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VOLUME It |
BY C. R. HANLEITER.
P @ lE T U Y •
AUTUMN.
*Y MRS. n. SICOCRSET.
Ha* it come, the time to fade 7”
And with a mtirmurinE siah
The Maple,in lua molely robe*,
Wna the first to make ret-ly;
And ‘he queenly Dahlia* drooped
Upon their thrones of ata'e !
For the frost-kin? with his baneful kiss,
Had well forestalled their fate.
IJydrangia, on her telegraph,
A hurried signal traced
Os treason dark, that fain would lay
Bright Summer's region waste.
Then quick the proud exotic peera
In consternation fled
A refuse in their greenhouse sought,
Before the day of dread.
The Vine that o'er my caeernent climbed,
And clustered day by day,
I count its leaflets every morn ;
See how they fade away !
And as they, withering, one by one,
Forsake their parent tree,
I call each tear and yellow leaf
A buried friend to me.
Put on tby mourning,” aaid my soul,
“ And with a tearful eye,
WalK softly inid the many gravea
Where thy companions lie;
The Vide', like a toving babe.
When the vernal sune were new,
That met thee with a soft, blue eye,
And lip all bathed in dew.
Tlie Lily, as a timid bride,
While summer aims were fair,
Tlmtpui her snow y hand in thine,
To bless thee fr thy care ;
The trim and proud Anemone;
The Daisy from the Vale :
The purple Lilac tow'ring high,
To guard its sister pale.
i“ The ripened Rose—where arc they now ?”
But from the rifled bower
There came a voice— 11 Take head to note
Thine own
And let tlie Grange “PfSmver hair,
That o'er thy temple sire ye,
Be as a monitor to teli
The Autumn of thy days.”
iIEIEGTEP
EMMA CARLTON:
OB,THE DEVOTED LOVE*.
’Twaw at the close of a sultry day in ilie
month of August, The earth was teeming
with her varied products, and the balmy
-zephyr wafted on its breath the perfume of
a thousand springing flowers. In a roman
tic spot in the southern part of Maine, over
looking a small hut neat village, were seat
ed a youth and maiden apparently absorbed
in the contemplation of the beautiful scene
before them. The sun’s last rays lingered
on the lovely spot, gilding tlie burnished
spiie of the village church, and crimsoning
the light clouds that floated like specks mid
the blue horizon; while at the base of u
gentle declivity its glancing beams rested
on a sheet of water, softly mirroring beneath
its blue depths the branching foliage of the
overarching trees and the massy bnnks that :
encircled it. Over the surface of the crys
tal lake sported, in happy existence, swarms
of insects of every varied hue, while beneath
its transparent waves the rapid attd graceful
KCotiou of its finny inhabitants answered gai
■]y to the joyous life above. On either hand
•you might behold fertile fluids snd rich
.meadows, pastures with their bounding
flocks, and orchards with their ripening fruit;
the neat farm house, and the rural cottage,
interspersed with the elegant and tasteful
mansions of the rich, while in the tmek
ground, rose successive lines of irregular
hills, whose dark green foliage gradually
changed to a fainter and faintei blue, till
their receedinjj tops were mingled with the
clouds.
The maiden at length broke the silence.
“So yon must leave to-morrow, Charles 1”
said she in a pensive tone. The youth rais
ed his dark eyes at the voice of the beauti
ful girl who was beside him. Ho seemed
about twenty-two years of age. His per
son was nob'e. Hi* stature above the ordi
nary size, and bis features moulded to exact
symmetry. His face, though not strikingly
handsome, bespoke the intellectual mind,
and his dark locks shaded a lofiy blow of
.surpassing beauty.
Yes, my Emms,” replied he, taking the
hand of the gentle girl. “ to-morrow I must
leave this lovely spot, endeared to me by so
many sweet associations—by the successful
toil preparatory to more exalted studies, and
the sweet friendships that have been form
ed. But weep not my love,** He looked
at the suffused eyes of the maiden ; 1 shull
fondly cherish your sacred imago in my bo
gyro, and the consciousness of your love
shall bo the guerdon of ntv increasing toil.
Four vetl r 9 W *N soon pass; anil then my
Emma, we wiU ** *eparated no more.”
