon first come to court her, and how
she felt. It kinter made susan blush and hang
down her head, but I did’nt mind it at all, I
wanted to hear all about it. And then she
told over how she and the Deacon used to go
to meetin’ on Sundays, and how the parson
preached, and how they come home agin.—
From that she followed it up, about how the
Deacon pop’d the question, and what a won
derful thing it was to say ‘Yeth’ when lie ask
ed her, and how she did say it at last. And
then she told all over how she was married,
and how she felt just afore she was agoin’ to
be married, and how she felt when her poor
old father put her hand into the Deacon’s, and
liuvv she shook and trembled, and how the
parson went through with the ceremony ; and
what a time they had after they was married,
among the nabors, and how she felt, and how
she and the Deacon first commenced keepin’
house with six old chairs, and one old table,
and—
The Deacon woke up jist in time to hear
the last about the old chairs. ‘They warnt
old chairs, says he, ‘.they was bran new,’ and
then she said she believed they was;
she and the Deacon wound up the yarn be
tween them, and the mug of cider, by tellin’
over, and comparing them with these times,
and how much better and nicer thinijs was
then than they are now, and how they was all
naborly together for five miles round, but there
warnt more than five families in the whole
five miles, and how there warm no froficin’
and can-yin’ on, and stayin’ out all night, and
how they used to go to bed at nine o’clock, as
or helpless, and permitting her daughters to
embarrass those whom it is their duty to assist
and cheer.
“ I have lost my whole fortune ; said a mer
chant, as he returned one evening to his home,
“we can no longer keep our carriage. We
must leave this large house. The children
can no. longer go to expensive schools. Yes
terday I was a rich naan. To-day there is no
thing lean call my own.”
“Dear husband,” said the wife, “we are still
rich in each other and our children. Money
may pass away, but God has given us a better
treasure in those active hands and loving
hearts.”
“ Dear father,” said the children, “ do not
look so sober. We will help you to get a li
ving.”
“ What can you do, poor things ?” said he.
“ You shall see, you shall see,” answered
several cheerful voices. “ It is a pity if we
have been to school for nothing. How can
the father of eight children be poor. We shall
work and make you rich again.”
“ 1 shall help,” said the youngest girl
hardly four years old, “ I will not have any
new things bought, and I shall sell my great
doll.”
The heart of the husband and father, which
had sunk within his bosom like a stone, was
lifted up. Thesweet enthusiasm of the scene
cheered him, and his nightly prayer was like
a song of praise.
He left his stately house. The servants
were dismissed. Pictures and plate, rich car
pet and furniture were sold, and she who had
so long been the mistress of the mansion, shed
no tear. “ Pay every debt,” said she, “let no
one suffer tlnough us, and we may yet be liap-
py”
He rented a neat cottage and a small piece
of ground, a few miles from the city. With
regular as the time come round. And as nine ! the aid of his sons he cultivated vegetables
o’clock had come, the Deacon and Mammy
Rampson followed the old rule and went to
bed.
Susan and I was sittin’ a good respectable
distance apart, but I was for hitchin' ud
right off, and I rayther guess I did, and set in
a streak of talk, and kept, all the timetryin’ to
bring in the speech I’d made, but it would’nt
come, in no where, and I give it up and come
on somethin’ else. We got talkin’ about na-
bor Simonson’s darter Rachael.
‘ She’s a r’al scrumptious gal, says I, pretty
considerable handsome.’
‘Ugh, I should think she was,’ says she.
‘ Pretty good diggins there for some chap,’
says I-.
She didn’t say nothin.’ I see what the mat
ter was, she was afraid I’d leave her and go
arter Rachael. I went to work right offto run
down Rachael, and that kinter brought her
round agin ; and I was for mixin’ in for a
kiss.
* Go away bow,’ says she, as sulky as could
be.
‘ Ah Susan, give me a kiss, and have done
with it,’ says I.
‘I won’t, so theie no*v, tetch me if you dare,’
says she. I see where the shoe pinched. It
all come by callin’ Rachael ‘a scrumptious gal,’
without praisin’ up her any. So I went to
work in real arnest to persuade her that I
hadn’t tho’t about runnin’ arter Rachael, and
I tho’t she was a great deal handsomer than Ra
chael any day in the year. Susan couldn’t help
chimin’ in with me, and T rayther guess Miss
Rachael suffered a few, if she only knew it.—
We found fault with everything if it want jist
so and a leetle over, and I was for cornin’ in
on the sham breeches, but we broke off'on that
score afore we got to it. I got hold of Susan’s
hand without opposition, and she looked so
sweet and smilin’ that I forgot all about Ra
chael, and was a good mind to'pop the ques
tion, but I tho’t maby it would be best to put
it off until next meetin’ day. I mixed in for a
kiss.
‘Oh! now I declare,’ says she.
