Newspaper Page Text
VOL. 2.
(.Fur the Georgia Citizen.)
from the Portfolio of an Ex-Editor.
THE THANKFUL SO*,
IN ONE ACT.
Translated from the German of Engel.
BY T. D. M.
Dramatis Persona.
Roder. —An old Farmer.
Rachel. —His irife.
Margaret.— His daughter.
Michael. —Her Groom.
Kate. — .Michael's mother.
The Sacristan of the Village.
Captain of Cavalry.
Soldier and old Farmers of the Village.
{The Scene is a Grove of trees in front of a little
Cottage. In the back ground is seen a little hill .l
[concluded.]
SCENE XII.
RACHEL, RODER, KATE, SACkIfcTAN, MARGARET, MICHAEL.
The Sergeant, Soldiers and old banners.
Kate. [Runs up to Michael.) I have you still
my son ? Oh, they shall take my life first before I let
you go.
Margaret. (Caressing him.) Dear one! Good
Michael.
Sergeant. Away with him ! March ! Os what
avail is all this crying ? This whispering ? Nothing
wi’l be accomplished by it.
Roder. (Taking the Sergeant by the arm.) A
word with you Sergeant !
The Old Farmer. (All talking, talking together
with seeming abhorence.]
To take the last property from the good and only son
—no the King would not do that ’. That he will nev
er do!
Roder. Hush! I pray you children! You only
make the evil worse.
Sergeant. And what if I should turn you all topsy
turvey —jou rogues! (slapping his pockets.) I have
here my order, and that is sufficient.
The farmers. (As before.) Order! order! It is
worth nothing! To strip the good no order Vjps ever
known!
Roder. (Motioning to the farmers that they should
be silent.) Look here, Mr. Sergeant, a good word
should meet a good reception.
Sergeant. A good word? Weill will attend to
it. Let me hear of what force it is !
Roder. Do you see, Mr. Sergeant? I love my
King from the bottom of my heart, and Heaven knows
that I have reason. If l did not know’ for a certain
ly that peace was declared, and that the king were al
ready out of the difficulty, if I see that the water lias
already gathered upon a soul and he is about to sink.
Sergeant. Nothing further? That is all gam
mon —stuft!
Roder. Yes, only pay attention, d;ar Mr. Ser
geant.
Sergeant. Proceed.
Roder. This young man here is my daughter's
intended , and is besides an only son ; but I wish to say
a few words; in God s name take him away ! W hat
better can he do in the world, than to serve his King ?
Take me along too! 1 would say. My head is gray,
and my bones are brittle, but they arc not so gray and
brittle, that I cannot strike a blow. Joy for my son
has made me feel young again ! I will go as long as
I have strength, and when from old age and weakness
I can do no more, I will then encourage the ycung men
about me to act nobly ; 1 will throw myself in the waj
of those who would desert, and before they should flee
away, they should first trample upon the body ot an
old man. Yes, by my soul, Mr. Sergeant! So I would
do, if it comes to the worst.
Sergeant. I would say, old man—that you would
be not exactly in your right mind.
Roder. (Taking a step backwards,) his hand upon
his breast.) llow, Sir? Are you a soldier ?
Sergeant. [Proudly.) Do you not see that lam ?
Roder. In your dress, Sir, but not in your heart.
If you were indeed a soldier, you would always glory
in hearing the words of your King.
Sergeant. [Ra’sing from his eane uopn which he
has been leaning.] 11a ! You old gray-headed ! Do
dare to say that ?
Farmers. No violence, we hope! no violence !
Rachel. [Anxiously.] I pray you, father—you should
endeavour to mollify him, as you first made him ill.
Roder. Look here, Mr. Sergeant! Peace is made,
it is known to us, and your bad conduct here cau
easily be made known to the King and Court. If you
would play the lord over us here, only try it also over
those you are really above you; I shall write to my
son, the Colonel —
Sergeant. [Amazed.] llow? What? your son a
Colonel ?
Roder. Os the Swanfield Regiment —Do you know
him ? Col. Roder, of the horse ?
Sergeant. The Devil!
Roder. (All at once quite familiar.) Ah you know
/him then, my dear Mr. Sergeant ? I see yon do.
You have certainly come from the army then, and can
tell me Oil about my son ? (They remove to the back
part of the stage where they keep up a dumb show of
conversation.) Go aiong children .Go along . Mr.
Sergeant shall drink a little wine with me.
Sergeant. Certainly! On your account! You
can go out and wait for me. I will come directly.
(Kate and Margaret who seem very much pleased at
the idea of getting Michael released, go out with the
farmers and soldiers.)
Roder. Now for a bottle, mother ! (To the Ser
geant.) It is a very delicate wine.
Sacristan. Very delicate; that’s a fact. (Aside.)
Auda little too delicate for such a scoundrel.
[Exit Rachel .]
SCENE XIII.
RODER, THE SERGEANT, THE SACRISTAN, RACHEL
COMES IN AFTERWARDS.
Sergeant. —So then he is even of the same regi
ment in which I first did service. The same Roder
who once cudgelled almost every rib in my body ?
Roder. So you say, Mr. Sergeant. And do you
really know each other?
Sergeant. Yes, to be sure ! I have the honor.
Roder. (Hands him a glass.) Better still! better
still. And does my son then bear so good a sword ?
(Rachel no tv brings in a bottle.)
Sergeant. (After he bas tossed down a glass.)