Charles G raham era* a student. For three
years he had assiduously devoted himself to
study at a distinguished lnaDtution locater
in the village above alluded to. H pre
possessing deportment, and native kuidness
had won him universal esteem, and his un
tiring devotion to his studies hac gamedhim
; high rank in his class. Me had become
acquainted with Emma Carlton, whose tastes
and sentiments were congenial to his own.
Art ftitacb inept had sprung up between them
a jpamtli) 32,ctS5>a*!fv : ©roctra to JUtcraturr, agriculture, jHectisnlta, 25c.itioit, JToretgH ana Somrsttt IntrlWficncc, set.
. ~ ‘ _ _ , _ r .. , . . * **
which imperceptibly ripened info love; and
they mutually plighted their vows of eter
nal fidelity. Charles was now upon ihe
point of entering a college in the State of
Connecticut, and Emmn who loved him with
true womanly devotion looked upon the teim
of his absence us about to be almost u blank
in her existence. She did not doubt the
constancy of her lover, for she believed him
incapable of duplicity; but when she felt
the void in society which bis absence would
cause, her endeavors to suppress her emo
tions of grief were unavailable. Until she
had seen Chailes Graham she h-rd never
lnved. Though rhe was a general favorite
in her native village, attd many noble and
devoted ones had bowed in homage to her
beauty and worth, yet her heart had never
been subdued by an unconquerable iltuch
ment. till captivated by the winning graces
of him to whom she made a complete sur
render of her love. As they *at at that still,
calm hour, in the place which had so often
marked their meetings, ar.d the bright vis
ions of memory floated by them in living
colors, Emma vividly felt how lonely would
be her musings, and how gloomy the pleas
ures she had ever shared with so much de
light, when Charles would no longer form a
bright link in the circle of her associates.—
Her sensitive heait gave vent to its sorrow
in tears, while Charles, though it ivere in
deed a sacrifice to forego the sweet attrac
tions of her loved society, strove to calm her
agitated feelings and soothe her grief by as
surances of bis continued love and frequent
letters.
The morrow beheld Charles’departure,
anil Emma's calm adieu. He entered col
lege with distinguished honor to himself,
and eagerly looked forward to the realiza
tion of h:s ambitious hopes. Emma again
mingled with her cheerful circle of friends,
where her presence ever brought delight;
for the gentleness and sweet tempered vi
vacity, which uniformly characterized her
deportment, empowered her with an h re
sistible charm which found its way to every
heart, and made her the admired unJ belov
ed of all. Nor was her presence alone con
fined to those polished circles, where refine
ment and pleasure abed their softened glow
over every object. She was the friend of
tlie poor, alleviating tlieir wants, and partic
ipating in their sorrows; cheering the gjootn
of misery, and assuaging the woes of the
unfortunate by the softening balm of unob
trusive friendship. Time, which in antici
pation seemed to move on “ leaden wing,”
passed rapidly on, and Emma found, though
she deeply regretted her lover's ahs< nre,
that there was much of happiness to be en
joyed in the quiet discharge of her duties,
attd the intellectual pursuits for which her
mind had a keen relish. And every passing
day too was hastening the time, when her
fondest hopes would be consummated by
the return of Charles and their consequent
union. He had hitherto sacredly kept bis
promise to her. His letters breathed an in
creasing devotion, and the fond girl cherish
ed bis love as the idol of her bliss. Site felt
a conscious pride in hi increasing popular
ity, and redoubled her efforts to render her
self more worthy iiis exalted love. The
pursuits which elevate Httd dignify the mind,
refine the understanding and heart were her
favorite pursuit, and the hours—passed by
many of her friends in frivolous employ
ment —found her mastering some abstruse
principle of science, or culling flowers from
the garden of literature. The volume of na
ture, with its soul-inspiring intellect gather
ed fieri; nr>d boundless stores of elevating
thought and wisdom.