‘ So do I,’ says I, and I mixed in for another
‘ Smack,' and her hair all come down with a
shower of Combs,
‘ 1 declare it is too bad,’ says she, ‘I never
see any body so bent on it in all my life.’ She
tried to look mad at first, but it broke out in
a smile at last.
She put her hands up to fix the combs, and
I fetched in three more, right arter one a
nother.
*Oh ! now Mr. Sprag don’t;’ says she, ‘L
you do it again I won’t like it.’
for the market. He viewed with delight and
astonishment the economy of'his wife nurtured
as she had been in wealth, and the efficiency
which his daughters soon acquired under her
training.
The eldest one assisted her in the work of
the household and also assisted the younger
children. Besides, they executed various
works which they had learned as accomplish
ments, but which they found could be disposed
of to advantage. They embroidered with taste
some of the ornamental parts of female appa
rel, which were readily sold to a merchant in
the city.
They cultivated flowers and sent boquets to
market, in the cart that conveyed the vegeta
bles; they platted straw, they painted maps,
they executed plain needle work. Every one
was at her post busy and cheerful. The cot
tage was like a beehive.
“ I never enjoyed such health before,” said
the- father.
“ And I never was as happy before,” said
the mother.”
“ We never knew how many things we
could do, when we lived in a great house,”
said the children, “ and we love each other a
great deal better here. You call us your little
bees.”
“ Yes,” replied the father,” and you make
just such honey as the heart loves to feed on.”
Economy as well as industry was strictly
observed—Nothing was wasted. Nothing
unnecessary was purchased. The eldest
daughter became assistant teacher in a distin
guished female seminary, and the second took
her place, as instructress to the family.
The little dwelling which had always been
kept neat, they were soon able to beautify.—
Its construction was improved, and the vines
and flowering trees were replanted around it.
The merchant was happier under his woodbine
covered porch, in a Summer’s evening, than
he had been in his showy drawing room.
“ We are now thriving and prosperous,”
said he t “ shall we not return to the city ?”
“ Oh, no, no, no,” was the unanimous re-
ply,
“ Let us remain,” said the wife, “where we
have found health and contentment.”
“ Father,” said tbe youngest, “ all we chil
dren hope you are not agoing to be rich again;
forthen,” she added, “we little ones were shut
up m the nursery, and did not see much of
you nor mother. Now we all live together,
and sister who loves us, teaches us, and we
learn to be industrious and useful. VVe were
none of us happy when we were rich, and did
not work—So, father, do please not be a rich
man any more.”—Mrs. Sigourney.
* I will,’ says I, and I made up fov another,
I catcbed it, and I guess the fun was bottom
side up, and tbe laughin’out of the wrong side
of the mouth ; for I tell you what, I whistled
for a minute or two for somethin’ besides a
kiss. Served me right, thinks I, but I’ll be
darned if I don’t have a receipt for it. So I
hauled off for a speii, and me and Susan got
Why, Miss Susan, says I, how you talk.’
‘I’m afraid so, says she, casse mother says
tbe young men are very fickle minded now a
days to what they used to be when there warnt
so many gals to run arter/
And she puckered up her mouth, and kept
playin’ with her fingers all the time, jist as if
she was afraid she shouldn’t want any, sure
enough.
‘Why you’re getin’ ‘ rong sided ; a little
oldmadish, I guess,’ says I.
‘ Ugh!’ said she, and then she said 1 Ugh,’
again.
I got round behind her chair, arid I made
up- for a receipt in full, I got my mouth in
the right pucker, and at it I went. Oh! how
nice 1 had her, and I guess I brought r right
to it. I’d got so tarnally hankerin’ arter a
good round kiss that I didn’t know when to
stop. She hung down her arms and her eyes
closed, and she laid her little mouth up as nice
and pretty and coaxin’ like as could be, and if I
didn’t get a receipt in full and a little over,
then I say nothing/ I’d risk another, any
way, for the same chance, but I guess Susan
will keep her eyes all round hei arter this.
THE PARTICULAR I.ADV.
There is i coldness and precision about this
person’s dewlling that makes yout n fcart
shrink ick (that is, if you have the least atom
of soci Iity in your nature) with a lonely feel
ing, the same which you experience when you
go by yourself, and for the first time, among
decided strangers.
Every thing is in painful“ order" The da
mask table cover, you recollect, has been in
just the same folds ever since it came from
the vender s shop, eight years ago—(if the
owner had not been so particular it would not
have lasted so long:) and tbe legs of the chairs
have been on the exact diamonds in the drug
get they were first placed on : by the bye, do
you remember seeing that same drugget off
the carpet underneath ? No; for she never
has company; the routing, the untidiness, they
would occasion, would cause the poor soul
to be subject to fits for the rest of her natural
—•or unnatural—life. She is sometimes mar
ried, but was never known to have any family;
but she is more often single than otherwise.—
In the days of our good father, Adam, this per
son did not exist, for ladies were not then so
numerous as to be separated into classes, as
they are now. When it first came to light,
we are not sufficiently learned to determine.
