Newspaper Page Text
VOL. 2.
*r 1 “ - “ “ “
Little Emma’s Cradle Song.
BY T. H. CHIYERS, M. D.
As the Dove with her lily-white wings
Overshadows her young in her nest,
So, thy mother will watch while she sings
To her beautiful babe on her breast,
Then sleep, little Emma, my pretty baby dear !
Thou fairest of babes ever born !
Thy father, who loves thee, is watching thee near,
And will watch thee all night till the morn.
Thy sisters, that once were so bright,
Are gone to their home in the sky ;
And thy father is watching to-night
For fear that his Emma may die!
Then sleep, little Emma, my pretty hahy dear !
Thou fairest of babes ever born !
Thy father, who loves thee, is watching thee near,
And will watch thee all night till the morn.
Yon star on the bosom of Night
3hines bright in the beautiful West;
But brighter by far is the Light
That now shines on her mother’s soft breast.
Then sleep, little Emma, my pretty baby dear !
Thou fairest of babes ever born !
Thy father, who loves thee, is watching thee near,
And will watch thee all night till the morn.
The Angls are whispering her now —
See! sec how she smiles in her sleep !
Be silent! or speak to her low— ■
For fear you might wake her, to weep ?
Then sleep, little Emma, my pretty baby dear!
Thou fairest of babes ever born !
Thy father, who loves thee, is watching thee near,
And will watch thee all night till the morn.
Oh! guard her, ye Angels above!
Protect her, awake or asleep!
For the sake of her father’s dear love
Which keeps him awake now to weep !
Then sleep liltle Emma, my pretty baby dear !
Thou fairest of babes ever born !
Thy father, who loves thee, is watching thee near,
And will watch thee all night, till the morn.
For the Georgia Citizen.
STANZAS.
BY DR. A. W. BURROWES.
Inscribed with affectionate regard to Miss Mary
Coxhead of Philadelphia, as a token of esteem for her
m a lady , friend aud authoress,— one whose sun is ra
pidly rising to a glorious zenith, may it never set in
clouds. A. W. B.
Goon, thou child of intellect,
In poetry and prose
Continue long to wield thy pen,
From which thy genius flows.
Let partial nature's golden gift
To thee above the rest
Os woman kind; be buried not,
In dark oblivion’s breast.
Thy name is on the roll of fame ”
Like Mars it shines on high—’ - ‘
Should it he dimm’d by brighter/ays
Pray never let it die.
Remember thou art young in years—
Yes, like the dawn of day
“ That tips with gold the early bloom
Os hawthorn buds in May.’’
As time rolls on, thy sun may rise,
Shine brrigV.ter far than now,
Thy pen may’ win unfading wreaths
’Of laurels for thy brow.
Despair not should thy friends prove false
And cause thy heart to bleed,
For others will prove friends to thee
Yes, frieuds to thee, indeed.
But strive—this world is not a waste,
A wilderness of care,
Green spots are on the field of life
And flow’rets blooming fair.
Strive on—but oh, let virtue be
The guardian of your aim,
Let pure unclouded love illume,
The path that leads to fame.
Macon, Ga N 1851.
Who could do Better?
A father sits by the chimney post,
On a winter’s day, enjoying a roast;
By his side is a maiden—young and fair,
A girl with a wealth of golden hair;
And she teases the father stern and cold,
With a question of duty trite and old ;
‘Say, father, what shall a maiden do
When a man of merit comes to woo ?
And, father, what of this pain in my breast ?
Married or single—which is the best V
Then the sire of the maiden young and fair—
The girl with the wealth of golden hair,
He answers, as ever do fathers cold,
•Jo the question of duty, trite and old;
‘She who weddeth keeps God's letter;
She who weds not, doeth better.’
Then meekly answered the maiden fair—
The girl with the wealth of golden hair;
*1 will keep the sense of the Holy Letter,
Content to do well without doing better /”
Oft in tbe Chilly Night.
Oft in th 6 chilly night,
When bed clothes seem too scanty,
Fond memory brings tbe light
Os days when we had plenty;
Each linen sheet,
So white and neat,
The quilts that I paraded;
The blankets white,
Now thin and slight.
The comforts old and faded;
Thus in the chilly night,
When bed clothes seem too scanty,
Fond memoryjarings the light
Os days when we hed plenty.
When I remember all
The bod clothes brought from mother’s
I’ve seen around me fall,
And couldn't purchase others;
I feel like one,
Who had oeen 4 done,’
By wedding in a hurry.
Whose youth was flown,
Whose beaux were gone,
And she was left to worry;
Thus in the chilly night,
When hed-clothes seemed too scanty,
Fond memory brings the light
Os days when I had plenty.
Lizzie,’ sa’d a little curley headed boy of some
five Rummers, ‘isn’t Sam Slade a busier .’
‘ Why, Charley?’
‘Because tbe grammar says, positive buss, com
parative buster, and I did see him gin vou stick a
j'cdWvc bt?se!’ fainted!
From the Ladie’s Keepsake.
The Silver Spoon.
A DOMESTIC STORY.
“ ‘Paltry, miserable jewel!’ Linda, my daugh
ter, you astonish me! Would any one, hearing your
words, imagine they came from a young girl contem
plating the gift of one she loves, and to whom she will
be married to-morrow ?”
4 But, n other—a simple pearl ring, when Augusta
has such splendid diamonds from her betrothed ! Oh,
I wish I had not consented to be married at the same
tin e with her!’
*My child, surely you do not envy your sister her
gift!’