Two years of Charles’ collegiate course
had passed. Emma found in tne objects of
her kind attention, ample scope for her be
nevolent feelings, and the affections of her
heart were every day becoming deeper and
purer by the hallowed influence of sympa
thy. The happiness she bestowed on oth
ers was doubly rewarded by the heartfelt
gratitude and b!eings that ever followed
her footsteps, and the quiet approval of her
own tender conscience. Rut a change came
over her radiant prospects. The sunshine
of her bliss was dimmed by gathering clouds,
and hope even seemed to sink beneath ob
scurity. She received a letter from Charles
with a request that she would henceforth
consider all intercourse between them as
dropped ; and forgetting the past regard
him as only a common friend. He told her,
that, when he won her heart, it was with
the expectation of funds sufficient to enable
him to commence business for himself, as
soon as his term of study should expire;
hut by an unforeseen occurrence, he had
now become penniless and even bankrupt:
“ years will pass,” said he, “ ere 1 can by
successful toil gain a competency, and think
not Emma, that I can see you share mv pov
erty. Do not upnruid me with coldness, for
Heaven is my witness that l regard you,
with the same feelings, as when I parted
with you, ami love you with a devotion, that
time nor circumstance can diminish. But
duty to you demands me to make the sacri
fice. There are many of your acquaint
ance*, honorable, noble and wealthy, who
would gladly sue for your band and crown
your life with every earthly good. Forget
me then, Emma, and bestow your worthy
heart, where you may gain not only o return
of love, but that affluence which will place
you in a sphere where your beauty, injelli
gence, and modest virtue, will be duly ap
preciated. Again I repeat, that you are the
only object that my heart cherishes, and my
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 14, 1843.
ptayers shall ever nseend to Heaven’s throne
that unsullied happiness may crown all your
days,”
Emma’s senses were well nigh bewilder
ed, as she read again and again this unpleas
ant message. She remained for some mo
ments lost in gloomy reverie, til* suddenly,
as if anew thought flashed across her mind,
she started from her seat and exclaimed,
“ He does not know me yet, nor with all his
devotion can he fathom the depth of wo
man’s love. But”—and she grasped a pen.
and the next moment was tracing her rapid
thoughts in answer to his letter. She faith
fully delineated lhe events of their former
acquaintance, and brought in review the
scones through which they had passed—the
blissful moments when happy in each oth
er’s love they had conned their daily task*
of study, forgetting the toil in the pleasure
of social intercourse, or wandering through
the woodlands of her native home, or seat
ed on the mossy margin of the beautiful lake,
they had formed various delightful plaits for
the future, entwining them with the bright
garlands of hope and love. “ Dear Chat les,”
added she, “ you must deem my love an
idle thing, that amid so many cherished re
membrances it could wander, or like the
friendship of the world veer with the breadth
ol popular applause. The treasured affec
tions of my heart can never again become
my own. Tlieir wealth can only be lavish
ed on one object, arid if forbidden to rest
upon that, they must wander like a waste of
waters fertilizing no verdant spot; or like
the plant without the kind culture of some
friendly hand and the genial rays of the sun,
they must wifhetand die. Your misfortune
has only served to strengthen that love
which before bid defiance to every blast.”
Emma bel eved Cbm les sincere in bis as
surances of love, and she calmly awaited his
answer to her letter. She could not be
lieve bis feelings towards her wavered, else
she would hove discovered in his former let
ters some indifference.’ Hence she natur
ally supposed that his motive in this one
letter hud been partly to teat the sincerity
of her affection, and partly from the trouble
occasioned by bis poverty. But Charles
was inexorable. He still persisted hi bis
protestations of undying love, but his refu
sal to see her share bis poverty was *o
prompt that site could no longer su|fpresß
the fear that other motive* than those men
tioned urged him to the decision lie had
made. A sense of propriety fothade her to
attempt a charge in bis feelings, though she
charitably yielded to bis request* in believ
ing bim actuated purely fin her welfare. It
W!\s fodefil a saddening disappointment to
Emgria. Her hopes of present and future
earthiv Miss bad been centered in one ob
ject—-her idolized lover. His gentle atten
tion and unwavering devotion to her happi
ness. through so long a period of time, bad
gained her entire confidence, and she had
never formed .u plan, or imagined a picture
of earthly fwcility, but Charles stood out
the most puiAjincnt object to the view,—
Her love bad onJtwined itself so closely about
him that to separate it were almost to bid
its life-spi .t :t- with*v. Emma’s friends be
held. with the ,iuef.ct anxiety, this blow to
her cherished hopert. J hey feared, and
with reason too, that her grief would prey
upon her spirits, enervate her delicate con
stitution, and prostrate hsr health. Hence
they exerted every mean# to divert her
thoughts from dwelling o.’i onbjrcta calcula
ted to keep afresli the remetrebrnnee of their
former intercourse. They ev’en attempted
to roust; her indignation at whirl tliej’term
cd l.n nriust conduct. Not one in tlit ori
ole • f hci friends could reconcile the r curse
he bad, put sited with tlieir pritu-ip us of hon
or, tind tiis professed legnrd for Emma s
welfare was deemed a mark, assumed to
conceal hi* treat heiy under the gvb of
magrinnimitv, and attain his own ‘dfirir end*
without meeting tlie censure be justly Tru i
ited. It was very soon repotted tbrr, his
affections werelie*towed -n a Indy of wealth
at and taicnf, in the immediate vicinity of the
college, thus confirming tie f olief that be
had sacrificed the pure affections of a wot
thy heart, for fame and show. But vain
was every attempt to change the curient of
Emma's feelings. She could not, or would
not. believe tlie thousand ill reports that
were daily bi ought to bei ears, and her ear
nest pleadings that all censure night be
spared him. evinced that her love for Charles
letained all its burner purity and freshness.
