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I will not attempt to describe to the rea
der the excrutiating agony which 1 was
compelled to undergo while under the hands
ot the ooeratpr. Those whose stoical pa
tience has enabled them to suffer the pangs
of a throbbing tooth, day after day, until the
whole face has become swollen and inflam
ed, before they could summon courage
enough to apply “ the rightful remedy,” the
dentist’s forceps—and whose eye-balls have
started from their sockets as they felt the
knife rattling over their gums with as much
freedom as if the operator were opening an
oyster, can form a slight idea, a faint con
ception of my suffering, by basing their cal
dilation upon a just scale of proportion ; or,
in other words, by the rule of simple multi
plication, taking the inflamed gum for the
multiplicand, and my lascerated shoulder
and back for the multiplier.
I will spare the reader the revolting scene
of an army hospital, and pass over the time
of my sojourn at Piccolati as hastily as pos
sible. For many long weeks, I was confin
ed to my rude camp-bed, while my ears were
filled with the imprecations and groans of
the miserable tenants of that horrible abode,
and not unfrequently were my eyes greeted
with the unsightly spectacle of some muti
lated and ghastly corpse, as it was borne un
ceremoniously to its grave. Ihe convic
tion that I, too, would soon he conveyed to
my final resting place, had settled upon tny
mind ; and such was my desire to undeceive
my family and friends, that had there been
any one among my attendants, who seemed
capable of sympathy for me or commisera
tion for my fault, I should have made myself
known to him, and have relieved my coil
science from the painful secret which had so
long tankled in my bosom.
At length my wounds began to heal, and
the chills aud fever with which I had been
attacked since my arrival at Piccolati, to
yield to medical treatment. As I gradually
recovered my strength, I resolved, let the
consequences be what they might, that so
soon as I was able, I would return to my
home, where I might once more enjoy the
friendship and sympathy of my friends.—
Often, after 1 had sufficiently recovered to
leave my room, would I totter down to the
bank of the beautiful St. Johns, and seated
by the water’s edge, meditate upon the past
and resolve for the future. I found it im
possible to trace my misfortunes to any oth
er source than to my own wreckless, way
ward, indomitable temper. My selfish jea
lousy had been tiie cause of my original
despondency, and my thoughtless impetuosi
ty of temper, which had always urged me
to extremities in almost every act of my life,
had plunged me into the bitter deeps of
misery which had succeeded. My spirit
was subdued. 1 had fed long enough upon
the husks of adversity, and like the prodi
gal of old, was ready and willing to direct
my steps homewards, where, if 1 had not a
father to meet and forgive me, I felt that
there were those who wouldgladly welcome
me hack to life, and without whose forgive
ness, life was valueless, and death tenfold
terriblg.
The time had expired for which I had en
listed, and I was discharged from the service
with several other volunteers from Georgia
nnd Carolina, with whom 1 left Piccolati for
St. Augustine, in order to take a packet from
that place to Charleston. On my arrival at
the latter place, 1 lost no time in procuring a
passage to Philadelphia. After a very short
voyage, during which time nothing of interest
transpired, our good brig entered the Capes,
and passing up the noble Delaware with a
fair wind and favoring tide, we met with no
delay, and on the afternoon of the second
day, Philadelphia, with her lofty towers and
steeples, lay spread out before us.
Icauuot describe the sensation produced
in my mind, on once more beholding the
familiar objects of my youth. A thousand
joyous recollections were revived, and a
thousand bright anticipations created, as my
eyes rested upon the scenes of past plea
sures. What would 1 not have given, could
I have greeted the many familiar faces that
met me on the wharf? JJut 1 had resolved
first to ascertain how matters stood, before
I ventured to make myself known, even to
my own family. It was towards evening,
when I sprang upon the wharf. Nearly all
the small pittance of a soldier’s three months’
pay was gone. I had no baggage—and with
a light heart and yet lighter pocket, 1 found
myself once mere upon ray native soil, with
in a few days of two years after niy sup
posed suicide.
( To be concluded.)
tMfli©[|[LL^[^¥ a
THE COWARD.
BV WILLIAM COMSTOCK.