4 No, mother—but it is very unpleasant to see one’s
self always in the background. lam the eldest, too,
and was loved and caressed until Augusta came, and
then at onee I was neglected—superceded !’
4 Linda!’
‘ I was was told, ‘my no6e was out of joiut!’ I
knew not what it meant; but oh, I felt my heart
was !’
‘ My own child, cease !’
4 We went to school together,’continued the excited
girl. ‘She learnt quickly, and gained all the prizes.—
We came out as young ladies ; and an uncle left her a
nice inheritance, with which she attired herself elegant
ly ; while I scorning to accept her bounty, struggled
to keep from shabbiness. And now we enter mar
ried life together—but still unequal: she, the bride of
a wealthy gentleman, while 1 oould only attract a
young merchaut, dependent on his patrons lor a scan
ty living !’
4 Oh, my beloved child, your mother's heart is wrung
to hear your murmurs! Can you expect a blessing
upon your marriage, if thus, on its eve, you sigh for
perishable riches, when your Heavenly Father lias giv
en you a loving husband and a comfortable home ?’
“‘Comfortable!’—humph!’’ said Linda. ‘Well—
well, 1 know this is wrong,’ she added, while a tear rolled
down her glowing check. ‘There is no hope ot strug
gling against my destiny—for Augusta was born with
a silver spoon in her mouth!’
4 Do not repeat that silly saying! How blind are
you to the history of this world and to the truths of
another, and to the chances and changes of life, to deem
happiness dependent upon wealth and show! Oh,
when sorrow comes, as it must come to all, will dia
monds, or the world's flattery sooth one throb of pain,
or heal the wounds of the heart? In the end, depend
upon it, you will find your lots are more equal than
you suppose—and confess, it is as possible to be
happy in a humble station as in one more exalted.’
Notwithstanding the above conversion, Linda Max
well was not an ambitious or envious girl. She pos
sessed 3n excellent heart, and was much attached to
her mother and sister. When a child, she was plain,
but loved by her parents, and eareesed by all, until
Augusta was born, and then ‘the baby’ was the delight
of all eyes. In after years, the lovely Augusta was
preferred—because, as her nurse said, ‘she was born
with a silver Bpooriy until Linda almost allowed her
self to cousider her sister as a rival.
_ Before her mother left the room, Linda felt trifyy
ashamed of her fit of envy; and, making her peace
with her she kissed the ring, and then put up a humble
and penitential prayer to her Saviour, who alone could
subdue the evil of her heart, and keep her in the
straight path which she wished to pursue.
The next morning beheld Clinton-Plaoe crowded
with carriages, bringing company to the bridal of Lin
da and Augusta Maxwell. When the guests had assem
bled, the bridal train entered, and took its station at the
end of the back room. All gazed eagerly on, and all
thought how splendid x\ugusta looked. She wore the
necklace, robe, veil, and jewels which had been pre
sented to her by Frederic Darly and his friends —thus
making a strong contrast to Linda, in her plain white
silk and orange bud. To her husband, Charles, how
ever, she looked far lovelier than the glittering Au
gusta.
The ceremony was over—the brides saluted—and
then the company were attracted to the table of wed
ding presents, more than half of which brilliant dis
play of silver and bijouerie belonged to Augusta—gifts
of her new relatives. Thertce the stream passed into
the refreshment-room, where was much eating of cake,
popping of champagne corks, and drinking healths to the
‘happy couples.’ Cloaking followed; and, as the
departing guests passed through the hall, they were
presented with boxes of wedding-cake, which piled the
silver waiters held by smiling negro servants. Soon all
the carriages had driven away except three; one was
destined to take upon their bridal trip Mr. and
Mrs. Charles Smith, and the other two, Mr. and Mrs.
Darlev, servants and luggage.
A solemn procession now conies down the stairway :
the brides appear in their sober travelling-suits, follow
ed by their weeping mother and sad-faced bridemaids.
Tears —kisses—and adieus—and Linda sets off to vis
it her husband's father, a fanner in New Jersey ; and
Augusta, on a tour of pleasure through the southern
cities; while her magnificent mansion in Union-Square
is preparing for her reception.
********
When next we behold the parties, it is after years
have passed, and the life each has led, has had its effect
upon their characters. They had been dining with
their mother, as was their custom, on Thanksgiving-
Day. The gentlemen were still in the dining-room,
while the ladies and children and an aunt were seated
in a group around Mrs. Smith, as Mrs. Darley had
none. One, a sweet girl of twelve, was seated by the
side of her grandmother, who held her hand fondly in
her’s; while a cherub of three years ssat on a stool beside
her aunt Darley, smoothing with her tiny hand aud
admiring smiles her aunt’s rich brocade robe.
4 Take care, child —you will soil my dress!’ said Au
gusta, drawing away from her sweet niece. ‘Do you
know, Linda,’ she added proudly, ‘I gave three dollars
a yard for this silk.’ Expensive, was it not ? but that
pleases me, as no one but ice of the upper class can
wear such.’ As no one made a remark; she went on:
*lt is provoking, however, to see how many parvenues
there are springing up around the Square, with monev
to purchase all they wish ! They dress in vain, I re
joice to say, as a certain circle of us have banded to
gether, and are determined to keep them out of all
genteel society.’
‘ls that kind ?’ said her mother.
Augusta laughed scornfully, and went on :
4 I served one lady nicely. I gathered together a
hand of my intimate friends, and, by bribing, secured
the pattern-cards of the new Spring sdks, and thus
chose out all the best and newest fashioned. We took
two or three dresses each—more than we wanted—on
purpose to spite our neighbor, Mrs. Newcome. The
consequence was, she was obliged to fit herself, and her
ugly daughters, with old-fashioned silks!’