Though untidiness is a fault all people should
avoid, especially the young, yet, for mercy’s
sake, urge them not to be particular, in the
very essence and quintessence of the word.—-
She will become hateful in the sight of man,
and stand no chance of being married.
I experienced the extreme pleasure of
spending a few days with a particular friend,
(in both senses,) a short time ago. Going ra
ther earlier than I suppose she expected me,
the first thing I found out, was a spare bed
stead and furniture covered up in a brown
Holland case, or rather and immense bag.
The bed-side carpets were folded up with
the neatness of a silk handkerchief, and the
swing-glass was in another bag. Were not
these things enough to frighten not extremely
tidy ones out of their wits ? But this was not
all; the cabinet piano was enveloped in a
sliroud which regularly took a quarter of an
hour to remove nucau wa 3
The asy chair that Mr. reclined on all
day mg, was wheeled into another room eve
ry * 'ght because tbe dust in sweeping the
parlor t-f-l o, or -i. n ..i i mi u —
Of course all the carpeted rooms were .cover
ed with drugget.and brown Holland ovei that.
But the dinner table was the best; first, it is
always covered with a fancy oil-cloth, upon
the top of that was a green baize, and over that
was spread the spotless table cloth : fearful of
the latter being soiled, every dish and plate
stood on a mat, and this said table cloth was
always fol led r.p in ine same crease-, the
u .»i its use, as at the first day. All me
•lives, forks, and spoons, were tubbed thin
and genteel with cleaning. It was awful to
go day after day, into such dustless orderly
looms, though no one is a greater enemy to
uncleanliness than myself. I sighed—actual
ly sighed—to see dust, if it had been only a
single particle.
To the “ particular,” nephews and nieces
are sad plagues, they are so untidy.
See, how carefully she steps across the road
watching for every vehicle, and waiting till it
is at least a quatter of a mile distant, for fear
of being splashed; and even in dry weather
j she crosses on the joints of her toes, and holds
I her dress above her shrunken ankles. She
j looks as though she was going to bite every
| passer-by in a crowded thoroughfare, that
j happens in the least to disarrange her dress,
j She is generally thin, and scraggy, and sallow.
It is her constant fidget that wears ail the flesh
from her bones, and color from her cheeks.
Interesting and Pathetic Tale.—At the
late anniversary of the American Sunday
School Union in Nevv-York, several extracts
were read from the reports of the different
schools belonging to the Union, among which
was the following little tale, furnished from
the minutes of along established school, in re
lation to one of the children who had received
his religious education there—
“ He had a pious mother who died when lie
was seven years old. He left school, and after
two years became a sailor boy. After ten
years spent amid exposure to the snares of
vice, he came to this port—was but about ten
days on shore, made a pilgrimage to his mo
ther’s grave, and a visit to a beloved sister,
sixty miles from New-York.
“On his return he visited ihe superinten-
dant, after ten years absence from home, and
nearly twelve from Sunday school, announced
his name, and taking a little book from his
bosom added, “This will tell you better. 1
had a box of little books; they are worn out
and gone, but.” holding it up with a grasp of
triumph, he added, “I held on to this.” —
| It was a Sabbath Scholar’s Magazine, for
| proofs, bound with a prayer written on the
j blank leaf by the superintendent.
| “In the course of conversation he mention
ed some lines he had written on visiting his
mother’s grave, a touching specimen of filial
affection and true poetry. A verse or two I
cannot refrain from subjoining :
“ And I coultl love to die,”
To leave untasted life’s dark bitter stream ;
By thee, as when in childhood, lie,
To share thy dream.
‘•Oft in life’s withered bower,
In still communion with the past, I tw» ■
To muse o» thee, the only flower
In memory’s urn!
“ Where has thy spirit flown ?
I gaze above—thy look is imaged there !
I listen, and thy gentle tone
Ison the air! *
« God bless thy weeping child,
Who finds thy grave, religion’* holy shrine!
And may his spirit, undefiled,
Yet blend with thine!
“ Such are the fruits of a Sunday’s infant
class,.and a mother’s pious instruction.”
Capital Anecdote.—Dick R the clev
erest wag of the age, was passing through
State street to his lodgings, at a rather late
hour, and accidentally looking in the late
General Morton’s window, observed him, with
three friends, enjoying a rubber at whist.
Dick rang the bell—the servant opened the
door, and Dick told him to request the Gene
ral, (an entire stranger) to step into tbe hall, a
gentleman wishes to see him. The servant
returned, saying, the General was engaged.
“ Go back,” said Dick, “ and tell him I must
see him ; 1 have business of importance.” The
servant returued; and the General, the most
affable of men, came bowing into the ball..
“ Ah my dear sir,” said Dick, taking him by
the hand, “ I was just passing by your house,
casually looking in, saw you engaged in a
game of whist; and thought I’d stop and ask
—what’s trumps.”