Go to the Devil with his sword ? I won’t be bothered
with any of your nonsense! Because I have drank a
glass without orders.
Roder. (Pouring out again.) Now that makes
me glad to my very heart.
Sergeant. What? what makes you glad ?
Roder. That you know him, dear Mr. Sergeant!
that you know him ! And that my son is so much
like me in his love of order. I bold much also to or
der. (The Sergeant tosses down still another glass.)
Sacristan. (Looking on enviously, says to him
self.) May you aud the Devil get together !
Rachel. But have you really come from the army
dear Mr. Sergeant, and have served in the same regi
ment my son commands ? So you know then per
haps if my son will soon march back, or if he will be
assigned to another post away from us as in times of
KiT ? Do you know if I shall soon see rry see again,
2nd if I shall keep him close to me ?
.
Rachel. Ye 6, tell us, if you know it. Mister Ser
geant ! To see our son again is the only hope for
which we live.
Sergeant. Well, well! what I know about him
you shall soon know. But first pour me out another
glass!
Roder. From the bottom of my heart! It does me
good that the wine tastes so well to you. My son
gave me this wine, which shall quicken me in my old
age.
Sergeant. (Pouring down the glass.) Bah!
Sacristan. (Aside as before.) So you must drink
up the gift! The whole basket full is all gone.
Rachel. (Eagerly.) And what do you know then,
dear Mr. Sergeant ?
Sergeant. I don't know any tiling—only that your
wine is tolerably good, and I would drink still more of it
if I were not so easy to get drunk. But ! I can hard
ly stand up straight now, But were it even cham
pagne—and if you had even ten officer-sons, 1 tell you
plainly that you must either plank up the gold, or
Michael travels. So resolve quickly what you intend
to do !
Roder. How, Sir ? So you take money ? and take
it too from the King’s own subjects!
Sergeant. lam as good as the King ! Why not ?
I only give you Michael, and as I must find a substi
tute to (ill his place, the money is necessary for that
purpose. Soldiers don’t come flying in the air, nor do
they spring out of the ground. Make mo up the thirty
dollars, or ‘march !’ is the word.
Roder. Thirty dollars, Sir ? How should I gather
that amount out of tlie entire village. (He hands him
a small parcel with twelve dollars in it.) Here are
twelve of them.
Sergeant. What shall Ido with the trifle ! [At
the same time he thrusts back bis hands.) If you have
not so much change yourself then let his mother bring
her’s out!
Rachel. His mother, you say ? Who has nothing
but what her son earns for her by the labor of bis
hands!
Rachel. Have pity, dear Mr. Sergeant!
Sergeant. Pity ! for whom ?
Rader. For us all whom you threaten to make
unhappy; for a young, innocent maiden, would be in
consolable for the loss of her groom —
Sergeant. (Laughing.) Ha ha ha! Is the thing
so much in love ?
Rachel. For a poor widow who must perish with
hunger without the assistance of her son, and whose
tears will overcome her—
Sergeant. Ogo! go! There is no use in bringing such
lamentation to a soldier. What has he to do with com
passion ! To hostile lands should lie go; but you
would on the contrary house him up! Therefore I
command you—to bring out your money, or down with
your nose and ears !
Sacristan. (Shivering.) llu liu hu 1
Sergeant. And who is that broke out into anew
place! A dozen teeth sticking out of his jaws, or
sticking to each other half through shame ! That hap
pens every day.
Sacristan. May the fellow go to the Devil! God
be with us!
Sergeant. Tell your son all about it when he eomes
again. You could’nt do better. My soul no! To
cutthe matter short, I give you a quarter of an hour
for consideration, and then cither the money or—
march! [JEarit.]
SCENE XIV.
RODER, RACHEL, TIIE SACRISTAN.
Roder. (Looking at the paper with the money in
it, takes it in his band.) llow heavy this gold feels, in
my hand! Do you hear what the rascal ’ays ? Do you
hear what he says of my son? (He looks at Rachel
and the Sacristan with a distressed expression.)
Rachel. He is a miserable cheat, father! He
should not cause me a moment’s trouble, if it were
not for Margaret’s distreess.
Sacristan. Yes truly Roder. The old mother says
right. Your son is an active, honorable man.
llodcr. And were it not so dear Heaven ! I had
thanked him and thee for this property which is now
to be unlawfully taken away, and that become anoth
er’s joy which I lose in sadness. llow troubled and
distressed shall I be, whenever I think on it! O, then
will I work until the blood spring out of my hands !
I will replace again the last farthing. But no ! no ’.
There do you stay ! (Placing away the money.) A
villian surely scorns his own father ! Come children !
come! We will nevertheless submit. Wc will ac
company Michael a part of the way. O that it were
a wcc .k—or a fortnight hence! Then could my son
help him.
Rachel. But Margaret, father! Poor Magaret!
How can I console her? [Exit.]
SCENE XV.
the sacristan, [AZone.]
Sacristan. (lie looks steadily at the bottle, then
turns back towards the scene again.) A week, a fort
night ? Then he eomes back quite soon. What shall
Ido with myself? I think I will take a little glass, if
all the wine has not evaporated, and in the meanwhile
I shall read the letter through. (Holds the letter in his
hand.) I am getting to be quite inquisitive. (He
drinks a glass of wine and reads, while he seats him
self.) The sixth ? halloo! That was yesterday! (He
reads again with more apparent curiosity.) The 7th!