Time rolled on. Emma, coiitinry to the
fears of her friends, lose superior to her
griefs. She still maintained her uniform
gaiety of spirit, at the same time evinc ng a
chastening flow of feeling, and a linn trust
in God. Her duties were discharged with
unwonted zeal, and her pleasures seemed
to partakeof that purity which shone through
all her actions. The gay, the noble and the
wealthy, were alike suitors for her hand,
but none among the throng ot her admirers
could gain the least shadow of encourage
ment. All found her the agreeable com
panion, the affable friend ; but it was vain
to hope that from the recesses of her own
heart, she could again call forth its former
deep abiding love, and bid it fasten itself on
another cherished object, and her own no
ble nature scorned the idea of bestowing a
hand where the heart must forever remain
a wanderer.
She still loved her former haunts, and
many were the hours that she passed wan
dering amid the scenes of her blighted hopes.
She had roamed one evening to the very
spot where Charles poured forth his pas
sionate love the evening before his depat
lure for College. She was m- re beautiful
than ever. Theexcitetement ofher thoughts
gave a heigbter.ed glow to her cheek, con
trasting beautifully with her white face and
polished brow, while the tear trembled in
her mild blue eye and glittered like a dew
diop on is silken lashes. She turned to
a retired spot, and in the still calm of twi
light, knelt and poured forth a fervent prayer
to her Heavenly Father. As she prayed for
submission to his unerring Providence, a
settled calmness came over her features, her
vyice grew firm, ands holy trust lighted up
her soul. Then in “ deep impassioned ear-,
neatness,” she prayed for him whom she
still loved ; he who though recreant to bis
vows. W'as M.iil the object of her pious re
gard, that be might never possess n lonely,
unsympattiizing heart—inn ftal a pang of
unrequited love.
Her petitions were interrupted by a slight
rustle, and a voice, husky with emotion, ex
claimed, “ Emma, my ow n Emma, will you,
can you forgive your erring Charles]” It
was indeed Charles! He bad completed
his studies, graduated with honor, and the
world was now before him to choose s path
to distinction. He felt strong in his own
powers, tnd his bouvant hopes rose superi
or to his want of funds. He felt that with
in himself, his own mind, he possessed re
sources that would wiu him a way to wealth;
arid be trusted to his own bright genius to
reap the lauiels of fame which his laudable
ambition earnestly coveted. His thoughts
again turned to Emma, whom he had never
ceased to love ; and be hastened to her
home to receive if possible, her pardon, and
possess once more her noble heart. Emma
was again happy, One year from that time
beheld their muon, and the congratulations
of numerous friends, and in the undeviating
devotion of her husband, Emma yet leaps
the reword of her unchanging confidence
and deathless love.
From the Citizen Soldier.
THE MAN OF PAOLI AND OF STO
NY POINT.
Tale vision, whs; art thou 7 Lo,
loom lime’* dark tet[
Like a wind it awe. pe,
Like a wind when ihe tempest* b'ow ;
A shadowy form — ns a giant cheat
It eland* in the midst of an armed line!!
