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acute student of the more sordid qualities
of human nature —in a word, he had devot
ed his fine energies to the acquisition of
wealth, and as his father predicted, he had
so well availed himself of his opportunities
that he was both an enlighteneJ and rich
merchant. But the romance of his early
days had long since passed away. ’1 lie
imaginative student was concealed or rather
lost in the man of the world. Thrown up
on his own resources, in a foreign land, and
surrounded by strangers he had learned to
think an act for himself. He had acquired
the worldly wisdom which enabled him to
study his own interests, and it is not strange
that selfishness should have mingled its al
loy with his naturally amiable character.
During his long sojourn abroad no claims
have been made upon his affections, he had
lived unloving and unloved, and the warm
current of his feelings seemed gradually to
have become chilled. When seen through
the mist of absence, or viewed through the
long vista of time, the familiar faces of his
distg,ot home, faded into vague-and indis
tinct images. He returned to the scenes of
his youth with a feeling of strangeness and
the remembrances at every step of his ap
proach were rather mournful than pleasant
to his soul.
Edward Ellis had been several days at
home,he had fully answered all theclaims of
filial and paternal duty, and received the con
gratulations of the friends who are always
found ready to note one’s good fortune, ere
he bent, his stops towards tne dwelling of
Edith Pemberton. His feelings in this as
in most other things were materially altered.
His early passion, like his aspirations after
fame, had become but as a dream of the
past, a shadow of some unattainable felicity.
The hope which once made his love a
source of anticipated happiness, had long
since faded from his sight, and as time pass
ed on, a tender and melancholy interest,
such as one feels when regarding the youth
ful dead, was the only emotion which the
recollection of Edith could insniru. He had
outlived the affection which he had design
ed to be the measure of their existence.
The flower had been blighted by the cold
breath of worldliness, and so many sordid
interests had occupied his heart since, with
a wish to revive old feelings, hut from a
morbid restless unsatisfied yearning towards
the past, Eliis betook himself to the abode
of his once loved Edith.
As he entered the hall, and ere the ser
vant could announce his name, a young la
dy emerged fro is the drawing-ioom, and
inet him face to face. He started in un
feigned surprise, as he exclaimed :
“ Miss Pemberton! —Edith—can it be
possible ?” *
The lady looked a little alarmed, and
opening the door through which she had just
passed said :
“My name is Margaret, sir; did you
wish to see sister Edith ?”
He answered in the affirmative, and as
he took his seat while the sylph-like figure
of the beautiful girl disappeared, he could
not help glancing at the mirror, where a
moment’s reflection soon convinced him that
the years which had so changed him could
scarcely have left Edith untouched. The
thought'that Margaret whom he had left al
most an infant should have thus expanded
into the lovely image of her sister, prepared
him in some measure for other changes.
Edith had expected his visit with aflutter
of spirits most unusual and distressing. She
was conscious that lie would find her sadly
altered in person, and she had been trying
to school herself for the interview, which
she well knew must be fraught with pain
even if it brought happiness. But when
her young sister came to her with a ludic
rous account*of the strange gentleman’s
droll mistake, Tier prophetic soul, which had
acquired the gift of prescience from sorrow,
saw but too plainly the cloud upon her fu
ture. She descended to the drawing-room
with a determination to control her emotions,
and, to one so accustomed to self-command,
the task though difficult was not impossible.
The meeting between the long parted lovers
was painful and full of constraint. In the
emaciated figure, and hollow cheek ot her
who had long passed the spring of life, El
lis saw little to awaken the association of
early affection, for the being who now ap
peared before him scarcely retained a trace
of her former self. Time, and care, and the
wearing anxiety of hope deferred had blight
ed the beauty which under happier circum
stances might have outlived her youthful
ness. Edith was now only a placid plea
sant looking woman with that indescribable
air of mannerism which always characterises
the single lady of a certain age, and as Ellis
compared her present appearances with
that of her blooming sister, who bore a most
singular resemblance to her, he was tempt
ed to feel a secret satisfaction in the belief
that her heart was as much changed as her
person.