I was never remarkable for my bravery,
although I always loved to hear the bass
drum and bugle, and have been known in
my boyhood, to follow tlie soldiers more
than a mile to hear the music. My juvenile
companions always boasted that they had
more courage than myself, while I retorted
that I could eat more than any of them. 1
never was intended for a wielder of the
sword or rifle, but I came down upon pud
dings, bannocks, and fresh salmon like a
devouring angel. My cowardice was over
looked by my partial friends while 1 was a
boy; but as I grew up, I discovered that to
succeed with the ladies one must be some
thing of a hero. I made this discovery at
the age of seventeen, for having run away
and left a young lady in the lurch one Sun
day, when I was gallanting her from the
church, and a great dog ran at us. I was
severely scolded for it by my sister, and
gravely informed that there was nothing a
woman so much despised as a coward. Up
on this hint I acted, and veiled my weakness
so ingeniously that my courage was seldom
called in question. But at the age of twen
ty-one or twenty-two —by which time I had
become a regular beau—l found it necessa
ry to go a step farther—to mote than hide
my cowardice. It was then incumbent on
me to “ assume a virtue”—boast of m v he
roism—to talk loud and bold—and to fright
en ladios with the terrors of my countenance.
This course of conduct worked to admira
tion. When 1 talked of Blood, broken
bones—charging the enemy in flank and
| rear—unhorsing generals, and cutting through
shoulder blades, the ladies regarded me as
the lineal descendant of Mars himself. They
turned pale and fled before me, only to re
turn with greater speed, and like the Indian
worshippers of the Deity, knelt where they
feared.
At length my sister informed me in con
fidence, that a Miss Jarvis had declared that
I only lacked the opportunity to become a
second Napoleon. Accordingly I procured
an introduction to Miss Jarvis, and found
her a most romantic young lady, who had
read Byron and all the novels extant, and
whose conversation was altogether about no
ble deeds, heroes, lofty souls, and bursting
hearts. We immediately fell in love with
each other. She loved me because I was a
1 hero, and I loved her because she gave me
a good opinion of myself.
I told lierhowl longed to distinguish my
self on the field of battle, and talked so reck
lessly of death and destruction, that she
thought I resembled Achilles more than 1
resembled Hector. She trembled lest my
rash intrepidity should carry me into danger.
“ Danger ! what is that 1 1 have heard the
word, but really I don’t know its meaning.”
The difference between Miss Jarvis and my
self was this: my nobleness was assumed,
while she did actually possess a degree of
spirit and resolution not often found in wo
man.
Our marriage dav was fixed, and I set out
for a tour, not very distant, to purchase some
fine clothing for the occasion. When I cal
led to take leave of Miss Jarvis, I found her
in tears. She was fearful that something
would happen to me, that I should get into
! a quatrel and perhaps fight a duel. 1 told
! her to he under no apprehension—that peo
ple did not insult me, well knowing that was
! us much as their lives were worth to do so.
I tore myself away from my anxious love,
and that very afternoon I set out in the stage
on my journey. Nothing remarkable hap
pened until we came to a small village about
sun-down, when we overtook several young
men, one of whom appeared to be a .South
erner, and wore large mustachois. We had
not travelled far together before one of the
young men began to quiz the gentleman
about his extra hair. He was soon joined
by the rest, and 1 was surprised at the pa
tience with which the Southerner bore their
jokes. I did not know that his tormentors
were familiar acquaintances, but supposed
to be all alike strangers to each other. Be
lieving the man to be a rank coward, and
one who might be insulted with safety, I re
solved to exhibit my courage, and turning to
the gentleman with the mustachois, remark
ed that lie must have stolen a curry-comb
and placed it upon his upper lip. To my
astonishment he turned upon me, and with
eyes that flashed fire, demanded an apology.
Oh ! how thankful was I for the darkness
which hid the paleness of my countenance !
I thought I should have swooned away.—
However, I refused to apologise ; whereup
on my antagonist gloved his hand and threat
ened to pull my none incontinently if L did
not immediately make an ample apology.—
I saw that he would be as good as his word,
and stammered out an apology—vowed that
I had no intention to hurt his feelings, and
that I was sorry if 1 had given him any of
fence. He seemed satisfied, but 1 could not
feci the contempt with which he regarded
me. 1 looked wistfully around me, and was
glad to perceive that there was no lady in
the stage to witness my humiliation, with
the exception of a little woman who sat in
one corner, wrapped in a red cloak, with
spectacles on her nose. Os course I cared
nothing for her. I also rejoiced that my
name was a secret to all present, and believ
ed that as it was somewhat dark, my coun
tenance would not be recognized should 1
meet any of my fellow-passengers again.—
When we reached the next stopping place,
the young men left us, together with the ter
rible fellow who wore mustachois. I was
thankful for that, and as 1 pursued my jour
ney, with no one but the old lady, who did
not speak during the whole passage, I was
left to my own reflections ; and I resolved
never again to insult a man until I had be
come certain be was as great a coward as
myself.