‘That was not ‘doing as you would be done by,’ my
child.’
’Ah, my dear mamma, that motto is not used in
fashionable life : there, eaoh strives to excel the other.’
‘Thank Heaven, I am not in it!’ exclaimed Linda.
‘What, Linda! have you forgotton the scene of the
pearl ring and ‘silver spoon’ so soon ?’ inquired her
mother, smiling.
(This conversation was aside, es Mrs. Darley was
still narrating her triumph to her aunt.)
‘A few days after.’ continued Augusta, ‘there was a
terrte is the B<jnare. J :b, wearipg of r>y
“ !SnliefiHiiient in all things —Jieatral in not jpg.”
MACON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, APRIL 19, 1851.
new silk dresses ; and I never shall forget the rueful
look poor Mrs. Newcome east upon her own dull dress,
after glancing at my brocade ! On, it was a glorious
triumph !’
Mrs. Maxwell sighed ; and Linda said :
‘ls there nothing more glorious in your life, sister,
than shining in anew dress, or mortifying a neigh
bor ?’
‘Oh, it is very well for you, who cannot afford such
things, to moralize,’ said Mrs. Darley, pouting.
‘Mr. Smith, by his talents, has secured an independ
ence for his family,’ replied Mrs. Maxwell; ‘but, with
so many children, it would not be prudent to indulge in
dress, if he had the inclination.’
‘Yes,’ added her aunt,‘her children are Linda’s on
ly jewels.’’
A change came over the brilliant face of Augusta,
and she gazed at the cherubs with a dull, sad look.
‘Ah, yes,’ she sighed, ‘that is the o.ie dark shadow
over my life—the throe in my heart! Ah, Linda,’ she
said, aloud, ‘it is my lonely state that drives me to fash
ion and folly! Our lots are more equal than we once
supposed. I have wealth and luxury, but am child
less. My husbahd regrets this bitterly ; and from oar
lonely mansion we are driven abroad for society.’
Gay voices interrupted them, and, the doors opening,
Mr. Darley enme in, with his arm around a fine young
lad of sixteen. Mr. Maxwell and Charles Smith fol
lowed.
‘Oh, Augusta !’ exclaimed Mr. Darley, ‘wo have a
son now ! Charles has promised that I shall adopt his
boy, James, who will live with us, and take my name!
How nice, is it not ?’
‘Not so fast, Darley ! I said, if his mother consent
ed.
‘ Consent, my dear! —how can you think of such
a thing ?’ said Linda.
While the gramnother and aunt were expressing
their surprise, Charles leaned over to his wife, and whis
pered :
‘Pray,love, do not refuse! Think what an advan
tage to receive such an education as his rich uncle can
give ? We can see him every day. He will oe his
uncle’s heir!
‘Charles, my love, say no more! I cannot consent!
James has been happy without riches, lie has good
instruction, and escapes the snares wealth may bring.
Enjoying, as he does, perfect happiness in our family,
all the gold of California cannot better him.’
‘You are right, wife, as you always are! I think
Frederic’s opportunity, or your good mamma’s,will have
taken from me my discretion; and with you I say, hap
piness lies not alone in wealth.’
Meanwhile, Mrs. Darley had withdrawn to the win
dow; and, shaded by the curtains, no one heard the
heavy sighs that shook her frame, nor saw the bitter
tears which her costly handkerchief could not stem.
‘ And has it come to this ?’ she exclaimed. ‘Must the
petted beauty—the wealthy Augusta—at last confess
that all these gifts have failed to ensure her happiness?
The plain, neglected Linda, enjoys supreme content,
while we are forced to sue for one of her ‘jewels,’ to
ensure our own ! Sister 1’ she cried, suddedly turning
and standing before Linda—‘once you envied me my
beauty and riches : now you know—and oh, I feel—-
that it is possible to be happy without either, and un
happy with both !’
With tears and embraces to brorty separated.
E. R. S.
Taking tbe Census.
Onr next encounter was with an old lady, notorious
in her neighborhood for her garrulity and simple mind
edness. Having been warned of her propensity, and
being somewhat hurried when we called upon her, we
were disposed to get through business as soon as possi
ble. Striding into the house, and drawing our pa
pers—‘Taking the census, ma’am ! quoth we.
‘Ah ! well! yes! bless your soul, take a seat. Now
do! Are you the gentleman that Mr. Fillmore has
sent on to Lake the sensis? wonder! well, how was
Mr. Fillmore and family when you seed him ?’
We told her we had never sever seen the President,
didn't know him from a ‘side sole leather,’ we had
been written to take the census.
‘Well, now, there agin! love your soul! Well, I
’spose Mr. Fillmore writ you a letter, did he? No!
Well, there’s mighty little here to take down—times,
is hard; but it looks like people can’t get their jest
rights in this country; and the law is all for the rich
aud none for the poor. Did you ever hear tell of that
case my boys has got agin old Simpson ? Looks like
they will never git to the end on it. The children will
suffer, I'm mighty afeard. Did you ever see Judge
B ? Yes! Well, did you ever hear him say
what he was agwine to do in the boys’ case again Simp
son ? No! Well, ’squire’ will you ax him the next
time what I say ? I’m nothing but a poor widow, anil
my boys has no larnin, and cld Simpson tuk ’em in.—
It’s a mighty hard case, and the will oughtn't never to
a been broke, but ’
Here we interposed, and told the old lady that our
time was precious. After a good deal of trouble we got
through with a description of the members of her fam
ily, and the ‘statistical table’ as far as the article cloth
‘How many yards of cotton cloth did you weave in
1850, ma’am ?’