And what felt Edith at this meeting 1 She
had lived on one sweet hope, and had borne
absence, and sorrow, and the wasting of
weary expectancy with the patience of a
loving and trusting heart. It is true that,
as years sped on, she lost much of the san
guine temper which once seem to abbrevi
ate time and diminish space. It is true that
as time stole the bloom from her cheek and
the brightness from her eye, many a mis
givings troubled her gentle bosom, and the
shadow of the settled grief seemed gradual
ly extending its gloom over her feeling.
But still hope existed—no longer as the bril
liant sunshine of existence—no longer as
the only hope which the future could afford
—but faded and dim—its radiance lost in
the mist of years, yet still retaining a spark
of its early warmth. She had many doubts
and fears hut she still had pleasant fancies of
the future, which, cherished in her secret
heart, were the only fountains of delight in
the dreary desert of her wasted feelings.
But now all was at an end. They had met,
not as strangers, but, far worse, as estranged
friends. The dream of her life was rudely
broken—the veil was lifted from her eyes—
the illusion which had given all she know of
happiness, was destroyed forever* In the
words of him who has sounded every string
of love’s sweet lyre, she might have ex
claimed in the bitterness of her heart:
“ Had we but known, since first we mc-t,
Some few short hours of bliss,
We might in numbering them,forget
The deep deep pain of ‘bia;
But no ! our hope was borne in fears
And nursed ’mid vain regrets !
Like winter suns, it rose in tears,
Like them, in tears it sets.”
Mrs. Pemberton at first formed some
schemes, founded on the remembrance of
Edward’s former liking for Edith, but when
she learned his error respecting Margaret
she began to fancy that if her eldest daugh
ter was a little too old, the younger was none
too young to make a good wife of the rich
merchant. She expressed her admiration
of his expanded figure, extolled his fine
hair, which happened to be made
wig, was in raptures with his beautiful
teeth which owed their brilliancy to the
skill of a French dentist, and, in short, left
no means untried to accomplish her end.
But she was doomed to disappointment. It
is not easy to kindle anew flame from the
ashe3 of an extinguished passion. There
wa a secret consciousness, a sense of dis
satisfaction with himself, that made Ellis
rather shrink from Edith's society, and
throw an air of constraint over his manner
towards the whole family. He was not hap
py in the presence of her who appeared be
fore him as a sceptre of the past, hearing
reproaches in its melancholy countenance,
and after a few embarrassed attempts at care
lessness in his intercourse with her, he ceas
ed entirely to visit the family.
No one ever knew that Edith ever suf
fered, for no one suspected her long-cherish
ed attachment. Her step became languid,
her cheek sunken, her eye unnaturally bright,
and when at length, a hacking cough fas
tened itgelf upon her lungs, every body said
that Edith Pemberton was falling into a con
sumption. Some attributed it to a cold tak
en when nursing her sister through a dan
gerous illness—others thought she had worn
out her health among her numerous nephews
and nieces. But the worm lay at the root of
the tree and though the storm and the wind
might work its final overthrow, the true
cause cf its fall was the knawing of the se- ’
cret destroyer. Gradually and quietly and ,
silently she faded from among the living. |
Friends gathered round her couch of suffer
ing and the consolations of the Bonk of all
truth smoothed her passage to the tomb.
With a world of sorrow and care sinking
from her view, and an eternal life of happi
ness openin<i upon her ‘lying eyes, she clos
ed her useful and blameless life.
On the very day fixed upon for his mar
riage with a voung and fashionable bcite-s,
Edward Ellis received a summons to attend,
as pall bearer, the funeral of Edith Pember
ton, Os course he could not decline, and as
he beheld the earth flung upon the coffin
which concealed the faded form of l'.er
whom he had once loved, the heart of the
selfish and worldly man was touched with
pitty and remorse. But he turned from
Edith’s grave to his own bridal and in the
festivities of that gny scene soon forgot her
who, after a life spent in the set vice of oth
ers, had fallen a victim to that chronic heart- ‘
break which destroys many a victim never j
numbered in the records of mortality.