At length we reached the hotel at the end
of our journey. I stalked into the sitting
room, and with a lofty air and loud voice
summoned the waiter to my presence. Hav
ing laid my commands upon him, I walked
up and down the room with tragedian strides.
The door opened suddenly. 1 turned to see
if the waiter had returned, but it was my
fellow passenger, the little old woman in the
red cloak. She approached me with a fam
iliarity not very agreeable to a man of my
cloth, as 1 was about to insinuate, when she
threw back her hood, took oil’ her spectacles,
and exposed to my astonished view the verit
able countenance of Miss Jarvis, my intend
ed bride ! I staggered back *wo paces and
then stood like a statue, unable to speak a
syllable, while the cold sweat streamed from
every pore in my skin.
“ 1 have this evening witnessed your hero
ism, Mr. C ,” cried she. What a noble
fellow you are ! how brave ! bow reckless
of consequences! Have you found out the
meaning of the word danger V’
At that moment, bow felt the “second
Napoleon!”
“ Miss Jarvis, I don’t understand you,”
answered I; “ I did not expect you here.”
“ I will explain then,” said she. “ I was
fearful that your hot courage would carry
you into danger—l beg pardon, you don’t
understand the word—l feared you would
get into a quarrel. 1 had a dream similar to
that of the wife of Julius Cmsar, previousto
his assassination, and forboded evil. So
great was my anxiety, that 1 resolved to ac
company you in disguise, and, in case of
necessity, to act ns your guatdian angel.—
But, sir, l perceive that you can lake care of
your own safety ; for however dauntless you
may be in the company of women, you have
an admirable share of prudence where men
with beards are concerned. Most invincible
sir, 1 bid you a lieu. I shall return home,
and send your mother to protect you.”
She then retired hastily and I saw her no
more. My stage adventure was soon nois
ed abroad, and 1 wished the rocks aud moun
tains would fall upon me. Since that day I
have sought for a wife, hut the ladies shun
me as they would an adder.
3£> nr Jfi ill W Ui U-3 $ Ifi Ait W*
Burning of Moscow. —The French enter
ed into a deserted city. Only the vilest of
its population remained. Swarming over
its innumerable streets, they begun to plun
der its churches and bazaars and magnifi
cent palaces. But when the night came on,
aud tlie meanest soldier lay down wrapped
in the costliest furs, and drunken with the
richest wines, the cry of “ Fire ! Fire !”
burst like a knell of death upon the ranks.
The flames shot upward, and the lurid light
revealed a figure in the windows of the
Kremlin palace. It was the Corsican ! His
hand grasped a pen, and he was writing by
the light : and could any one have looked
over him he would have beheld a letter in
dicated to the Czar, and on its page was
written “ Peace!” The flames were extin
guished ; but the next night they broke out
in all quarters, spreading with such rapid
progress that they involved at the same time
the abodes of poverty and sumptuous pa
laces; monuments and miracles of luxury
and art! The very tombs Were burnt up!
In the midst of all, the equinoctial storm
arose and raised the ocean of fire into great
billows which rolled and dashed against the
Kremlin, and would not retreat at the bid
ding of him who stood upon tjie taniparts.
In the midst of the howling of the storm
and crackling of the flames, the fall of the
massive structures and explosion of com
bustible magazines, the rolling of drums and
sounding of tocsins, the solemn peal of bells,
and clocks striking their last hours, the rev
elry of the drunken, and the shrieks of an
guish, and all cither sounds of a wild exult
ing spectacle, were seen running through
the street the most squalid wretches that ev
er assumed the form of humanity ; men and
women with dishevelled hair, with torches
in their hands, and the aspect of demons,
revelling in their own pandemonium. Na
poleon dashed out of the town on his charger,
beneath the overarching columns of flame,
and retired a league distant, where the heat
of the fire pursued him. “Ob!” exclaim
ed lie, when lie afterwards described the
scene at Si. Helena ; “ it was the grandest,
the most awful, the most sublime spectacle
which the world ever beheld.”