The dead mnnV shroud on its awful limb* ;
And thraldom of its presence the daylighi dims,
And the trembling world looks on achast —
All hail 10 the Sou, or tee Miui.ty Fast ! Jubilate!
. (FBOM.RiE.IZI.)
Hist! It is still night,The clear sky aich
rs above, the dim woods are all around
the field, and in the centre of the meadow,
resting on the grass crisped by the autumnal
frost, sleep the worn veterans of tlie war,
disheartened by want, and wearied down
by the day’s march.
It is still night, and the light of the scan
ty file falls on wan faces, hollow eyes and
sunken cheeks; tin tattered apparel, mus
kets unfit.foruse, and broken erms. It is
still night, and they snatch a feverish sleep
beside the scanty fire, and ley them down
to dream of a time, when the ripe harvest
shall no more be trodden down by the blood
stained hoof, when the valley shall no more
be haunted by the Traitor-Hefiigre, when
Liberty and Freedom shall walk in broad
cloth instead of wardering about with the un
slmdden feet, and the tattered rags of wont.
It is still night, and mad Anthony Wayne
watches while his soldiers sleep.
lie watches beside the camp-fire. You
can rnnik bis lowering form, his breadth of
shoulders, and bis face by the red light of
the fire—that manly face with the broad
forehead, the marked eyebrow*, overarch
ing the deep liH2el eye, that lightens and
gleams as he gazes upon the men of hi*
band.
You can note the uniform of the revolu
tion. The wide coat of bine, varied by ihe
buckskin *word-be!f, ftorn which depends
the sword that Wayne alone can wield—
the facings of huff, tho buttons rusted by
the dews of night, and the march-worn
trooper'* boots, reaching above his knee,
with ihe stout iron spur standing out from
each heel.
Hist ! The night is still, but there is a
sound in yonder thicket!
Look ! Can you sec nothing I
No. The night is still, the defenceless
Continentals sleep in the centre of the
meadow—all around is dark. The sky
above is clear, but the stars give forth no
light. The wind sweeps mound the mea
dow—dim and indistinct it sweeps and all
is silent and still. 1 can see nothing.
Place your ear on the earth. Hear yon
nothing 1
Yes—yes. A alight sound, a distant
rumbling. There is thunder glowing in the
bosom of the earth, but it is distant. It is
like the murmur on the ocean, ere the terri
ble white-squall sweeps away the commerce
of a nation —but it is distant, very distant—
Now look forth on the night. Cast your
eye to the thicket —see you nothing 1
’ y es —there is a faint gleam like the light
of the fiie-flv —Ha! It lightens on the
night, that quivering gleam ! It is the flash
of swords—the glittering of arms !
The night is longpr still.
“ Charge upon the—Rebels! Upon them
—over them—no quarter — no quarter /”
Watcher of the night, watching over the
lend of the New-World, wstching over tho
fortunes of the starved children of Freedom
—wh;.t see you now ]
A hand of armed men, mounted on stout
steeds with swords in their uplifted hand*.
They sweep from the thicket, they encom
pass the meadow, they surround the Rebel
Host !
The gallant Lotd Gray rides at their head.
His voice rings out clear and loud upon the
frosty air,
“ Root and branch, hip and thigh, cut
them down. Spare never a man —heed ne
ver a cry for quarter. Cut them down—-
Charge for England and St. Gtorge
And then there was uplifting of sword*
and butchery of defenceless men, arid then
there w'as riding over the wounded, and
trampling over the laces of the dying. And
then there was the cry for quarter and the
response—“ toyour throat take that—damn
ed Rebel !”
There was a moment whose history was
aftcrw aids written with good sharp swords,
on the visages of dying men.
It was a moment when the defenceless
Continental sprang up from bis hasty sleep,
into tlie arms of the merciless death 1 It
was the moment when Wayne groaned
aloud with agony, a* the sod of Paoli was
flooded with a pool of blond that poured
from the corses of the slaughtered soldiers
of hi* band. It was the moment when the
cry for quarter was n.ncked, when the rebel
clung i his despair to the stirrup of the
Britisher, and clung in vain ; it was the mo
ment when the gallent Lord Grey, commu
nicant of the True Aportoiie Ci ruth of En
gland, educated in the faith of Jesus, school
ed in the doctrines of mercy, halloed hi*
war-dogs on to the slaughter, end shouted
up to the starlit heavens, until the angels of
God grew sick of the scene—“ Over them
—over them—heed never a cry—head ne
ver a voice ! Root and branch, cut them
down—noqcartkr!”