‘Well now! —less see! You know Sally Higgins
that used to live in the Smith settlement ?—poor thing,
her daddy druv her off—poor gal, she couldn't help it.
I dare say. Well, Sally, 6he come to stay long wi’
me when the old man druv her away, and she was a
powerful good hand to weave, and I did think she'd
help me a power. Well, arter she’d bin here awhile,
her baby hit took sick, and old Miss Stringer she un
deriuk to help it—she's a powerful good hand, old Miss
Stringer on roots and yearbs, and sieh like 1 Well she
made a sort of a tea, as I was saying, and she gin it to
Sally’s baby, it got wuss—the poor creetur—and she
gin it tea, and looked like the more she gin it tea, the
more——”
‘My dear madam, I ant in a hurry—please tell me
how many yards of cotton you wove in 1850. I want
to get through and goon.”
‘Well, well, who'd a thought you'd ’a bin so snap
pish ? Well, as I was sayiu’Sail’s child hit kept gittin
wus, and old Miss Stringer, she kept a givin’ it the
yarb tea; till at last the child hit looked like hit would
die any how. And ’bout the time the child was at its
wust, old Daddy Sykes he cum along, and he said if
we’d git some night shed berries, and stew them with
a little cream and 6ome hogs lard -now old Daddy
Sykes is a mighty fine old man, and he gin the boys a
heap of mighty good counsel ’bout that case—boys,
says he, I’ll tell you what you do; you go and ’
‘Old lady,’ said we, ‘do tell about your cloth, and let
the sick child and Miss Stringer, Daddy Sykes, the
boys and the law suit go to grass. I’m in a hurry !’
‘Gracious bless your dear soul! don’t git aggravated.
I wasjista tellin’ you how it come I didn't weave no
cloth last year.’
‘Oh, well, you did’nt weave any cloth last year.—
Good ! we’ll go on to the next article.’
‘Yes! you see the child hit begun to swell and turn
yaller, and hit kep a wallin’ its eyes and a moanin’ and
I knowd ’
‘Never mind about the child—just tell me the value
of the poultry you raised last year.
‘Oh, Well—yes—the chickens you mean. Why, I
reckon yon never in your born days see a poor cree
tur have the lack that I did— and looks like we never
shall have good fuck again; for ever ainoe old Simpeon
tnk that ear* cp ‘e tbe Chancery eont
‘Never mind the case; let’s hear about the chickens,
if you please.’
‘Bless you, honey, the owls destroyed in and about
tbe best half that I did raise. Every blessed night
they’d come and set on the comb of the house, and hoo,
hoo, hoo, and one night in particklar, I remember, I
had just got up for the night-shed salve to ’int the lit
tle gal with— ’
‘Well, well, what was the value of what you did
raise ?’
‘They got so bad—the owls did—that they tuk the
old hens as well’s the young chickens. The night I was
tellin’ ’bout, I heard somethin’ s-q-a-u-1-1, s-q-u-a-1-1!
and says I, I’ll bet that’s old Speck, that nasty ouda
eious owl’s got; for I seen her go to roost with her
chickens, up in the plum tree, fornenst the smoke
house. So I went to whar old Miss Stringer was sleep
in,’ and says I Qfiss ! Oh Miss Stringer!
sure's you’re born, /hat nasty owl’s got old Speck
out’n the plum tree. Well, old Miss Stringer she
turned over ’pon her siue like and says she, what did
you say, Miss Stokes? and says I ’
We began to get very tired, and signified the same
to the old lady, and begged she would auswer us di
rectly, and without circumlocution.
‘Love your dear heart, honey. I’m tellin’ you as
fast I kin. The owls they got worse and worse after
they’d swept old Speck and all her gang, they went to
work on ’tothers; and Bryant (that's one of my boys)
he ’lowed he’d shoot the pestersome creeters—and so
one night arter that, we beam one holler, and Bryant,
he tuk the ole musket and went out, and sure enough!
there was owley, (as he thought) and settin’ on the
comb of the house; so he blazed away and down come
when he firtTd ?’
‘The owl, I suppose.’
‘No sieh thing, no sieh thing! the owl warn’t thar.
’Tvvas my old house cat come a tumblin’ down, spit
tin’ sputterin; and scratehin’ and the fur a flyin’ every
time she jumped like you'd a busted a fether bed open !
Bryant he said, the way he come to shoot the cat in
stead of the owl, he seed sojnethin’ white— ’
‘Mrs. Stokes ! give me the value of your poultry, or
say you will not ! Do one thing or the other.’
‘Oh, well, dear, love your heart, [reckon I had !ast
year, nigh about the same as I’ve got this.’
‘Then tell me how many dollars worth you have now,
and the thing’s settled.’
‘l’ll let you see for yourself,’ said the widow Stokes,
and taking a tar of corn out of a crack between the
logs of the cabin, and shelling a handful, she commenced
scattering the corn, all the while screaming, or rather
screeching—chick—ehicK--chick-ee—chiek-ee—chick
ee- -chick-ee—ee !’