Gentlo reader, l have told you a simple i
story, but one so like the truth, that you will j
be tempted to conjecture that the real lie- ‘
mine has been actually known to you. Will
not the circle of your own acquaintances
furnish an Edith Pemberton 1 ? a gentle, love
ly and loveable woman, who leads a fife of
quiet benevolence, ami whose obscure and
peaceful existence is marked by deeds of,
kindness, even as the windings of a summer
brook are traced by the freshness of the ver
dure and flowers that adorn its banks ? Have
you never met with one of those persons on
whose gravestone might be inscribed the
beautiful and touching lines of the poet
Delille :
“ Joyless I lived yet joy to'others gave !”
And when you have listened to the hitter
jest, the keen sarcasm and the thoughtless j
ridicule which the young and gay are apt. to ;
utter against ‘ the old maid,’ has it never oc- j
curved to you that each of these solitary j
and usefid beings may have her own true j
tale of young and disappointed affection ? i
Important Change in the Southern Mail.
—The New York Express of the loth says:
“ We learn that hereafter there are to be
despatched two mails a day for the South,
one closing at A. M., and the other at the
same hour as at present, viz : 3.V P. M. The
present mail from the South will arrive here
about half past one in the afternoon, instead
of 11 or 12 at night, as heretofore. This
arrangement we unders*: id commences to
day.”
(t'r’Three men, Henry G. Jones. Henry
Dillard and Joseph Dillard, of Monroe
County, in this State, have been arrested in
Wetumpka, Alabama, for negro stealing.
On examination before a magistrate they
confessed that the negroes (threein number)
in their possession were the property of Pe
ter Randall, of Monroe. They were all
committed—the thieves to take their trial,
and the negroes to await the demand of
their owner.
Sued. —The Editor of the Macon Mes
senger has had three different writs, each as
long as the “ moral law,” served upon him,
which modestly requests him to “ fork over”
$15,000, for injury done to the good name
and fame of three citizens of that city, by
publishing an advertisement signed by a re
sponsible name. Ati Editor sued for $15,000.
and in these hard times too ! The plaintiffs
are certainly crazy.
The Editor of the Messenger, in noticing
the above proceedings, remarks: “Our
friends need not be alarmed —our good na
ture and buoyancy ot spirit remain unim
paired ; and if we are not again way-laid in
the streets, and knocked ori the head, we
shall continue to attend to our business as
usual.”— Savannah Republican.
fly And, in his paper of Thursday last,
the “ Major” thus waggishly “continues the
subject
“ We said last week we were in good hu
njor—so we still are—also in good health :
only a little wearied with our exertions in
collecting the $15,000, that we may be rea
dy to respond to tbe prayers of the three
petitioners for that trifling sum of our mo
ney. We shall attend Court in Houston
County next week, where we expect our
customers to pay us over about one thou
sand of it.”
©G^ONM..
Written for the “Southern Miscellany.”
A POLITICIAN IN PETTICOATS.
Mr. Editor: I would not have you lie
live from the above title, that I would vio
late, even by an attempt, the political neu
trality of your ‘Miscellany.’ I have cut
politics myself, and am a neutral; swearing
allegiance, neither to the house of York or
Lancaster. My only purpose is to present
to your readers the incidents of an evening
spent in the country a short time since.
I was on my homeward journey, and had
travelled rapidly and far. 1 was alone, and
the entire day nearly gone by, and I had
hardly passed a word with a living soul.—
Just as the sun was setting, 1 approached by
a lane, a long low house near the road side.
The entrance to the yard was by two large
gates, through either of which a carriage
could have passed. A little negro was near,
who having opened one of these gates, I
passed through to a small one, which led
immediately to the house by a walk, on
either side of which were an abundance of
flowers, the rose being tbe most prominent.
My horse being provided for, with whip and
overcoat in hand, I walked to the door and
entered. The room was dimly lighted, and
I but indistinct!}’ discerned two persons
sitting to my left —very close together.