(Springing up.) Oil, now will Michael and Margaret be
helped! I must call the old folks back. (He drinks
down a glass hastily and runs towards the scene.)
Father Roder! mother ! Rachel! Then he becke ns
with his band.) Como! come! How happy the old
people will be ! What joy it will give them ! I feel
right glad that it falls to my lot to *ell them!
SCENE XVI.
RODER, RACHEL, THE SACRISTAN.
Roder. What is the news ? What makes you so
merry Mr. Sacristan ?
Sacristan. What will you give me if I place Mich
ael upon his feet as free as any of us? (Shaking the
paper.) Here—here it is in the letter.
Rachel. In the letter ? In my son’s letter ?
Sacristan. Nothing else ! lie comes to-day.
Rachel. lie comes to-day ?
Sacristan. Now then! Listen! (lie reads.)
‘Our regiment also, dear father, has already received
orders to take up its line of march. Upon the 6th of
the coming month the regiment over which I hold my
commission, will arrive in your village.’ You see,
Roder that was yesterday.
Roder. Is it possible, Mr. Sacristan ? Wbat do
you say ?
Rachel. Yesterday? And he not here yet ?
Sacristan. Pay attention ! Hear what he says
farther! (He reads again :) ‘At the latest, father,
it will be early on the morning of the 7th.’ That is
now to-day, Roder—‘and as I am distant only four
miles from your village, I will place the squadron under
the command of the Lieutenant to ride over to you.
I will at least see you and kiss my dear old mother.
Roder. [With the greatest gaiety imaginable.]
Joy upon joy ! So he comes at last! 1 will go to
meet him, mother. I will go forth in freedom.
I will spread out my arms towards him when afar off.
I will call aloud to him as soon as I see him : ‘O my
son ! my darling son !’
Rachel. Stop, stop ! [whilst she holds on to him.]
How can I follow you when lam so infirm ? Shall he
think that I love him Less ?
Sacristcn, Yes, stay Rcder I Kasc oat tie twelve
dollars ! be quick !
“ liMycnimit in nil tilings —Jli'itfnil in iiofljing.”
MACON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, AUGUST 23, 1851.
Rachel. The twelve dollars ? what for ?
Sacristan. To give to the Sergeant so that we
may have a hold upon him, to give them to him in part
pay for the thirty dollars, and when your son comes af
terwards—
Roder. Good! good! Here it is, Mr. Sacristan.
Here are the twelve dollars! Do it! Run ! See what
you can accomplish ! I myself have no time to spare.
[Exit Sacnstan .]
SCENE XVII.
RODER, AND RACHEL,
Rachel. Don’t go away, father! I beseech you.
I would'nt know what to do with myself out of pure
impatience. Run down to the hill! There you will
see him before he comes.
Roder. Yes, that I will! that I will! All my
blood is becoming lively !
Rachel. [Whilst Roder ascends the hill.] And
eomes he then at last, O Heaven ! Does he come once
more after an absence of many long years? Oh! it
stiikes to my very core ! I had joy when he ooint*
into the world, but this far surpasses that. [She calls
out.] Now father, do you see nothing yet ?
Roder. [Tilts upon his toes and holds his hand
above his eyes.] Nothing mother! The sun blinds
me so.
Rachel. O that we may not have indulged the
thought of happiness in vain ! [Again calling out.]
I)o you see nothing yet father ?
Roder. Ila! There, below! It glitters! There
they come from out of the valley. There they go upon
the mountain yonder. Horse to horse, head to head !
There it is, mother ! there it is !
Rachel. And our son?
Roder. Have patience only! lie cannot now be
very far off. [Whilst she attempts to run out.] Wait!
wait! Who is that coming here riding from the flank ?
In full gallop and already quite near to the village! [He
throws his liat in the air.] Mother! mother! There
he springs ! It is Frederick !
Rachel. O God, ho w I alter! I must run to
meet him. [She runs with outstretched arms from
the stage, and the audience hears behind the scenes.]
My son ! my mother !
SCENE XVIII.
THE SAME RODER, RACHEL, COLONEL.
Colonel. (Who steps in just as Roder enters from
below.) Old venerable father ! (They hasten towards
each other with open arms.)
Roder. Ah, my son! (Embracing him.) Still
once more, my son ! Now I feel for the first time
that my arms have no more any strength ! I cannot
press you to my heart as I once could. But my tears
must tell you the rest. You have a grateful father,
Rachel. (Who places one baud upon his shoul
der while with the other she takes one of his.) O yes!
and so grateful a mother!
Col. Dear, parents! Why do you speak to me of
gratitude? Are you indebted to me, or rather am I
not indebted to you ?
Roder. Hush, hush, dear son ! I will say it to my
God, and I will tell it to all the world, that you have
recompensed me far more than I have ever given you.
You are my only consolation ; the entire happiness of
my old age. You maintain, you possess my life.
Rachel. You cause us thousand fold, unspeaka
% joy. “ y
Col. And is not that even my greatest joy? Would
my prosperity be prosperity if your love did not share it ?
Believe me, my parents ! my honorable parents ! You
arc ever present to my mind. I have often thought
how much of my fortune I could have won without your
assistance. I have enjoyed it then only when I plac
ed your happiness before ir.e. And even now—now
at this blessed moment. llow your tenderness pene
trates my soul ! llow your tears transport me ! tears
whieh 1 sec in your eyes : (Taking a hand of each of
his parents and looking at them alternately.) Oh, my
parents! I cannot yet satisfy myself in your blessed
presence But collect yourselves now! Be calm !