Romance of real Life. —The Paris Glole
furnishes the following Neapolitan romance:
The Countess Mulfioli was left a rich and
beautiful widow, at the age of twenty-two.
Innumerable suitors came, hut the Duke de
Hermello was the only one whose sighs were
reciprocated. Their union was agreed up
on, and deferred only till the term of widow
hood had expired. One day, at a fete, the
young Countess took the fancy of consulting
a fortune-teller, who was there for the enter
tainment of the guests. He, as usual, ex
amined the lines of her hand, and, with a
troubled countenance and tremulous voice,
said “ Lady, you are at the Gates of the
Temple of Happiness, but you will never
pass over its threshold, and will die in des
pair.” The lady was deeply affected by
this prediction, and all the affectionate south
ings of her lover were scarcely adequate to
restore her mind to tranquility. Time and
passion, however, bad obliterated the im
pression, when the Duke de Hermello went
on a visit to Rome, and the Countess retir
ed to a convent anxiously waiting his return.
Days, weeks and months elapsed without
the re-appearance of her betrothed. At last
came from him the following cruel epistle :
“ Madame ! we deceived ourselves in be
lieving that we were destined for each other.
To-morrow I shall be married to the Prin
cess Maria Doria. Let us forget our child
ish fancies, but ever remain friends.” This
was the stroke of fate, for on finishing the
letter she sank to the ground, and was taken
up a lifeless corpse. On the same evening
her father left Naples for Rome, and five
days after the Duke de Hermello received
three poniard wounds as he was getting in
to his carriage, and expired on the spot.
The ministers of justice in both countries
are engaged in investigating these tragical
events, which have occasioned the deepest
emotion in many noble families.
The Gentleman. —“What makes the gentle
man I The shape of the hat, the cut of the
coat, and the quality of cloth he weats ? Oh,
how easy then to make a gentleman ! Yes
—we can take the veriest blackguard that
walks the street; the knave, the loafer, the
gambler, the debauchee, and even the rob
ber can be made into a gentleman, by the
combined skill and effort of a hatter and
tailor. And it does not require half the
time to do this, that is necessary for the
honest laborer to earn his plain Sunday suit.
But suppose those who would become gen
tlemen, have no money ; how can they ob
tain the materials and pay for the work 1
Oh ! you may rest easy about that. The
ways and means are the least difficult things
to get at, in these days of unparalleled in
vention. Yes, by mere dint of invention.
The men who till the ground, who erect our
dwellings, who sail our ships, who make our
clothes, and saw our wood, can never be
gentlemen, till they forsake these low em
ployments. If they should become gentle
men, which their means seldom will allow,
how long could they remain so I Not long,
for the very nature of tbeir pursuits would
ruin them in an hour. “What! a gentleman
with his new beaver and $lO broadcloth, go
to work ; it would sink the best fortune in
the country. There is, therefore, no such
thing as a working gentleman.
But is there not a capital error in all this]
Is it not the mock rather than the real gen
tieman, which we have described ? It is not
s easy a thing to make a real gentleman ;
neither is it very easy to find one. The real
gentleman is he who pursues some honest
employment, keeps his expenditures within
his income, never injures the feelings of any
one unnecessarily, uses no deception, al
ways tells the truth, and minds his own bu
siness.
Beautiful Incident. —A fews days since,
under our obituary head, was recorded the
death of a child of about two and a half
years of age—the daughter of N. A. Thomp
son, Esq., of this city. Connected with her
death is one of those beautiful and touching
incidents which sometimes occur, as if tore
mind us of the close connection and sisterly
communion that exist between the innocent
child and the spirits of the better land, and
which should reconcile parents to the early
loss of the little ones which are lent them
but for a season, or rather, as we should say,
to tlie return of a wandering child of heav
en to her celestical abode.
The Evening Gazette thus beautifully no
tices the death of the little one.
“ A few days before the child’s illness a
butterfly, very large and of singular beauty,
was found hovering in the room where she
was at play, quite fascinating her with its
graceful motions and brilliant colors, and
after being several times tiust out, flying
back at last, and resting on the infant’s fore
head.