There was daylight enough however to per
ceive, that one was a man quite small—the
other, a woman, very large. They were
very close together, indeed so close , that I
was at first apprehensive that I had ap
proached the house too silently, and had
“fallen upon them unawares. I was sqon
relieved from iny fears by discovering the
age of the parties, and by perceiving that
ibc lady was exceedingly der.f. I was kind
ly invited to a seat, and asked if I would have I
supper. Replying affirmatively—the old I
lady rose with difficulty fiom her chair, and j
left the room, to give, as I supposed, the ne
cessary instructions to the servants. She
returned in a few moments, and a light hav
ing been kindled on the hearth, as is my
usual custom, 1 proceeded to examine the
apartment with its inmates. The survey
was unsatisfactory in its- results, and I was
apprehensive 1 had fallen in at the wrong
house. The floor was unswept. In one
corner of the room was a bed, tumbled and
unclean. On the mantle was one clock, and
opposite it in a niche in the wall, was an
other. One was going upon tick —the other
I presume had adopted the cash system—
and of course did not go at all. In another
corner, was a sideboaid of ancient date,
groaning beneath a burden of tumblers, vials,
dust, etc. etc. On the opposite side of tbe
room, all gray with dust, and bare, stood an
old bureau, its only ornament, being an old
swing glass, deeply concealed beneath a
mantle of dust and cobwebs. A small table
and a few chairs to match, completes the
schedule of goods and chattels. The old
man and woman, were the only visible occu
pants. The man seemed in very bad health:
and I ascertained that he was troubled with
an enormous carbuncle, which bad grown
upon the back of his neck, but which was
yielding to the use of remedies, under tbe
advice and practice of a skilful physician
from the county village. Though greatly
afflicted, he was good-natured and cheerful;
but I very soon perceived that he ranked as
second best on the premises—his station
was No. 2. The old lady who was to all
intents and purposes tbe head of the family,
and ranked as No. 1, as I have remarked,
was deaf—very deaf, and also dreadfully
afflicted, as she subsequently informed me,
with the Rheumuticks —which disease hav
ing fixed itself permanently upon the Lum-
I bar region, gave her much trouble in rising
when seated, and caused her to lean forward
! greatly when walking. This affliction, to
| gether with her enormous bulk and great
! weight, rendered walking with her a job,
j much to be dreaded. The truth is, her gait
I could scarcely he called a walk at all; it pul
one very much in mind of the motion of a
hogshead on end, travelling upon a pair of,
ungreased Trucks. She showed off to
much better advantage when seated, and in
conversation her powers were certainly re
markable. After she had reappeared from
the other room, and effected a lodgment up
on a cliair, I had a fine opportunity of ob
serving her countenance. Her eyes were
Certainly its most remaijuible feature, sur
rounded as they were, by a profusion of fat,
and covered from above by a pair of shaggy
and depending brows. Bl ight and undimm
ed by the lapse of fifty years, they burnt as
brightly as in youth. But itss enough to
observe, that they were small, sparkling and
gray, ever bright and restless—to know that
they gave evidence of much native intellect.
But unfortunately for her comeliness, this
■feature was alone in its glory, unsustained !
by another. Her nose was a pug—her chin
the segment of alunar circle—and her mouth
—an exceeding large and ungainly gash.
But enough as to her appearance.
She had taken her seat near the old man,
in a large old-fashioned chair, the pattern
by which it was made, no doubt having been
originally taken from herself by the chair
maker, when the conversation which had
been carried on between her husband and
myself, was knocked up by mv lady—who
wished to know if 1 was direct from Macon.
• No, Madam.’ ‘ From Augusta or Charles
ton or Savannah?’ ‘1 hail from none of
these places.’ ‘Well, where are you from
then?’ 1 politely answered, ‘that I came
last from Columbus.’ She rose up, and
came forward to where I sat, so close, that
in her descent upon an adjoining chair, 1
apprehended a closer contact Ilian 1 would j
have relished—tired as I was, from a lady 1
of her size and age; so that on the first im
pression of the danger, I started aside, and
would have cleared the way for her anchor
age,‘hut was arrested in my purpose, by the
(prick repetition of her previous question,
‘ Where are you from did you snv?’ ‘From
Columbus, Madam,’ said I, raising my voice
to a pitch suitable to the dullness of her
healing. ‘From Columbus—then you can
tell tne jf the old Columbus Bank is broke
sure enough.’ ‘Broke all to atoms madam.’