My present stay will bo quite short—what do you do ?
How do you live? Where is my sister whom I have
known only in the cradle? Let me see her !
Roder. Yes, yes I will run, son; I will run (af
ter turning a step back.) But heavens ! what a flurry
I am in ! I forgot to tell you:—
Rachel. Dearest son ; she would perhaps become
unhappy without you. Even now.
Roder. This moment a sub-offiecr took away her
groom ; fortunately he is now here. —lie waits for a
ransom of thirty dollars, which I suffered myself to
promise him, because I calculated upon yonr arrival.
O joy, that youare now here !
Col. Go, go, dear father! Bring her here, and say
not a word to him, concerning my presence. Nor
say anythig to her !
llodcr. My God ! llow can Ido that ? I must
rather call every body here with as loud voice as I cau.
lie is here ! he is here ! [Exit.]
SCENE XIX.
Col. (Looks around him for the first time and takes
his mother by her hand.) How beautiful it still is here!
Now for the first time do I perceive that here is my
native spot. There is the cottage, mother, upon which
I often turn a wishful gaze. Here the green lawn
where we, with our neighbors, often seated ourselves
in a lovely summer’s eve. There the hill upon whieh
I rolled in my boyish sports. O, ye days of childhood !
Sweet, happy years ! And whither I look, mother,
there falls upon me someone of the proofs of your ten
derness! Bui lam astonished at you. Why is your
joy so mute ?
Rachel. It is so great dearest son. My heart can
not expand wide enough to let it forth. But I must go
and weep it out. And then I think also
Col. Hold it not back, mother. What do you
think ?
Rachel. That you now are no more our equal:
that you have become distinguished and above us in
rank. You are now our superior.
Col. I rank above you ? O, stifle the thought!
Are you not my mother? Am I not your son? Must
you not be even dear and venerable to mo ? Am I not
convinced, that there is no heart in the world, which
could love me so mueh as yours ? And shall not I
feci the highest love for you? (He embraces and
kisses her.) Believe me mother ! I love you as truly
as ardently as ever.
Rachel. Yes I believe you do, and I deserve it
also of you. So many sorrowful nights have I laid by
vour father's side, and wept myself weary. I have
often thought I would Dever see you again.
SCENE XX.
RACHEL, MARGARET, COLONEL.
Margaret. (To herself as she comes along.) What
can it be that father should send me hither ? (Shrieks.)
Halloo! An officer !
Col. (Speaks low to Rachel.) Is it she, mother ?
(Rachel nods to him, and he goes up to her to kiss her.)
What a lovely maiden !
Margaret. (Resistshim.) Ofy now. Mr. Officer !
Raehel. Why, Margaret. It is your dear brother.
Col. See with what eyes she looks upon me! Yes,
your own dear brother, Margaret, and 1 will hope, your
dear brother.
Margaret. (Steps up to him with an air of plea
santry.) Well now, not brother Fred ?
Gol. (Kissing her.) Dear, little creature !
Margaret. (Runs to her mother, beside herself
I with joy.) 0 heavens, mother! Now are all our trou
; bles over. .
SCENE xxr.
RODER, RACHEL, MARGARET, COL. MICHAEL, SERGEANT.
sacristan, kate, and farmers of the village.
Roder. (Pointing to his son.) Here, Mr. Ser
geant ! Here is the man who will pay you the thirty
dollars.
Sergeant. (Frightened.) What do 1 see ? An
officer ? (He pulls off his hat respectfully. Margaret
runs up to her gruom. The farmers look now upon
each other, then upon the Colonel, aud seem to un
derstand that he is Roder’s Son.)
Roder. Yes that is he, my child. He is my son.
Rejoice with me all of you ! llow can I rejoice enough
by myselt!
Col. You have been violent here my friend ? Where
is your order ?
Sergeant, [presents it to him in a timorous man
ner :] Here it is, Cr’onel!
Col. Os what company ado you ?
Sergeant. Os tlie CaptaieUof Bloomingdale.
Col. [After he has examined the order.] And
do you dare to hand me this false order ? I know
your chieftain, and I know you also. What is your in
tention ? First to extort money from your King’s sub
jects, and afterwards, because you are here upon the
bouudary, to desert his service ?
Sergeant, [in a supplicating tone.] Colonel !
Col. Silence, villain ! You have ever loved the
soldier’s garb only as a privilege to base villany ! It
is time you should receive your punishment. [Speaks
low to the farmers in the back ground.] Take him in
custody, my men, until upon further orders! Secure
his accomplices, and carry them all together to the
Judge! [Exeunt the prisoner and farmers with the
exception of a few who remain behind.]
SCENE XXII.
The same with the exception of the Sergeant and a
few farmers.
Col. Come Margaret! Come Michael! Youare
my dear sister, and I promise you to come to your
wedding. I myself will bear its expenses.
Kate and Michael. Ah, dear Colonel !
Farmers. [Come confidently up to him.] The
brave Lord ! So you are not ashamed of us then, A
thousand times welcome, noble Colonel! Yes, we
have always rejoiced whenever we heard of your good
fortune. [The Colonel gives one hand to the farmer
and another to the Sacristan, who steps up to him with
many compliments.]