For a moment the beautiful insect remain
ed there expanding its brilliant wings tothe
great delight of tlie child, then suddenly, as
if it had accomplished its purpose, took its
departuie, and was soon out of sight. The
child sickened —and, again, but a few hours
before her death, the hutteifly was seen flut
tering and seeking entiance at the window
of her chamber. It matteisnot, toourfaitb,
whether, as the innocent superstition of an
other land would tell us, there was a mes
sage thus borne from the holy world, that
this young life was needed there, and must
be taken away.
But at least, while we remember that this
frail insect is the emblem not only of a fleet
ing existence, but of a resurrection from a
narrow and bumble life to a higher and a
brighter, we may find in the incident an il
lustration that shall teach us of that Chris
tian lesson which can never reach us too
powerfully—that the spirit, of which we
witness the first unfolding here, has a freer
and noble expansion in a home where our
love, though not our care, can follow it.”—
Boston Amo icon.
Memory. —We may find a mere local
memory combined with very little jugment;
that is, the memory of facts, dates, names,
words, discourses, &rc. But that kind of
memory which is founded, not upon local or
incidental relations, but on real analogies,
must be considered an important feature of
a cultivated mind, and as holding an impor
tant place in the formation of intellectual
character. The former kind, however, is
often the more ready, and is that which
generally makes the greater show, both on
account of its readiness, and likewise, be
cause the kind of facts with which it is chief
ly conversant, are usually the most in re
quest in common conversation.” Thus,
men of great minds are frequently silent or
uninteresting in common society, while very
weak and uncultivated persons make ashow,
and are considered interesting and agreea
ble, in the same circles. Great talkers, or
those who are said to possess great conver
sational powers, have retentive memories
even to the utmost minuteness, but are not
usually intellectual. Their conversation con
sists wholly of anecdote and narrative, often
of the most trivial kind, and commonly
about themselves; but they seldom draw
inferences, make original remarks, or gener
alize in any way. They do not reflect.
Discriminating Justice. —The British pa
pers state that one Lady Winchester has
stolen the jewels of one Lady Augusta Gor
don. Asa punishment, Queen Victoria de
clares that tlie said Lady Winchester shall
not appear again at court. Had she been
untitled and poor, she would have been de
spatched forthwith to Botany Bay for the
rest of her natural life. A man whp would
like to be thought a gentleman, takes the
benefit of tlie Bankrupt law, and wipes off’
a debt of half a million, the result of a reck
less and profligate course of speculation.
His friends gather around him and congrat
ulate him for the deliverance. An humble
mechanic, by the same means, relieves him
self and starving family from a debt of a few
hundreds, the consequence, most likely, of
sickness or other calamity, and the world
points the finger of scorn at him, and loads
iiim with the most abusive epithets that im
agination can suggest. One law for the
rich, and another for the poor, all over the
world.— Knoxville Post.
The Army and Navy. —A Convention of
Officers of the Army and Navy will be held
in New York on the first Wednesday in Oc
tober. The objects of the meeting are to
ascertain the actual destitution of religious
and moral instruction in botlT arms of the
National service, and to do wbat can be done
by purely moral and persuasive means, to
secure a truly able and spiritual chaplaincy
for the army and navy. Also to endeavor to
elevate the whole character of tlie service,
intellectually as well as morally, and to en
list, if possible, the counsel and co-operation,
of officers themselves, in efforts to secure
these important results, as far as practicable,
at their respective posts. — Philadelphia In
quirer.
The British Treaty. —According to the
London correspondent of the Baltimore
Patriot, the provisions of the lately conclud
ed treaty between Great Britain and the
United States do not meet with universal
concurrence on the other side of the water,
any more than on this; although the gene
ral tone of the British press is that of hear
ty congratulation upon the amicable adjust
ment of the disputes between the two coun
tries. “ The London Times,” while ap
proaching the terms of the adjustment, ad
mits, as it were authoritatively, that conces
sion have been made by Great Britain, but
maintains that they were honorable to her
generosity ! and forbearance ! ! But the
Loudon Morning Herald (Tory) declares
that too much has been yielded to the Ame
ricans; and if the same course of conces
sion is continued, (it says,) the American
government will not stop until it accom
plishes its resolution ‘to expel British do
minion entirely from the American conti
nent.’ Lord Ashburton’s “ apology” in the
case of the Caroline, is especially offensive
to the English grumblers, as a “ humiliating
degradation,” which they express the confi
dent belief will not be sanctioned by tho
British government —nnd Lord Ashburton
is roundly abused for assenting to it! We
imagine, however, that the British Minister
did not transcend his instructions ; and in
that case, the government will be bound, in
good faith to him, as well as to us, not to dis
avow his acts.