‘Youdontsay so. Well, bless my life
and body—what is the country a-eoming to
—I wish the whole batch of Banks would
blow up, and then we should have the right
sort of a currency I recon. These misera
ble shaving shops are all rotten at the core,
plague on ’em.’
• ‘A good many of them,’ 1 remarked,
‘have proven the truth of your remark, but
still I trust there is honesty enough among
those remaining, to redeem the State from
the foul disgrace that has fallen on it.’
‘Redeem a fiddlestick. You had better
tell them to redeem their rotten rags, before
you talk about their redeeming the State
from disgrace.’
‘That is just what I mean, madam. By
continuing to redeem their ‘rotten rags,’ as
you are pleased to call them, as nearly all
are now doing who are doing any thing, they
may take from us our reproach, and prove
] in the end valuable agents, in relieving the
i country front its present distress.’
‘ Well, it is very singular,’ said the old
lady, ‘that the country is not in a better
condition, when but little more than a year
ago, we bad so many fine promises from the
Harrison men. Ob, yes, they said, only
elect Old Tip. He’ll get us out of all our
troubles, and square us up with the world—
just elect the old Hero, and we shall soon
gel a better price for our cotton and truck.
But how is it, just look at the fix we are in,
and by the Lord, you can hardly give your
good cotton away at any price, and throw
the sorry cotton in—a pretty state of things
truly—after all their fine speeches and pa
rad ings, truly, ain’t it?’
‘I have seen the country in a much better
condition than it is at present, and I have
read and been informed that it has likewise
been in a worse.’
‘How, when, where were they ever
worse V
‘ They were much worse I am told in the
revolutionary war, and I am inclined to the
notion, that they were something worse about
the time of the last war.’
‘Yes, and 1 wish’ to gracious we could
f have another war. Johnny Bull is getting
quite too furious. England puts me in mind
[ of a mean nigger —whom you thrash occa
; sionally to keep straight; and 1 think its
about time we had given England another
thrashing. She is getting altogether too
saucy and insolent.’
And her little gray eyes flashed most
bravely while she spoke, and you could
clearly perceive, that she was game to the
bottom and no mistake. My great love of
mischief prompted me to the following re
ply :
‘But, Madam, we are in had condition for
war at present, and in the next bout 1 fear
England would thrash us most awfully.’
‘ Dont talk to me about fear—England
thrash us!—l’ll be switched if there are
men enough in all their Dominions, North,
South, East, or West to do it. No, no.
I wish I were a man. I would like to have
a trial of it.’
‘You forget,’said I, ‘in the warmth of
your zeal that you are a Rheumatic, and
unable to endure the fatigue of a march, and
so deaf, that you could scarcely hear the
word of command, if it were uttered even
at the mouth of a cannon.’
‘Well, you’ve got me now,’ said the old
lady, trying to perpetrate a smile, ‘1 become
excited on this subject, and hardly know
when or where to stop. But the country is
trampled upon by England, and it frets me
to know how she is bamboozling the Gov
ernment, if government it can be called,
with such a man as Tyler at its head.’
•Mr. Tyler is a very good man,’ I dryly
remarked, greatly disposed to urge the old
lady on by apparent opposition to her; for
I was really much amused at her originali
ty, and astonished at the extent of her read
ing.
‘Yes; he may he a very good man, but
he is a very wishy-washy President; so
small a concern, that he can’t rally to bis
support more than a corporal’s guard even;
who ever heard of a President before with
out a party. 1 wish he would resign at once,
and let us have another. For the tenure at
best by which he holds his office, runs in the
same language with the verdict of a coroner’s
inquest.—Died by the visitation of God
President by tlie visitation of God. I’ll lit
dialled, if 1 wouldn’t give it up, any how.
And the British Court has sent over Lord
Ashburton too, to hold a palaver—a proper
man surely—who is now lying under ini
peachmet or something else, at the Court of
the Old Daily—London —I’ll be blest if it
ain’t a downright insult to the Government
to send such a fellow here—a Lord truly
—such a Lord—made such by Patent—as
you make washing-machines, or cotton
cards.’
