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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