It is a dark and troubled right, ard the
Voice of Blond goea up to God, shrieking
for vengeance ! It ia morning, and the
first sunbeams shiue over the field which
was yesternight a green meadow—the field
that is now an Aceldenrw—a field of blood,
strewn with heaps of the dead, arms torn
from the body, eyes hollowed from the
f sockets, fares turned to the earth, and buri
id in blond, ghastly pictures of deßth and
pain, painted by the hand of the Briton, for
the bright sun to shine down upon, for men
lo applaud, for the King to apptove.furGnd
to avenge.
It is a sad and ghastly morning, and Wayne
stands looking over the slaughtered heaps,
surrounded by the little band of survivors,
and as he gazes on this scene of horror, the
voice of Blood goes shrieking up to God
for vengeance, and the ghosts of the slain
darken the pm tala of heaven with their
forma of woe, and their voices mingle with
the voice of Blood.
Was the voice of Blood answered 1
• • • at*
A year passed, and the ghosts of the mur
dered looked down from the portals of the
Ur.seen, upon the ramparts of Stony Point.
It is still night, the stars look calmly down
upon the broad Hudson, and in the dim air
of night, towers the rock and fort of Stony
Point.
The Britishers have retired to rest.—
They sleepin their warm quiet beds. They
sleep with pleasant dreams of American
maidens dishonored, and American fathers,
with gray liairs dabbled in blood. They
shall have merrier dreams anon, I ttnvr. —
Aye, aye.
All is quiet around Stony Point; the sen
; tinel leans idly over the wall that turunda
1 hi lonely walk ; he gazes down tlie void of
J daikness, until Ins gbiirc falls upon the
! broad and magnificent Hudson. He hears
nothing, he sees nothing.
It is a pity for that sentinel, that ids eyes
are not keen, and Ids glance piercing. Had
bis eye-sight been but n little keener, he
might have seen Death creeping up that
Rsmpait in xome hundred shapes—he might
have seen the long, talon-like fingers of the
Skeleton-God clutching for his own plump
British throat. But his eyesight was not
keen—more’s tlie pity lor him.
Pity it was, that that sentinel could not
hear a little more keenly. Had his ear been
good he might have heard a little whisper
that W'ent from two hundred tongues, a
round the Rampart* of Stony Point.
“ Genera/—what shall he the watchword V
And then, had the sentinel inclined his ear
over the ramparts, and listened very atten
tively indeed, he might have heard the an
swer, sweeping up to the heavens, like a
voice of blood,
“ Himkmurn Paoli !”
“Ho—ho! And so Paoli is to be re
membered—and bo the Voice of Blrs-d
shrieked not in the ears of God in valti 1
And so the vengeance for Paoli is creeping
np the ramparts of the Fort T Ho—ho !
Pity Lord Grey were not here to see the
spmt !”
The sentinel was not blest with supernat
ural sight or bearing ; he did not see the
figures creeping up the ramparts ; he heard
not their whispers, until a rude hand clutch
ed him around the throat, and up to the hea
vens swept the thunder-shout—
“ Rf.membf.r Paoli !”
and then a rude bayonet pinned hisa to the
wood of the ramparts, and then the esplan
ade of the Fort, and its rooms and its balls
were filled with silent Avengers, and then
came Britisher# rushinj from their beds,
WM. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR.
crying for quarter, and then they get
quarter of Paoli l
And through the smoke and the gloom
and tlia bloodshed of that terrible night,
with the light of a torch now falling on his
fare, with tlie gleam of starlight now giving
a spectral appearance to his features, swept
on, right on, over heaps of dead, one mag
nificent form, grasping a stout broadsword
in his right hand, which sternly rose, nod
sternly
blow, and laying them along the floor of the
fort in the puddle of their own hireling
blood.
Ghosts of Paoli—about 1 £re }'* no > ter
ribly avenged]
“Spare roe—l have a wife—a child—
they wait my return to England 1 Quarter
— O,OBI ter !”