Here they come, roosters, hens, aud pullets, and little
chicks—crowing, cackling, chirping, flying and flutter
ing over beds, chairs, and tables; alighting on the old
woman’s head and shoulders fluttering against her
sides, peeking at her hands, and creating a din and
confusion altogether indescribable. The old lady seemed
delighted, thus to exhibit her feathered ‘stock,’ and
would occasionally exclaim—‘a nice passel, aint they—
a nice passel !’ But shj never would say what they
were worth: no persuasion would bring her to the point;
and our papers at Washington contain no estimate of
the value M th wi-JUw Stoki j’-reultry, though, as she
said lierstff, she !mi|‘a passel.’ j
Last flours ol a Sli^MUcntlcman.
This morning, November 11th, at half past eleven
o’clock, precisely, an unfortunate young man, Mr. Ed
ward Pinckney, underwent the extreme penalty of in
fatuation, by expiating his attachment to Mary Ann
Gale, in front of the altar railings of St. Mary’s Church,
Islington.
It will be in the recollection of all those friends of
the parties who were at Jones’ party at Bedford, two
years ago, that Mr. Pinckney was there and then first
introduced to Mary Gale, to whom he instantly began
to direct particular attentions—dancing with her no
less than six sets that evening, and handing her things
at supper in the most devoted manner. From that pe
riod commenced the intimacy between them which ter
minated in this morning’s catastrophe.
Poor Pinckney had barely attained his twenty
eighth year, but there is no belief that but for reasons
of a pecuniary nature his single life would have come
• artier to an untimely end. A change for the better,
however, having occurred in his circumstances, the
young lady's friends were induced to sanction his ad
dresses, and thus become accessaries to the course for
which lie has just suffered.
The unhappy man passed the last night of his bach
elor existence in his solitary chamber. From half past
eight to ten he was engaged in writing letters. Shortly
after, his youngest brother, Henry, knocked at the door,
when the doomed youth told him to come in. On be
ing asked when he meant to go to bed, he replied—
“not yet.” The question was then put to him how lie
thought he would sleep? to which he answered—“l
don’t know.’ lie then expressed his desire for a cigar
and a glass of grog. His brother, who sat down and
partook of the like refreshments now demanded if he
would take anything more that night. He said ‘noth
ing,’ in a firm voice. His affectionate brother then
rose to take leave; when the devoted one considerately
advised him to take care of himself.
Precisely at a quarter of a minute to seven the next
morning, the victim of Cupid having been called, ac
cording to his desire, he rose and promptly dressed, and
then shaved himself without the slightest injury; for
not even a scratch upon his chin appeared after the op
eration. It would seem that he had devoted a longer
time than usual at his toilet.
The wretched man was attired in a light blue dress
coat, with frosted buttons, a white vest and nankeen
trowsers, with patent leather boots. He wore round
his neck a variegated satin scarf, which partly concealed
the Corrazzo of the bosorn. In front of the ecarf was
inserted a breastpin of conspicuous dimensions.
Having descended the staircase with a quick step, he
entered the apartment where his brothers aud a few
friends awaited him. He then shook hands cordially
with all present; and on being asked how he slept, he
answered, ‘Very well,’ and to the further demand as
to the state of his mind, he said that he ‘felt happy.’
One of the party hereupon snggesting that it would
be as well to take something before the melancholy cer
emony was gone through, he exclaimed with some em
phasis, ‘decidedly’. Breakfast was accordingly served,
when lie ate a French roll, a large round toast, two
sausages, and three new laid eggs which he washed
down with three great breakfast cups of tea. In reply
to an expression of astonishment, on the part of persons
present, he declared that he had never felt happier in
his life.
Having inquired the time, and ascertained that it
was ten minutes to eleven, he remarked that it would
soon be over. His brother then inquired if he oould do
auything for him; when he said he would take a glass
of ale. Having drank this he appeared to be satisfied.
The fatal moment now approaching, he devoted the
remaining portion of his time to distributing those little
articles he would no longer want. To one he gave his
cigar case, to another his tobacco stopper, and he charged
his brother Henry with his latch key, with instruc
tions to deliver it after all was over, with due solemni
ty to the landlady.
Tbe dock at length struck eleven, and at the same
moment he was informed that a cab was at tbe door.
He merely said— ‘l am ready,’ and allowed himself to
be oondaoted to the vehicle, into whioh he got with bis
brother, his friends fePcwisgoc beb:ad ir other*-
Arrived at the tragical spot, a short but anxious de
lay of some seconds took place; after which they were
joined by the lady with her friends. Little was said
on either side, but Miss Gale, with customary decorum
shed tears. Pinckney endeavored to preserve decorum,
but a slight twitching in his mouth and eyebrows, pro
claimed his inward agitation.
All necessary preliminaries having now been settled,
and the prescribed melancholy formalities gone through,
the usual question was put—‘Wilt thou have this wo
man to be thy wife ?’ ‘I will.’
He then put the fa’al ring on Miss Gale's finger, the
hymenial noose was adjusted, and the poor fellow was
launched into matrimony.— London Punch.
Original Letter of Dr. Franklin.
The following letter was written by Dr.
Franklin to Alexander Giles Frobisher, with
whom he corresponded for many years:
Philadelphia, June 6th, 1753.
Dear Sir :—I received your kind letter of
the 2d instant, and am glad to hear you increase
in strength. I hope you will continue mend
ing till you recover your former health and
firmness. Let me know whether you still use
the cold bath and what effect it has,
As to the kindness you mention, [ wish it
could have been of more service to you, but if
it had, the only thanks that 1 should desire is,
that you would be equally ready to serve any
other person that may need your assistance,
and so let good offices go round, for mankind
are all of a family.