Afemale Antiquarian.—A young lady,
niece of Dr. Vonhovenburgh of New York,
of a romantic turn of mind, was the other
day on a visit to the Falls of the Passaic, at
Patterson, New Jersey. She insisted, des
pite the remonstrances of her friends, on
descending what is called the Chimney, a
singular aud picturesque volcanic formation.
Whilst searching the “ nooks and crannies,”
of this subterranean place, a shrill cry an
nounced that something remarkable had ex
cited her attention. Tlie most courageous
of the party cautiously hurried down, and
found her standing tip-toe endeavoring to
decipher the autographs sculptured on a
large perpendicular rock. Afterrubbing off
the moss which had grown over the names
engraved on it, they were delighted with
seeing the names of “ tho Father of his
country,” and several of his companions in
arms, neatly cut in the old English letter of
that date, carved in the rock.
Hints to Writers in Periodicals. —Much
time, words, ink, and paper are wasted on
introductions. Periodical writers should be
brief and crisp, dashing into the subject at
the first sentence. Sink rhetoric. Nobody
cares bow you came to think of your subject,
or why you wrote upon it: of course the
exordium is unnecessary. Commence with
your leading thought, and avoid irrelevant
digressions. You may be less scholastic,
but you will be more original, and ten times
more amusing. Take it for granted, that
your article at the first is four-fifths too long.
Cutting it down requires resolution; but you
gain experience as well as improve your arti
cle,by every excision. For the mode of doing
it, begin by crossing out all explanatory
sentences. Leave nothing but simple pro
positions. Young writers always explain a
thing to death. Never commence an arti
cle till you know what it is to be about.—
Some writers have an incontinence of words,
and will dilute you an idea to twenty pages.
—American Journal.
The treaty between the United States
and Texas, which was received by the Se
nate too late to permit the necessary discus
sion upon some of its provisions, is said to
be highly advantageous to both govern
ments; establishing the trade between us
and that flourishing young government, ami
in the most satisfactory manner all those
points and subjects which the peculiar posi
tion of the two countries, in regaul to con
tiguity of soil; similarity of institutions;
people; religion; language, Ac., render in
teresting and delicate. Under the provisions
of this treaty Texas will become a great con
sumer of the people of the United States.
It is the first commercial convention form
ed between Texas and the United States,
although Texas has been recognized for
more than six years.
Mr. Reily, we understand, returns home
after bis brief residence as repiesentative of
Texas in Washington, but during which
time l.ehas succeeded in doing much good
/or his own nation. He left Washington
last Tuesday.
✓
The city of Washington is 11 square
miles in extent, covering an area of 7,134
acres. Not less than 2004 acres were in the
streets and public squares, covering 541
acres, were reserved to the United States.
The running length of the streets laid out
was 721 miles—those streets being equal to
an average of 100 feet wide. Not only
were the 17 squares, covering 541 acres, re
served for the use of the United States, but
of the 20,372 building lots, one half were
given to the United States, and all the pro
perty held by the Government of the city is
free from taxation.
®ISO©D M & L a
For the “ Southern Miscellany.”
LETTER FROM MAJOR JONES.
NO. V.
Pineville, September 27th, 1542.
To Mr. Thompson:
Dear Sir —Sum times I think I is the on
luckiest man in tlie world. Everlastingly
ther’s some sarned thing happenin to me, in
spite of all 1 kin do. Sense 1 kutu back from
Makin, and myscription of the zamination’s
been red by most every body bout here, I
blieve ray poplarity’s ris considerable. Miss
Mary said she wouldn’t be sprised much if
I turned out a perfect Birum, and mortalized
all the ladies of my quaintnnee. She was
mighty proud of what 1 said bout her buty
and larnin, but she says I didn’t give the
rite answer to the sum bout the cannon ball
and moon ; but that’s no matter now\ I
► want to tell you bout a scrape I got in toth
er day, as I knows you never beam of jist
sich a catasterfy afore.