Roder. All, son, all that I see of you rejoices me.
But more still what I have before heard of you. Have
you always dealt true in your soldier’s station ?
Col. Always, dear father! For that, I thank yours
and my mother’s instruction. There is no place in the
world, where one could convey me, but that I hope,
there would be someone who wouid bless me. [Pulls
out his watch.] But, my time is already out. I must
away, dearest parents 1
Rachel. Already away ? Already away ?
Roder. O wait a moment! \Ve have hardly had
time to get happy in your presence !
Col. I must go, dearest parents ! Believe me that,
my heart would hold me fast here, if duty did not call
mu away ! Dare I now make a request of you before
I go?
Roder. and Rachel. By ai.’taeans ! by all means!
Col. Then como, -'UL Conw oml ro
sign yourself to live with rWj’ Rule in my house, as
you rule in my heart! Let®, that is mine, be yours
also ? _
Roder and Rachel. Dearest bon’—
Col. No, not if you are unwilling. It would be
no happiness for me, were it none for you.
Roder. We are old, dearest son, and we wait for
death. Let us die here where we have lived! Let
us die in this little hut, which is so dear to us! In this
hut where you were born. Only visit us here often, we
beseech you.
Col. Certainly ! certainly !
Rachel. And we, dearest son, we will visit you in
return. We will cause you many a happy day, and on
our way thither, and on our way back, we will thank
God, that Lie ever gave us such a Son !
Now Printing Machine.
Several gentlemen connected with the press
in Paris, and the head of a large printing estab
lishment in Scotland, assembled on Saturday
at the manufactory of M. de Coster, to witness
the performance of anew punting machine,
invented by M. Worms. The machine, from its
simplicity and its mode of execution, promises
to cause a total revolution in printing. Jt occu
pies a much smaller space than the machines
which are now in use at some of the great print
ing establishment in Paris and London, cost
less than half the pi ice at which one of those
can be had, and is free from the tapes and gui
ders, which frequently get out of order, and oc
casion considerable delay. It requires only the
labor of three men to feed it, and receive the
work as.it is thrown off, whereas from 12 to 16
are required with each of the machines that it
is expected to replace. From its simplicity and
comparative compactness, the power of steam,
as a moving power, may also in some cases be
dispensed with, as it can be worked by hand.
This new machine, which is called rotative,
does not print from the type, but from stereo
type, and this is the most extraordinary partof
the process. In the ordinary process of stereo
typing several hours are required, for the mate
rial used for receiving the impression of the type,
and which serves as the mould in which the
stereotype is cast, must be carefully and slowly
dried. The mould for the stereotype of this
new process is made of a few sheets of tissue
paper, with a couple of sheets of common paper
at the back to give a certain degree of strength.
The paper is wetted to the proper degree, and
then passed upon the type. The impression is
perfect. The mould is then dried, which is the
work only of a few minutes, and placed on a cyl
inder, with a sufficient space between it and an
outer case to receive the metal. This metal,
which is very liquid, and which is prepared in a
peculiar way, flows rapidly and evenly over ev
ery part of the mould, and by the application
of a cold wet sponge to the interior, it becomes
almost instantly solid. The mould is then re
moved and transferred to the cylinder of the
machine ready for printing. One part of the plate
fits in exactly to a groove made to receive it,
and the other part is held by screws. The whole
of the stereotyping does not occupy more than
from fifteen to twenty-five minutes. The ac
tion of the machine differs entirely from any
thing hitherto invented. There is no laying on
of the sheets to be printed. A continuous sheet
of paper equal to 2,000 or more sheets of a
newspaper, is rolled on a cylinder, and, as the
machine turns, the place on the printing cylin
der is fed, and by the action of the machine
itself the paper is divided at the proper place
into sheets of the desired size, and each sheet is
folded at the same time. The paper which
receives the impression is not wetted, as in our
printing processes —it is placed on the cyliuder
as it comes from the paper maker, but so cer
tain and regular is the pressure, that the im
pression on this dry paper is equal, if not supe
rior, to that obtained upon damped paper in the
ordinary way. There is an index affixed to the
machine, to indicate the rate at which it gees,
by the number ofsheets thrown off. When the
continuous sheet, equal to two thousand copies
of a journal, is exhausted, the cylinder is replac
ed by another, and so on. It is said that as
many as fifteen thousand copies of a journal
can be printed in on hour by this machine. The
gentlemen who witnessed the process on Sat
urday, expressed their admiration of it, and
could see no defects which a very little practice
will not remove. The great advantages of this
new invention are, economy in the outlay for a
machine, the cost of which is only 25,‘000 francs,
while the machine of the Patrie, winch has ex
cited so much notice, cost GO,OOO francs; the
immense saving in type, for the type itself being
used only for the stereotyping process, under
goes scarcely any wear, and inste and of renew
ing a font ever year, twenty years’ service by
this process could scarcely reduce the sharpness
of the letters; economy in labor, and rapidity
of execution, almost without the possibility of
delay from any derangement in the machine.—
GalignanVs Messenger.
Connecticut Forever.
We have a story to tell, and m ust tell it—and
must tell it in our own way. The reader will
please not bother us with any questions.