For my own part, when I am employed in
serving others, I do not look upon myself as
conferring favors, but as paying debts. In my
travels and since my settlement, I have re.
ceived much kindness from men to whom 1
shall never have an opportunity to make the
least direct return; and numberless mercies
from God who is infinitely above being bene
fited by our services. Those kindnesses from
inen, 1 ofki only return on their fellow-men;
and I can only show my gratitude for these
mercies from God by a readiness to help his
other children; for 1 do not think that thanks
and compliments, though repealed weekly,
can discharge our real obligations to each oth
er, and much less those of our Creator.
You will in this see my notions of good
works and that 1 am far from expecting Heav
en by them. By Heaven we understand a
state of happiness, infinite in degree and eter-
in duration. I can do nothing to desene
such rewards. He that for giving a draught
of water to a thirsty person, should expect to
be paid with a good plantation, would be mod
est in his demands, compared with those who
think they deserve Heaven by the good they
do on eaith. Even the mixt, imperfect pleas
ures we enjoy in this world, are rather from
God’s goodness than our merit, how much
more then the felicity of Heaven? For my
own part 1 have not the vanity to think I de
serve it, (he folly to expect, nor the ambition
to desire it; but content myself in submitting
to the will aud disposal of Him that made
me, who has hitherto preserved and blessed
me, and in whose paternal goodness I may
well confide, that lie will never make me mis
erable, and that even the alilictions I may at
any time suffer shall tend to my benefit.
The faith you mention lias doubtless its use
in the world. I do not desire to see it dimin
ished, nor would 1 lesson it in any man, but I
wish it was more productive of good works,
works of kindness, charity, mercy and public
spirit; not holiday-keeping, sermon-reading,
or having performed church ceremonies, or
making long prayers filled with flatteries and
compliments, despised even by wise men, and
much less capable of pleasing the Deity. The
worship ot God is a duty; the hearing or read
ing sermons may be useful; but if a man rests
in hearing or praying as too many do, it is as if
a tree should value itself upon being watered
and putting forth leaves, though it never pro
duced any fruit.
Your great Master thought much less of these
outward appearances and professions than ma
ny of his modern disciples; he preferred the
doers to the mere hearers; the sun who seem
ingly refused to obey his father, and yet per
formed his commands, to him that professed
liis readiness and yet neglected the work; the
heretical though charitable Samaritan, to the
uncharitable though sanctified priest; and those
who gave food to the hungry, drink to the thirs
ty, raiment to the naked, entertainment to the
stranger, and relief to the sick, though they
never heard of bis name, he declares shall be
in the last day accepted, when those who cry
Lord, Lord, who value themselves on their
faith though great enough to perform miracles,
but have neglected to perform the works of
benevolence, shall lie rejected.
He professed he came not to call the right
eous but sinners to repentance, which implied
his modest opinion, that there were some in
his time so good that they needed not hear even
him; but now-a days we have scarce a person
who does not think it the duty of every man
within his reach to sit under his wretched min
istrations, and that whoever omits them offends
God. I wish to such more humility, and to
you, sir, more health and happiness, being &c.,
B. Franklin.
OCT” What “ American Irishman” will not
read the following with a glow of satisfaction
at the thought that his countrymen took a
prominent part in laying the foundation of the
structure of treedom in this country, that isher
pride, and the bane of her enemies? The
following extract is from T. D. McGee’s His
tory of the Irish settlers in North America
which he is now publishing in the Celt:
“The Declaration of Independence was
signed by fifty-six names, of whom nine (in
cluding Secretary Thompson,) were of Irish
origin.
“Mathew Thornton, born in Ireland in 1714,
signed it for New Hampshire. He was after
wards Chief Justice of the Common Pleas,
and died June 24th, 1803’
“James Smith, who signed for Pennsylvania,
was born in Ireland in 1713, and died in 1806-
“George Taylor, a signer from the same
State, was born in Ireland in 1710, so poor
that his services were sold on his arrival to
pay the expenses of his passage out. He died
at Easton, (Pa.) February 23, 1781.
“George Read, of Delaware, was the son of
Irish parents, one of the authors of the Con
stitution of Delaware, and afterwards of the
Federal Constitution. It was he who an
swered the British tempters—“l am a poor
man, but poor as l am, the King of England
is not rich enough to purchase me.” He
died in 1798.
“Charles Carrol, of Carrolton, waa of Irish
decent, and wry wealthy. Ha affixed his ad
dress after h?e name, that tha pledge of his
“fortune” might be beyond doubt, lie wa>
the last survivor of the signers, and died Nov.
14, 1832.
“Thomas Lynch, Jr. of South Carolina, suc
ceeded his father, who died, while at Congress
in 1776, and the Declaration. He went
abroad soon after for his health but was lost at
sea.
“Thomas McKean, signer for Pennsylvania,
was also of Irish parentage. He was success
ively, Senator, Governor of Pennsylvania, and
President of Congress. After fitly years ol
public life, he died on the 24th of June, 1817.
“Edward Rutledge, of South Carolina, was
also “a signer 4” fought in the Southern cam
paign, and was lor three years, kept prisoner
in Florida. He became Governor of Soujh
Carolina in 1799, and died in January, 1800.
Os these illustrious names, destined to live for
ever on the New Charter of Human Free
dom, Ireland should be wisely jealous, for the
world’s revolutions will never present such an
other tablet of glory to the children of men.
The Noble Baron
‘ln that beautiful part of Germany,’ which
borders on the Rhine, there is a noble castle,
which as you travel on the western bank ol
the river, you may sc-e lifting its ancient tow
ers on the opposite side, about the grove ol
trees old as itself.