Last Sunday, Miss Mary and Miss Carline
and Miss Kesiah and all of the Stallionses
vver at church, and when it was out I jist
rid rite up to Miss Mary and lowed I’d see
her home. She didn’t say nothin, and I rid
long side of her a little ways, and begin to
feel mighty good ; but fore w T e got out o’
site of the church ther was a whole gang of
fellers, and a heap more young ladys, cum
ridin up and reinin in, and prancin and ca
vortin bout so that no body could tell who
was ridin with which : a!! gabberin and talk
in and laughin, as if they’d been to a corn
shuckin more’n a church. Course cousin
Peter was thar, on uncle’s old white-eyed
horse, with his saddle-bags on—for he al
ways carrys ’em wharever he goes,to make
folks blieve lie’s a doctor—and the way he
tumbled the big words about was stonisliing.
I didn’t say much, but rid monstrous close
to one side of Miss Mary, so cousin Peter
couldn’t shine much thar. Well, we all got
to old Miss Stallionses without auy pertick
eler accident hapinin, though I spec ted evry
tninit to sec sum of ’em histed in the mud,
the way they kep whippln one nothors hor
ses unaware and playin all manner of pranks
with one another. When we got thar the
whole crowd stopped, and someone pur
posed a walk down to the branch to git
sum grapes. All hands was agreed cept
old Miss Stallions, who said the galls better
stay home and read the bibel. But you know
it ant no use to talk bout ligion to young la
dys when they ant sick nor sorry bout noth
in ; so away we went —but 1 tuck monstrous
good care to git long side Miss Mary, and
thar 1 stuck till wc got down to the branch
wbartlie grapes wer. You know the wild
grapes is jest gittin good now—and I never
seed a pretty young lady yet that didn’t like
something sour. Ther’s lots of ’em all round
the plantation, but the best ones is down on
the branch. Cousin Peter and Ben Biers
and all the fellers, fell to gittin grapes for
the ladys, but they all bad their Sunday
ins on and was fraid to go in the brush much
“ Oh, what pretty grapes on that tree!”
said Miss Mary, lookin up half-way to tlie
top of a grate big gum that stood rite over
the water—and her pretty bright eyes spark
lin like dew-drops in the sun-shine. .“Oh
I wish I had sum.” Cousin Pete had been
tryin to make himself very spicuous bout
Miss Mary, hut he didn’t seem to care bout
them tickler grapes more’n sum that was
lower down. But all the ladys had got their
eyes on them high grapes, “ Them grapes
is like the young ladys,” says cousin Pete.
“ VVliy is they like the girls?” axed Miss
Kesiah. “Oh, cause—cause they’s sweet,”
says cousin Pete. “ I reckon its cause they
’re hard to git,” says Bill Willson. “ It s
cause they’re more trouble to git than they
’re worth,” says Tom Stallions. “ Ant you
shamed, brother Tom ?” said Miss Carline.
“ What do you think, Major V says Miss
Mary, and she gin me one o’ them witchin
side looks that almost made me jump out o’
my boots. “ Why,” says I, “ I think theys
like the young ladys, cause theys sour grapes
to them as can’t git ’em.” “ Yes, Major,
but you know they’re to be bad by them that
lias tlie prowess to win ’em”—and then she
give me a look that made me feel prouder
than I ever did afore in my life—“ and you
can git ’em if you try, Major ; I know you
kin.” When she said that last part, I seed
cousin Peter’s lip sort o’ drap. My heart
liked to knock the buttons off my jacket, and
I’d had them grapes if I’d had to dig the
tree up by the roots. My hat went off quick
er than a flash, and up the old sweet-gum I
went like a cat squeirel “ Don’t fall, Ma
jor,” says Miss Mary. When she said that,
I swar I like to let go, it made me feel so
interestin. I want no time a gettin to the
very top branch. Cuttin off the largest
bunch, I throwed it rite down to Miss Ma
ry’s feet. “ Thank you, Major—thank you,”
said she. “ Throw me sum, Major,” said
Miss Carline, “and me too,” —“and me
too”—“thankyou, Major—“throwme sum,
Major”—“ ant the Major kind ]”—“it lakes
him to climb trees,” said the ladys. “ He’s
good as a ’coon,” said Ben Biers. “ I can
beat him any time,” said Tom Stallions.—
*• No v-c-u can’t,” says Miss Mary.