A few days ago a Connecticut broom pedlar,
a shrewd chap, from over among the steady
habits and wooden clocks, and school masters,
and other fixings, drove through our streets
heavily laden with corn brooms, lie had call
ed at several stores and offered his load, or ev
er so small a portion of it; but when he told
them that he wanted cash, and nothing else, in
payment, they lmd universally given him to
understand that they had got brooms enough,
and that he might go farther. At length he
drove up to a large wholesale establishment
on the West side, and not far from the bridge,
and once more offered his “wares.”
“ Well,” said the merchant, “ I want the
brooms badly enough: but what will you take
for pay ?”
This was a poser. The pedlar was aching to
get rid of his brooms, but he would sooner sell
a single broom for cash than the whole load for
any other article—espeecially an article that he
could not as readily dispose of as he could
brooms. After a moment’s hesitation, there
fore, he screwed up his courage to the sticking
point—(it required some courage after having
lost the chance of selling his load half a dozen
times by a similar answer) —and frankly told the
merchant that he must have cash.
Os course the merchant protested that cash
was scarce, and that he must purchase, if he
purchased at all, for what he had in his store to
pay with. lie really wanted the brooms, and
did not hesitate to say so ; but the times were
hard, and he had notes to pay, and he had goods
that must be disposed of. Finally, be would
put his goods at the cost price for the sake
of. trading, and would taka tha whola load of
brooms which tlic pedlar had labored so unsuc
cessfully at other stores to dispose of.
“So,” said he to the man from Connecti
cut, “unload your brooms, and then select any
articles from my store, and you shall have them
at cost.”
The pedlar scratched his head. There was
an idea there, as the sequel shows plainly
enough.
“I’ll tell you what it is,” he answered, ‘'just
say them terms for half the load, and cash for
t’other half, and I’m your man. Plowed es I
don’t sell out, es Connecticut sinks with all her
broomstuff the next minute.”
The merchant hesitated a moment but finally
concluded the chance a good ono. He would
be getting half of the brooms for something
that would not. sell as readily ; and as for the
cost price it would be an easy matter to play
gammon in regard to it, The bargain was con
cluded—the brooms brought in. The cash for
half of them was paid over,
“ Now w hat will you’ harc for the remainder
of your bill?’’ asked the merchant.
The pedlar scratched his head again, and this
time most vigorously. lie walked the floor;
drummed with his fingers on the head of a
barrel —whistled. By and by his reply came
—slowly, deliberately.
“You Providence fellers are cute; you sell at
cost, pretty much all of ye, and make money;
I don’t sec how ’tis done. It must be that
somebody gets the worst of it. Now I don't
know what your goods cost, barrin’ one article,
and es I take any thing else I may get cheated.
So, seein’ as it won’t make any odds with you,
I guess I’ll take brooms. I know them like a
book, and can swear to what you paid for ’em.”
And so saying, the pedlar commenced re
loading his brooms, and having snugly deposit
ed one half of his former load, jumped on his
cart with a regular Connecticut grin, and while
the merchant was cursing his impudence and
his own stupidity, drove in search of another
customer.— Providence Post.
The Model Husband.
The follow ing description of a “ Model Hus
band’’ appeared in the Boston Olive Branch.
It is, says the editor, from the pen of a lady in
good position in society, and the presumption,
therefore, “ that the model husband is the true
style of husband, and what all good married
men should be. In looking over,” he further
remarks, nearly forty years of our marriage life,
we find that our good wife has never exacted
quite so much of us, but she merely waived
her rights, we suppose.”
His pocket book is never empty when his
wife calls for money. He sits up in bed, at
nights, feeding Thomas Jefferson Smith with a
pap spoon, whilst his wife takes a comfortable
nap and. dreams of new shawl she means to
buy at Warren’s the next day! 4 s “onegood
turn deserves another,” he is allowed to hold
Tommy again before breakfast, while Mrs.
Smith curls her hair. He never makes any
complaints about the soft molasses ginger
bread that is rubbed into his hair, coat, and vest,
during these happy, conjugal seasons. He al
ways laces on his wife’s boots, lest the exertions
should make her red in the face before going
out to promenade Washington street. He nev
er calls any woman “pretty,” before Mrs. Smith.
He never makes absurd objections to her re
ceiving boquets, or the last novel, from Captain
this, or Lieutenant that. lie don't set his
teeth and stride down to the store like a victim,
every time bis wife presents him with another lit
tle Smith. He gives the female Smiths French
gaiter boots, parasols and silk dresses without
stint, and the boys, new jackets, pop guns ve
locipedes and crackers, without any questions
asked. He never breaks the seal of any of his
i wife’s billet doux, or peeps over her shoulders
while whe answered the same. lie never bolds
the drippings of the umbrella over her new
bonnet while his last new hat is innocent of a
rain drop. lie never complains when he is lab
home to dinner, though the little Smiths have
left him nothing but bones and crust.
He never takes tlie newspaper and reads it,
befo.re Mrs. Smith lias had a chance to run over
advertisements, dream and marriages, Ac. He
always gets into bed first, cold nights, to take
off the chill for his wife. He never leaves his
trowsers, drawers, shoes, Ac. on the floor,
when he goes to bed,for his wife to break her neck
over, in the dark, if the baby wakes and needs
a dose of Paregoric. If the children in the next
room scream in the night, he don’t expect his
wife to take an airbath to find out what is the
matter. lie Ims been known to wear Mrs.
Smith’s night cap in bed, to make the baby
think he was its mother.