‘But,’said I, ‘Mr. Webster seems dis
posed to stick up for our rights at all events,
aud may be able to out-general the English
man after all.’
‘Dan Webster! who would trust him I
wonder? If he is our only dependence, it’s
a slim chance, God knows. lam afraid of
Dan’s honesty.’
‘You would not challenge the. Secretary’s
patriotism, would you ?’
‘ Well now, there are very few men, es
pecially areat men, that I would trust any
way you could fix ’em. They make poli
tics a trade. They live by their trade, as
the shoemaker by his last. And when one
side don’t pay well, why they make no
hones of turning tail, and trying ’tollier.’
‘ But you do not really think all our great
politicians dishonest, do you?’
‘No, not all of them, a few of them I can
trust. There is Tom Benton (hard money
Tom I call him) for instance. I believe
him honest —he goes in for a gold and silver
currency, and I like that—though I was
fooled not long since with a piece of money
which 1 had tuken for a Ten Dollar gold
piece, and laid it away for harder times, and
j lo! and behold, when I examined it closely
! some months after, I found it to he a Harri
, son modal, all of brass, with Tip and Tv on
, one side—and Log Cabin and Hard Cider
on the other. But if Tom’s views had been
carried out we should not have had the
whole country flooded with shin-plasters.’
‘You would like Mr. Benton for a Presi
dent then, I suppose?’
‘Very much indeed, sir.’
‘Well there is certainly a chance for him
after a while.’
Just as our conversation reached this
I point, supper was announced, the old lady
rolled herself into the room—l following.
There on a tolerably long tabic, were ar
ranged three hint edged plates. One occu
pied by fried bacon, another by eggs, the
third by bread. The old lady, without doff
ing her bonnet, seated herself, I also sat
down. ‘ Bless the Lord for supper
that’s grace enough,’ said she, turning
sharply round to me, ‘ain’t it?’
‘Enough,’ said I, ‘if it come from the
heart.’
I was very hungry, and ate what I could
of the food before me. The old lady kept
up a sort of parenthetical confab during the
periods of time when the food was —‘in
transitu’—from herjplate tojlier mouth—her
fork and sometimes her fingers being the
mode of conveyance. But always being \
averse to doing two things at once—l did
not engage in it with her—hut finished my
meal in silence, and retired to the other
room.
I had resumed my seat but a little space,
when the old one hobbled up to a vacant
chair on my right, and sat down.
‘And you really think Tom Benton has a
chance for the Presidency?’
‘Certainly, Madam, he has a chance, as
well as I or another, but as to his probabili
ty of success I cannot speak.’
‘ There are a good many looking forward
to a campaign already,’ said she, ‘as 1 per
ceive from my papers. Who do you think
will be the Whig candidate?’
‘Really, Madam, I have no opinion on the
matter at all. It is a thing of perfect indif
ference to me, who is, or who is not a can
didate. I have long since cut politics.’
‘And are you not a Tyler man?’ she
asked.
•Not I.’
‘Nor a Whig?’
■No.’
‘Nor a Democrat?’
‘I am neither.’
’ Well, will you be pleased to tell me what
you are?’
‘Why, so far as politics are concerned, I
am just nothing at all. I belong to no par
ty —follow no man’s lead. I vote for no
man for office, unless I believe him to be ca
pable and honest, and these are the only
qualifications I seek after?’
‘And dont you believe Benton to be ca
pable and honest ?’
‘Excuse me if you please, Madam.’
‘Well, you are a strange man, and I can
hardly believe what you say. I rather think
you are a Whig, who having become sick
at the result of your late success, are now
sitting upon the stool of repentance. If
this be not the fact, why is it that you differ
from all the world besides, in being neu
tral V
‘Simply because I have learned wisdom
from experience. I was once a politician
as warm as any, it is true; and the reason
why I have dropped politics is this—l never
made one friend by being a politician, but a
good many enemies,—l never held an argu
ment with any one, in the course of which I
was convinced myself, or in which I con
vinced my antagonist. I never made one
cent in fifteen years faithful survive; but
have lost much in the time so foolishly wast
ed : so that now I have learned to take care
of my own business, and I let the country
take care of itself.’