By this time I had gin ’em more grapes
than they could all eat, and carry home to
hoot; and if 1 had jist cum do>vn then, I’d
cum out first rate. But you know that’s the
nice pinte—to know when-to stop : ther is
sich a thing as bein a lectle too smart—and
that’s jist wliar I mist it* I was standin on
one vine rite over the blanch, with my hands
holt of one over my head, and thinks I to
myself how it would stonish ’em all now to
see me skin the cat. My spuukf was up,and
thinks I, I’ll jist show ’em what I kin do;
so up I pulls my feet and twisted ’em round
through my arms over backwards, and was
lettin my body down tother side foremost,
when they all hollered out, “ Oh, look at
Major Jones !”—“ Oh, see what lie’s doin !”
“ Oh, I’m so fraid,” said Miss Mary. That
made me want to do my best, so I let my
self down slow and easy, and begin to feel
frith my feet for the vine below. “ Oil, my
gracious!” said Miss Kesiah, “see how he
is twistedfliis arms round.” Sum how I
couldn’t find the vine, and my arms begin to
hurt, but I didn’t say nothin. “ A 1-e-e-t-l-e
further forward, Major,” says Tom Stal
lions. “ No; more to the light,” says Ben
Biers. The ladys wer all lookin and didn’t •
know what to say. 1 kep tryin to touch both
ways, but kus the vine was thar. Then I
tried to git hack agin, but I couldn’t raise
myself sum how, and I begin to feel mon
strous dissy, and the water below looked
sort o’ yaller and green, and bad sparks of
fire all through it, and my eyes begin to feel
so tite I thought they would bust. They
was all hollerin somethin down below, but
1 couldn’t hear nothin but a terrible rorein
sound, and the first thing I knowd sumthing
tuck me rite under tlie chin, and tlie next
minit kerslash I went rite into the cold wa
ter more’n six foot deep. I got my mouth
chock full o’ muddy water, and how upon
yeath I ever got out without droundin I can’t
see ; for I was almost ded fore I drapt, ancT
when I cum down I hit sumthing that like*
to broke my jaw-bone, and skinned iny nose
like a peeled tater. When I got out, the
ladys wasskreamin for life, and Miss Mary
was pale as her pockethatikercher. “ Oh,
I’m so glad you an’t hurt no worse, Major,”
says she ; “I thought you was killed.” But,
lord ! she didn’t begin to know how bad I
was hurt. I set down on a log a little, anil
the fellers all cum round laughin like so ma
ny dratted fools. “ Want l rite, Major—
ant they more truble to git than theys vvurth
after you’s got ’em 1” I didn’t say nothin
to Tom, cause lie’s Miss Mary’s brother;
but cousin Pete cuni up with his fine rigins
on, laughin like a grate long-legged fool, as
he is—says he, “ ant you shamed to cut sich
anticks as that—l’d had more sense—jist
look at your nose—ha, ha !—ant you a pret*
ty piclur for a Georgia Major ‘?” The la
dys was gittin reddy to go home ; Miss Ma
ry was lookin serious. “ Don’t you think
lie looks like a drounded rat, Miss Mary 1”
axed cousin Pete. “ I think he looks quite
as well as you did at the Great Attraction,”
says she. Pete sort o’ looked a leetle flat,
and turned round and tried to
wouldn’t take sicli a duckin for all the sour
grapes nor sour galls in Georgia—ha, ha !’*
says he. Thinks 1, that’s sort o’ personally
insultin to Miss Mary, and I seed her face
grow sort o’red. “You wouldn’t, wouldn’t
you ?” says I, and with that I pitched him
in neck and heels. When he got out he
lowed he’d settle it with me sum other
time, when thar want no ladys long to taka
my part, That’s tho way cousin Pete set
tles all his accounts —some othei time. Tom
Stallions tuck his sisters home, and the rest
of tho ladys and fellers went along; but cou
sin Pete and I didn’t show ourselves no
more that day. I bant seen him since, tho’-
thars been all sorts of a muss between mo
ther and aunt Mahaly bout it. I don’t think
I’ll ever skin the cat again. No more from
Your frond til doth,
JOS- JONES.