When he carries the children up to be chris
tened, lie holds them right end up, and don’t
tumble their frocks. When tlie minister asks
him the name ; he says “Lucy—Sir,’’ distinct
ly, that he may not mistake it for Lucifer. He
goes home and trots the child till the sermon
is over, while his wife remains in church to re
ceive congratulations of the parish gossips.
If Mrs. Smith has company to dinner, and
there are strawberries enough.and his wife looks
at him with a sweet smile, and offers to help
him (at the same time kicking him gently with
her slipper under the table) lie always replies,
“No thank you, dear, they don’t agree with
me.”
Lastly. lie approves of “ Bloomers” and
“pettiloons,” for he says women will do as they
like; he should as soon think of driving the
nails in his own coffin as trying to stop them.
AN EXCITING SCENE.
A few days since, on board a steamer from
Memphis to Cincinnati, was a very large crowd
of passengers. Our attention was drawn to
the unsuual number of passengers flocking
below on deck: With the captain and two or
three officers of the boat, we joined the crowd
in search of an incident to drive away the
monotony of a steamboat trip. Arriving at
the spot which seemed the centre ot the ex
citement, we found a man in quaker like at
tire sitting upon a large chest, declaring that
it should not be broken open unless they killed
him. Soon from the chest, as if in distress,
was heard a voice apparently of a colored per
son.
‘•Let me out —-l had rather go back to mas
sa—oh. mercy! I can’t stay here any longer. 1
“Look here, my friend,” says tlie captain,
“you'll have io get ollThat chest.”
“I’ll be darned if 1 do,” he replies.
“Oh, dear! let me out, let me out,” came
distinctly from the chest, as it in apparent suf
focation.
“Mate,” said the captain, “bring some men,
take that person oft’ that chest and break it
open.”
The person showing fight, was seized by
the passegers, all believing he was carrying
off Mr. Darkey, contrary to law made and
provided. The mate seized an iron bar and
forced it between the lid and body ot the
ehest.
“Oh. don't! you’ll kill me,” says the slifled
voice; “I want to get out; I want to go back;
oh, dear! I shall die.”
“Hold out a few minutes longer,’’ said a
good natured philanthropic person, stepping
out, “you shall soon be released.’
Quite an intense feeling was now raised in
the crowd, when the mate forced off the lid
as it came from the chest an unearthly demoniac
laugh came from the old clothes with which i:
was filled, and no sign or appearance of any
living thing. Amazement appeared on the
countenances of the before angry but now
bewildered lookers on. We were shortly after
let into the mystery by the captain, who in
formed us of what he was before aware, but
had forgotten, that the inimitable Ventrilo
quist, the “Fakir of Siva,” stood by, an appar
ently anxious spectator of the proceedings.
The Home and Grave of the Aitiior
OF THE D- ...ARVTIOX OF INDEPENDENCE. A
correspr of the Uniontown Democrat,
who has’ SO yisited Monticello, the resi- |
dence of Jefierson, thus ffe.sciike* U’ “The
interior of the house is just as Jefferson loir, it,
except the furniture, which is all gone, save
some paintings, mirrors, Ac. The house,
both outside and inside, bears all the evidence
of neglect and decay, but it still retains all its
fair proportions, and its venerable outline
grown grey and mossy by time and neglect
perhaps adds, rather than otherwise, to its ap
pearance, particularly to a stranger. And the
venerable aspen trees, growing around, throw
a kind of melancholy over everything, that
seems to whisper in your ear, and point you
about three hundred yards down the woods to
the grave of him who planted them—to the
humblest grave in appearance that ever held
the ashes of human greatness. I made a sketch
of it.
“I enclose you a little flower from a branch
of vines said to have been planted by Jefferson
himself, beneath tlie window of the room in
which lie died ; they have spread all over the
side of the house.’’
One.—One hour lost in the morning by lying
in bed, will put back all business oftheday.
One hour gained by early rising is worth
one month of labor in a year.
One hole in a fence will cost ten times as
much as it will do to fix it at once.
One diseased sheep will spoil a whole flock.
One unruly animal will learn all others in
company bad tricks, and the Bible says one
sinner destroys much good.”
One drunkard will keep a family poor and
make thpm miserable,
One wife that is always telling how fin® hr
neighbor dresses, and how little she can geb
will look pleasanter if she talks about some
thing else.
One husband that is penurious or lazy, and
deprives his family of necessary comforts, such
as their neighbors enjoy, is not as desirable a
husband as he ought to be..
One good newspaper is one good thing in
every family.
Wages in Oregon—A clergyman who
formerly resided in New \ork, thus writes
from Oregon; Carpenters make from eight to
twelve dollars a day,laborers five dollars, wash
men get from three to four dollars a dozen for
washing. Healthy persons, who are accus
tomed to work and willing to work, make
money rapidly.
DANGER OF ELECTIONEERING.
The X. O. Picayune rejoices in the pos
sesion of a live Yankee as a correspondent,
who having wandered as far south as Loui
sana, pedling notions, has settled down some
where in the Caddo count! y, or some other
undi ‘Covered region of the State, and there
concluded to run tor Congress. The follow
ing extract of a letter to the editor of the
Picayune, desciibing one of his electioneer
ing tours, is a specimen of the luck he had
in this delightful’business?
“W ell, I put up with a first-rate, good na
tured feller that I met at a billard table. I
went in and was introduced to his wife, a
fine fat woman, who looked as though sho
lived on laffia; her face was so full of fun.