‘About forty years ago there lived in that
castle a noble gentleman, whom we shall call
Baron He had one only son, who was a
comfort to his father, and a blessing to all who
lived on the fathers’ land.
‘lt happened on a certain occasion that this
young man being from home, there came a
French gentleman to see the castle, who be
gan to talk ofhis heavenly Father in terms that
chilled the old man’s blood; on which the Ba
ron reproved him, saying are you not alraid
of offending God, who reigns above, by speak
ing in such a manner?’ The gentleman said
he knpw nothing about God for he had never
seen him. The Baron this time did not notice
what the gentleman said, but the next morn
ing took him about the castle-grounds, and
took occasion first to show him a very beauti
ful picture that hung on the wall. The gen
tleman admired the picture very much and
said, ‘Whoever drew this picture, knows very
well how to use the pencil.’
‘My son drew the picture,’ said the Baron. |
‘Then your son is a clever man,’ replied the
gentleman.
The Baron then went with his visitor into
the garden, and showed him how many beau
tiful flowers and plantations of forest trees.
‘Who has the ordering of this garden?’
asked the gentleman.
“My son,’ replied the Baron; ‘he knows |
every plant, 1 may say, from the cedar of Le
banon to the hyssop on the wall.
‘lndeed said” the gentleman; ‘I shall think
very highly of him soon.’
The Baron then took him into the village and
showed him a small neat'cottage, where his
son had established a school, and where he
caused all young children in the house to look
so innocent and so happy, that the gentlemen
was very much pleased, and when he returned
to the castle he said to the Baron, ‘What a hap
py man yuu are to have so good a son.’
‘How do you know 1 have a good son ?’
‘Because I have seen his works and I know
he must be good and clever, if he has done ali
that you have showed me.’
‘But you have not seen him.’
‘No but I know him very well, because I
judge of him by his works.’
‘True, replied the Baron; ‘and in this way I
judge of the character of the heavenly Father.
1 know by his works that he is a being of infi
nite wisdom, and power and goodness!’
The scoffer was silenced. He had answered
his own wickedness and folly by his words, and
could say no more. It is not the wisest who
scoff at religion and piety; for true wisdom be
gins in the fear of the Lord.
Buds and Blossoms
The earth produces not only the plain unor
namental vegetable existence, it also brings
forth flowers which are the ornament of our
gardens, and, as it were, the poetry of vegeta
ble life. God might have bade earth bring
forth the tree and the plant without a flower
at all. Our outward life demands them not.
His bounty and goodness gave them to minis
ter dplight to the sons of men. ‘Consider the
lilies of the field how they grow. They foil
not, neither do they spin; yet Solomon, in all
his glory, was not arrayed like one of these.’
In Eastern lands they talk in flowers. They
tell, also, in a flowery garland, their loves and
cares. Every blossom—every leaf, a mystic
language bears. Flowers are love’s true lan
guage. From the majestic sun-flower to the
humble daisy, there is scarce a flower which
holds not some classic or poetical association.
The snow-drop comes, delicate, pure and pale,
the emblem of hope and messenger of spring.
The primrose calls up before us the thatched
cottage and the woody dell, where it loves to
bloom. The modest violet comes bringing
the additional charm of its exquisite perfume,
which now’ floats on the balmy breeze. But,
of all earth’s lovely flowers, the rose claims
the award of beauty. All mankind pay her
homage. Blooming in the barren waste, this
delightful flower unfolds its lair leaves, and
calls back the heart of the weary traveler to
thoughts of peace and joy. It reminds him
that even life’s rude wilderness has its flowers.
No flower, then, wastes its sweetness on the
desert air. They blush not unseen. Some
eye sees them. They yield delight to insect or
to man. Diffused everywhere, they present in
beautiful hieroglyphics sweet messages of love
o fallen humanity. The lign-aloe, which tbe
Lord hath planted—the night-blooming cere
tus —the wonderful passion flower--call up
sublime and solemn associations. While they
astonish the eye and delight the fancy of intel
ligent man, the spirit of love and beauty is in
them. They havo ever been offered at the
shrine ofbeauty and claimed as tokens of true
love. Like stars they gem the emerald face
of earth, and exert an influence as diffusive as
their delightful odors. Amidst tbe storms and
buffetings of life, let us not forget the fading
flowers which are but an emblem of our short
existence here—
“XjH planted in that realm of ml,
Where rosea never die.
Amid the gardens of the Heat,
Beneath a atormlea* sky,
We flower afresh, like Aaron’e rod,
That blossomed at the sight of God.”
j The sweet fight of friendship is like the fight of pfaoe
pbcrw—seec plainly wbee aQ nrMid 1* dark
An luieresting Story.
“Shon, mine shon,’’ said a worthy German father
to his hopeful heir, of ten years, whom he had over
heard using profane language: ‘‘Sbou, mine shop!
come here, and I 6ii teii you a little stories. , Now,
mine shon, shall it be a drue shtory or a makaa-be
licve ?”
“Ob, a true story, ofcouraa!” answered John.
“Ferry fell den. Tere vas ronce a goot BKse oldt
shentleman, (shoost like me,) andt he had a tirty liddle
boy (shoost like you.)—Andt von day he heard him
shwearing, like a young fillain as he waa. So he vent
to the tcinkle (corner) and dook out a cowhides, shpost
as I am toeing now, and he dook ter tirty little plauk
guard by the collar (dis way youaee!) and vo loped
hint thoost so ! And den, mine tear Shon, he bull
his eara is vay, and slimack his face dat way, and
dell sim to go mitout supper, shoost as you will to dw
efening.’’