‘Your reasons are tolerable, and may do
for you to act upon; but, nevertheless, I
think we should all he politicians, and know
well what we are about. As for myself, I
own 1 am quite a politician.’
*Yes,’ I replied, ‘you are the strongest
.Benton man I have ever seen.’
‘1 like Benton very much—he is so con
sistent—and would rejoice to see him Presi
dent. But the Whigs have got themselves
in a nice box, liavn’t they? They had their
conventions and log-rollings, and cebiti rais
ings, and coon skins, and snake skins—
their drums, speeches, jollifications, lings,
banners and all that—and what did it
amount to?’
‘They elected their man,’ said I, ‘at all
events.’
‘Yes, but what good has it done them, or
the country either. Every thing is brought
up to a,stopping place. Cotton was to be
12 J cents a pound; corn 3 dollars a barrel;
wheat 1 dollar and a quarter a bushel—
every thing was to move on the high pres
sure system —but lo! and behold, cotton is
low, corn low, wheat low. Every thing on
the low order—
The Parmer loads his wagon with nice cotton bags,
And sells them in Macon for lampblack and rags,
And its hard times.’
‘You are poet, Madam, as well as poli
tician I perceive.’
‘Yes, Sir, I do a little in that line occa
sionlly.’
‘By lampblack and rags I suppose you
mean ‘shin pi asters.’
‘Yes, shinplasters, or hills of broken
Banks, or Banks about to break, or Banks
that may break, for they are pretty much of
a muchness—
The Banks arc all breaking, the money’s all gone,
And every where, with plenty of cotton and corn,
The cry is hard times.’
‘The times are hard it is certain,’ said I,
‘but I do not think that we ought to lay the
blame on one party more than another. My
own opinion is that the cause may be found
in the fact, that so few people work to pro
duce any thing, and so many consume with
out labor what is produced. Or, in other
words, too many have sought to live, rather
by their wits, than by their industry.’
‘1 cannot agree with you, sir,’ said the old
lady—‘l think it is owing to the had man
agement of the party in power. The public
money has been wretchedly wasted, and we
are about 90 millions in debt, and the Lord
only knows when or where it will stop.’
‘lt will stop I hope before we are 90
millions in debt. You are certainly mis
taken. Some party paper has deceived you.
The present administration have not had the
opportunity of involving us to that extent.’
‘ Well, I may have been deceived, but it
is a large amount.’
‘Yes, the amount is large, but Mr. Clay
says, touch of the present indebtedness of
the country occurred under the former ad
ministration.’
‘ Dont tell tne what Hal Clay says; I dont
believe a word of it. But thank God he is
gone from the Senate, and I am glad of it ;
The greatest of all cuon skin Ilumbuggers, Hal Clay,
Has resigned, and to Kanctuck is making his way,
1 And its hard times.
To build him a great Bank he set down hard lo work,
But Tyler knocked it all down, with a backhanded jerk
And its hard times.’
‘ You commend the President then, much
as you dislike him, for his veto upon the
Bank bill?’
‘To he sure I do. What a dust he kick
ed up in the Whig ranks; he played old
Harry with the coon skin and log cabin par
ty I tell you. And
The watchword no longer is now Tip and Tyler
For poor Ty himself has burst his own boiler,
And its hard times.
To bamboozle the people they halloo’d Tip and Ty
But now the whole mulgus is blow’d up sky high,
And its hard times.’
Struck as I was with the constant out.
pouring of her politico-doggerel rhymes, I
asked her ‘if she made them as she went
along—upon the spur of the occasion?’
‘Oh no,’ said she, ‘I have a large stock
on hand, of which I have only given you a
few samples. 1 write a good deal of poetry,
and these verses are only a specimen of
many which I have composed on the Whig
folks for my own amusement.
The poor whigs arc out at their elbows and knees,
For they dont handle much of the Government’s fees
Audits hard times.’
‘I should like very much, Madam,if I
could get a copy of your verses for publica
tion. Such evidences of talent and genius
ought not to lie buried up in obscurity.
These verses would gain you great eclat in
the literary and political world.’