After a while—-after we’d talked about my
gal, and about the garden and about the
weather, and so on in came three or four
children, iallin and skppiu as merry as crick
ets. There warift no candle lit, but I could
see they were line looking fellows, and I star
ted lor my saddle bags, in which I had put a
lot of sugar candy for the children, as I went
along. “Come here,’’ said I, “you little rogue,
come along here, and tell rne what your name
is;” the oldest then came up to me and says he?
“My name is Peter Smith sir,”
“And wbat*s your name, sir?” said I.
“Bob Smith, sir.”
The next said his name was Bill Smith,
and the fourth said his name was Tommy
Smith. Well I gave ’em sugar candv, and
old Miss Smith was so tickled that she laughed
all the time. Mr-Smith looked on but didn’t
say much. “Why,” says I, ‘‘Miss Smith I
wouldn't take a good deal for them four boys
it 1 had ’em, they’re so beautiful and sprigbt
iy*
“No, says she luft'in, “I set a good deal of
store by ’em, but we spile ’em too much.”
“Oh no, says I, “they’re ra’al well be
haved children, and by gracious says I, pre
teding to be started by a sudden idea (Ts a
striking resemblance ’tween them boys and
their father, and I looked at Mr. Smith, “I
never did see nothing equal to it,” says I—
vour eyes, mouth, forehead, a perfect picturo
ot you, sir,” says I tappin’ the oldest on the
pate. 1 thought Miss Smith would have died
a laffin at that; her arms fell down by her side,
and her head fell back, and she shook the
hull house latlin.
“Do yon think so, Colonel Jones?” says
she, and she looked towards Mr. Smith, and I
thought she’d go off in a fit.
“Yes,” says I “I do really think so.”
“Ha, ha, ha—-how-wP’ says Mr. Smith,
kinder half-laffin, “you re too hard on me now,
with your jokes.*,
“I ain’t jokin at all,” says I, “they're hand
sum children, and they look wonderfully like
you.”
Just then a gal brought in a light, and 1,11
be darned if the little brats didn’t turn out to
be mulattoes, every one of’em, and their hair
was as curly as the blackest niggers. Mr.
and Mrs. Smith never had any children, and
•hey sort ofpetted them little niggers as plav
things. 1 never fell so streaked as I did
when I see how things stood. If I had’nt
kissed the little nasty things, 1 coaid a got over
it; but kissing on ’em showed that I was in
airnest, (though! was soft soapin’ on ’em all
the time how lo get out of the scrape I didn’t
know. Mrs. Smith laffed so hard'Xvhen she
see how confused I was that she almost suffo
cated. A little while afterwards there was a
whole family of relations arrived from the city,
and turned the matter off; but next morning 1
could see Mr. Smith did not like the remem.
brance of what I said, and I don’t believe he’ll
vole for me when the election comes on. I
’spec! Miss Smith kept the old fellow under
that joke for some time.
TAKING NOTES.
A great many years ago, when there were
slaves in Masachusetts, and some of the best
men in the community owned them,there was a
clergyman in a town in Essex connty, whom
we may call Rev. Mr. Cogs\vil, who had an
old and favorite servant by the name of Cuffee.;
As was often the case, Cuffee bad as much lib
erty to do as he pleased as any body else in
the house ; and he probably entertained a high
respect for himself.
Cuffee on the Sabbath might have been seen
in the master’s pew, looking round with a grand,
air and so far as appearance indicated, profiting
quite as much by hie master’s preaching
as many others about him.
Cuffee, noticed, one Sunday morning,
several gentlemen were taking notes of the ser
mon ; and he determined to do ‘he same thing.
So, in the afternoon, be brought a sheet of pa
per, and pen and ink. The mimster happen
ing ‘o look down, into his pew, could hardly
maintain bis gravity, as he saw’ his negro, -
“ spread out” to his task, with one side of his
(aco nearly touching the paper, and his tongue
thrust out of his mouth. Cuffee kept at his
notes, however, until the sermon was conclu
ded, knowing nothing and caring as little,
about the wonderment of his master.
.a.When the minister reached home, be sentl
for Cuffee to come into his study.
“ Well Cuffee,” said he,“ what were you
doing in meeting this afternoon ?
“Doing, Massa? Taking notes” w’as the reply.
“ You, taking notes !” exclaimed the inas
er.
“ Sartin, Massa?” all the gentlemen take
notes,
“ W ell let me see- them,” said Mr. Cogs
well.
Cuffee thereupon produced his sheet of pa
per; and his master found it scrawled all over
with all sorts of marks and and lines, as though
a down of spiders, dipped in iuk had marched
over it.
“ Why, this is all nonsense,’, said the min
ister. as ho looked at the notes.”
“ W’ell, Massa,” Cuffee replied, I thought so
; all the time you were preaching?”—Carpet
| Ba S-
A wicked wag once courted a buxom house
maid, and he should have been prepared to
marry her, decamped to parts unknown.
“ Well Ann,” said her mistress, “ you’ve
lost your beau, hav’nt you !”
“ Oh no indeed, inarm, he'll come back, fox
[ have his promise to marry me, and in wri
ting too !’’
“ Indeed let ine see it, won’t you ?”
So out from between the leaves of her Bi
ble, Ann produced a sort of promissory note,
reading as follows :
“ I promise to marry Ann T , ninoty
I days after date, value received. J— B
NO. 2L