From the Columbia Republican.
Cotton Seed Speculations.
Msssrs Editors ido not protest to have
numbered as many years as that remarkable
individual, “the oldesi inhabitant,” nor to ba
quite as the “Imy who hadn’t drunk
at the branch,” still I have lived long enough
to be convinced that the members of the Ag
ricultural Profession we about as forcibly ini*
pressed by the lessons of experience, as a
blind horse would be by the presenting of a
cocked pistol.
In truth, there is no pleasure which they so
reluctantly forego, as that of being humbugged.
“It is the salt unto their humanity that makes
it sweet.” If the ghosts of all the departed
humbugs which have bedeviled the Planters
ofthe South for the last half century even,
could be called from the ‘vasty deep,’ a con
servative gentleman would be found in a clear
coroner case of “frightened to death,” at the
array.
linr going back to the cloud-bound period,
(“whereuitfo the memory of man runneth not,”)
only twenty years—how many cotton ghosts
can we summon with our wand 1 There was
the Mexican ; how many wondrous tales were
told about it? It was all the rage tor a time,
anew era had pome, but it was soon gone.—
Then for a season we were regaled wi tb tha
White Seed, and the Pettit Gulf, which were
to work wonders. High prices tyere again
paid for fancy seed and fancy promises. But a
few favorite home-bred soon came forward—
Lyles Cotton—rand forthwith every body ran
downright crazy upon the Eyb;s Cotton. Al
most any price could have been obtained for
the seed. This variety soon run its race, and
went to the land of Humbugs, only to he re
placed on another —-The Okra came in. Oh l,
wonderful Okra! What a revolution was it
to make for us. It was the beaux idol of a cot
ton stalk. Its tall slender form would enable
us to pidnt it closer in the drill and in the row,
the very thing for poor land, we could crowd
so much on the ground; we could cultivate so
much more and pick it out so much more easi
ly. Every body broke right off after the Okra,
like a young dog after his first fox, and never
stopped till they had run past their gaae, or
lost the track. Okra died a natural death.—
But out of its ashes sprang into full favor, at
the first jump, the Bunch or Multibolled varie
ty. This was the very thing. Better and
belter! cried every body. One, two, three,
four, and five dollars per bushel, was paid fox
seed. Manufacturers were delighted at the
prospect of over production—Speculators, be
gan to grow uneasy about stock on band, and
Planters began to dream of cotton bales, and
pockets full of money. But this is an age of
universal progress, and great asMultiboll was,
his destiny was to yield to another. The tow.
ering, silky, mighty Mastodon came! The
Sea Island Planter became alarmed. Long
Cotton must wane. The Yankee spinner
clapped his hands at the thought of working up,
wooden nutmeg like, Mastodon into Sea Is .
lands ; —the Planter had found the grand desid
eratum. the combination of superior productive,
nes* with extraordinary fineness, silkness,
length and strength of staple. Wonderful
Mastodon! how the people raved about thee,
how the newspapers belched forth praises of
thee from all quarters—-how the seed hum
buggers waxed tat on thy greatness! But eve
ry d<>g has his day. Mighty Mastodon is no.
more. “KEauuscAT i>* pace.”
The plot began to. thicken ; it was become
ing manifest that some money could be made
by the operation and scores of new candidates
for public favor began to be puffed through the
paper. Sugar Loaf, Vick’s seed, PrQ.ut,
Hogan, Brown, Pitts, Prolific, et id ornne ge
nus, were lauded as great wonders of the age,’
some selling, we believe, at the rate of SIOOO
per bushel. An eminent planter in Mississippi,
asserted that if the Hogan held its own, the
Southwest would produce all the cotton needed
by the world, and the planters of the old States
would be forced to quit or starve. Gloomy pic
ture truly !
But great as was Hogan, there was yet to
be a greater than be ; the Prolific Poenegran
ite loomed above the horizon, and Hogan sank
to rise no more. Here, gentlemen is the gol
den fleece for you at Here is cotten
what iff cotton. It won’t be any thing else but
cotton. Desperately poor land is the very
thing for it—-there it’s at borne—put it down
thick aud you shall have bolls till you are tired
of ’em. Five dollars a bushel only for the
seed—why you would make money paying
SIOO. Will you buy, buy, buy ? and thus runs
the world away. Its no wonder, truly, that j
cotton declined when this news went across *
the waters. Over production! No**, my
dear brethren of the hoe and plow, a word in
your ear. Keep cool don’t make asses off
yourselves.
lain as firm a believer in the propriety of]
selecting seed as the best of you. Every plant-I
er should select his seed annually, and doubt
less he would make by importing now amiJ
then from the Southwest, such varieties as:
have borne the test of experiment there by
perienced planters. But it is perfect madness
to be paying $5 to 87 per bushel for any seed
Gentlemen may be very honest in puffing tki*
new wonder of the world, but the bonestesi
people in the world are often the most naisguidl
ed. This thing is certain—cotton cannot bf|
grown out of a soil not rich in the ing redient j
necessary to perfect the plant. According t#j
analysis cotton wool contains—
Potash, 31,04
Lime, 17,0. 5
Magnesia, 3,2*
Pbos. Acid, 12,8:
Sulphuric Aciti, J,2f
It is ae plain as a pike staff that, any 50 .
rich in these salts is not poor land. Ergo, u
poor land can produce immense crops of aril
, variety of cotton, it must be poor cotton,
■ ebemica! is a!! hymtag
NO. 3.