“ 1 mind me of a man named Slujelmiie—*
he had a wife and a child—a mother old
and gray-haired waited his return from the.
w ars. On the night of Paoli he cried foe
quarter! Such quarter I give you—Re
member Paoli !’*
“ Spare *nc—quarter 1“
How that sword hisses through tho air I
“ Remember Paoli!”
*'l have a gray-haired father | Quar
ter /” <
“So had Daunton at Paolil Oh, remem
ber Paoli 1“
” Spare me—you m t haw no word t
Quarter !**
“Friend, I would spare thee if I dared.
But the Ghosts of Paoli nerve my arm—
’ we had no swords at Paoli, and ye butcher
ed us.’ they shriek. Oh, Remember Pao
li !”
HIRING A HOUSE.
Many a dml! thing that we never hear of
occurs in the house-hunting and house-refit*
ing times. Many a good joke dies even in
the moment of its birth, with perhaps, tiot a
•ingle appreciating spirit near to enjoy tho
facetia of the afltiir. We have caught at
least one little anecdote, with some humor
in it, that happened a short time since.
A tall, thin, yellow, half-shrewd, half-sim
ple looking non of Yankee land, from some
where veiy far “doWn east,” stepped ashore
from a vessel at the. levee; end, with a fe
male counterpart (his better pert) on one
arm, and a little fae simile of liimaelf in the
other, lie strolled, for tlie first time, in tmorig
the streets of New Orleans. The voesel lay
in the third municipality, so that nut Yan
kee friend soon found himself in the far off
suburbs of “France.’’ His object was to
find a cheap little house, etui get into it im
mediately, so as to save the expense of
spending some days in a boarding imute.—
A bill ben; and there caught his attention,
which he would anxiously atop to examine,
but they all read—” Matson a Lover ,” end
this our friend could nnt understand, though
he guessed shrewdly enough at what it ought
to mein.
“ Say, misteer, look here!” said be, call
ing to a big whiskered fellow across the
street —“ Is this house to let t”
“ Je vovs nt comprmd pat, Metneut,” re
plied the Frenchman.
“ What did he say ?” inquired the pu*
zled stranger of his wife.
“ Reckon I didn’t bear, nuther,” said she.
“ He said something about hi* grand pa.”
“ Is tbi* bouse your grandfather’s V’ tail
ed out the Yankee again.
“ Votre and; scour a nt se suit pat,” bawled
the Frenchman, in tin irritable tone. ?
“O! I see now—lie’s a parley too. Did
yon ever are a live one before, Jemima TANARUS”
said the Yankee traveler, examining the
h reuchman from head to loot, with a sort of
half-grinning, half perplexed stare.
” My ! do see the hair on hia face!** aaid
Jemima. “ Let’a go on.” . ‘ i
It was nnt long before he encountered a
small edifice with the same announcement
of “ Matson a Lover” upon the door.
this house were resident*, and a woman
came to the door toanawer to the Yankee*
knock.
“Good morning, marra; hope we don
disturb ymi, nor nothing. It’s a fine
ing, mnrm,” said our house-hunting hero.
“Mui dispvesto a set title,” quietly res
ponded the Spanish woman.
“ Marin!” ejaculated the Yenkoe.
“Do you want to hire out y>ur house-”
said Jemima, stepping forward with a man
ner that seemed to say “leave me to deal
with my own sex.”
“ Que diet, senora,” blandly replied the
courteous daughter of Old Spain; and Je
mima turned with a disconsolate air t<* her
husband, saying—
“ It’s no u-e, Ithabod ; this must be one
of the sue parley toot.” V ;
Tbev started again, and soon found anoth
er “ Mai son a Lout) ,” which was open, and
inside was b man white washing the walls.
“ Mister, is this house to let ?” said Jcba
bod, changing his little responsibility from
one arm to the other.
The man brushed awsy silently at tho
wall, withuut deigning any kind of notice or
response.
“Say, friend; I reckon you ran giv* a
body an answer of some kind, even if;? nint
a civil one,” said Ichabrid, in brisk ftftifts
tier. “ You folks in this village seem’ tti
have about ns much civility for strangers oik*
a cow’s tail has for gallinippers. If you’re
a parley roo, mister, I don't ask anything
you, cause then it’s only your ignonmeu
but if you isn’t jest say if this ia tp
let.”
\ NUMBER 29.
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