‘ Well, now, you dont think so really, do
you?’ she asked, evidently much gratified at
the broad and unblushing compliment I
passed upon her; hut she swallowed it, and
I repeated the dose.
‘Certainly I do, Madam, and I am sure
the wot Id will feel upon their appearance,
the very great loss it has sustained from the
fact, that you kept these sparks of intellect
so long hidden beneath the ashes of your
extreme diffidence.’
This was more than the old lady could
stand. She had swallowed the bait—hook
and all—and 1 had her at the end of my
line, in as line play, as you ever saw a trout
in the hand of a skilful fisherman. The
verses were produced, and dealt out in a
never ceasing strain until 9 o’clock—my
usual hour of retiring—and I was compell
ed rather unceremoniously t~ cut her reci
tations short, promising to hear more of them
in the morning. 1 retired, and slept, and
the reader too long, reserve the remainder
of our chit chat, which occurred on political
and medical subjects, on the following
morning, with a full and certified copy of
the old woman’s verses, for a future leisure
moment.
I have thus given you, Mr. Editor, as near
as recollected, a true and faithful account of
toy interview with old Mrs. P , of J
County, Georgia. As I remarked in the
outset, my object is not, in the slightest de
gree, to infringe upon your reserved rights,
as a neutral in politics; or to smuggle po
litical topics into the columns of the ‘South
ern Miscellany.’ 1 found the old lady truly
an original, and I determined before I left
her house, at some moment of leisure, to
write out the substance of our talk. If it
please you, Mr. Editor, publish it.for the
amusement of your gentleman and lady
readers, and especially as a lesson for your
gentlemen politicians.
JOSHUA SWIPES.
Yamacraw, April 21,1542.
Writicn for the “Southern Miscellany.”
A CHAPTER OF SCRAPS.
Nothing lovelier can be found
In woman, than to study household good.
And good works in her husband to promote.
mvroy.
The most interesting women in the world
arc those whose home is at home —who seek
enjoyment and Comfort in the daily avoca
tions of family duties. The Countess of
Blessington has wisely observed, that liter
ary ladies never makegood wives; conse
quently are poor mothers, and not fitted to
rear up children for life’s turbulent journey.
The purport of this paper is not to abuse
literary accomplishments, or to say they are
unnecessary. Science, knowledge and wis
dom are the true elements of happiness —
and these can only be attained by close stu
dy and industrious application.
So varied are the duties of social life which
devolves upon a wife and a mother, (if she
performs her duties,) that but little time is
left to her for literary leisure and the culti
vation of fanciful accomplishments ; at least,
if much time is taken things soon “ get out
of fix”—a homely phrase, but u true one.
Men are often indolent, lazy and good for
nothing. The very reverse is most gener
ally found in the female character : an idle
woman is scarcely ever seen. It is unnatu
ral for them to be unemployed. The ques
tion is, are they properly employed ? The
happiness of this life is regulated very much
by the most trifling incidents. We arc of
ten made miserable by little occurrences
which, in themselves, are too trifling to men
tion. We are sometimes made to feel the
most pleasurable emotions without being
sensible of the cause—a sweet smile, the
lovely, languishing, affectionate look of an
amiable female fills the very breath we draw,
, from the air around them, with bliss indes
| cribable.
I To be interesting, amiable and intelligent
; —to possess originality, and to form a dis
j tinct character, young persons who are com
: mencing life for themselves, ought very ear
ly to be separated as much as possible from
I their parents : 1 mean young married per
j sons—particularly females. It may be well
! that a few months are spent under the su
i pervision and direction of an experienced
i mother—hut do not let it be longer. The
mind must labor, and the body too, or rest
assured there will be no distinction ;
Old babies quit sucking,
But never are weaned. — Old Sonu.
Some whole families, through the whole gen
eration have not an original idea amongst
! them ; their thoughts are a unit—the same
| look—the same tone —the same words are
’ uttered by nil. The reason is, there is too
much familiality—too much continued in
tercourse ; they do not mix enough with the
world—they are a world in themselves, and
their connexiotis. They are great blank*
upon earth.
Females arc more respected, and receive