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[For the Citizen.]
-, a ys that Were and Days that Are.
- years ago I stood beside Life’s Sea,
’ o’er which Hope’s glit’ring arch did sweep,
• ll its tints so bright, it seemed to me,
Their lovely glow they’d ever keep.
, iW d with an enchanted, eager eye,
\nd felt warmth upon my cheek,
,t told the heart’s quick bound, its purpose high
of fadeless joys it dared to seek.
. inmeringlight came dancing o’er the wave—
r,ieught I thought could never fade ;
•caters play’d amid their crystal caves :
?w(t t music with the breeze they made.
, rrfes! I stray’d along the rippling shore :
jy feet scarce touch'd the waters bright—
i.,J gathered shells among the sands that wore
The rosy hue of Love’s own light.
\ndss I strayd.a gentle, silv’ry voice,
Was mingled with the titful breeze;
Oh maiden stay,” it said, “and make thy choice
With me, upon these stormless seas.”
, m(i dearest, com* ;my sails e'en now ar* spread;
See how they gleam, like wings of light—
l ie winds are fair and fresh—we’ll glide ahead,
Nor mist, nor cloud, shall dim thy sight.
I felt the tender pressure of a hand,
The breath of Love upon my cheek ;
tnd words more potent than a. magic wand,
Brought purest joy the heart could seek.
r*&s mid the glories of a summer’s eve—
A thousand stars, their beauty shed
o'er earth’s fair scenes, and fragrant blooms did leave,
Their breath on every hill and glade.
The night-bird thrill’d its soft low song near by,
Pilling the soul with tender joy ;
I heard Love’s vow, yet answered with a sigh :
For purest Love seems often coy.
*****
Our bark was launch'd mid golden dews of night,
Kindred, and friends, and home we left ;
Why should we fear, with all around so bright,
Where none, our love could from us rest?
oh pleasantly we sail'd, ’mong islands green,
On whose fair shores w lov'd to rest;
cloud had yet obscured the glorious sheen
Os Love and Hope; we still were blest.
And as we sailed, two dawning stars shown out-,
That cast their pure and radiant beams
On ev’ry wave; ah, then, we could not doubt,
That life to us was what it seems.
Now came a cloud that threw its shadow o’er
The sea, and on my heart did rest —
! jaied around, above ; each object wore
its hue; no golden light streamed from the west.
The music of the breeze I could not hear :
It floated past in whispered moans,
1 >t wildly- rush’d upon my frighted ear,
Bringing a dreary spell with its weird tones,
i *t in the midst, I caught those tones of love,
tOh now they ring upon my ear,*)
And saw the holy glance, that looked above,
Indimmed by doubt, dismay or wild despair.
Ihe fearful storm each moment wilder grew—
Starless the heavens, and black as night,
■ ere was a shock—a piercing cry of wo,
And all was still—and quenched each light.
•tnseless I fell, nor knew that I alone,
Upon the sea of Life was out—
s: future years should find me drifting on,
Appalled with grief, with fear and doubt.
Until the light of reason slowly came ;
Where was the voice and where the hand
■ had so loved? more than the proudest fame
That glorious geaius can command.
Alas! the one was hush’d, the other cold,
Beneath the dark and trustless wave,
And I'm alone, amid the mist and mould
Os blight—none darker has the grave.
Aione? I had forgot those fair bright stars,
The only light that on the sea,
’ternsbeautiful—makes me forget the cares
And hopeless days that weigh on me.
M. ♦. * *.
<5 ft
[For the Citicen.]
Leaves from my Dial}.
BY J. GIERLOW.
Yes, the nations belonging to the 1
,rst a ? e of history may indeed be compared
children: for, how is it possible, that man j
-uld be a flower of the earth and a pictur e
j ‘ tUe “hole, and himself be a whole world,
|‘ ‘ • life not resume that of the whole his- .
j —yes that of the whole earth ?
hat let us here consider what already man
‘Cits ‘ tse lf and lives in a child. Truly lam
av a..-hed at those primitive ages, and thede
•■— ■al existence of those first nations, when
contemplate a child, and consider, that all :
| h capable of, has been represented in a
nation with that exaltation, which is
Cotl3ec l u cnce of a people’s life being high- ■
• a ‘ a n that of a single individual. Does man
‘ ; une but one instance) in his whole life
* v aU s ,; ‘t again, which is so great and won
* -Ml. as that of learning the first language ?
j ‘ I would fain possess but three things of
I “‘ uc h hves in a child: its wit, its iron-j
and, finally, the attachment with which ;
f -eaves to its mother. * * * *
“I know it well, Heavenly Father! ,
I 6 tUD " 1S no more, when thou wert pleased
children leave their house and !
I sJf ° r<^er *° £° out into the world and
I persecution for thy name’s sake. The
I r . Come > w i ien the peace which pass- |
I “‘- 1 understanding ought to be obtainetl, j
I *• tiae, when we ought to be reasonable, j
IHi a Toca^on on eartli and conform to it. 1
I can not, however, forbear commending
I l “ Ue - when it was refreshment to the j
dn 1 peace to the mind, to make a pil
“V- to the holy sepulchre, or to wander
I ( 16 rern °test parts of the earth in order to
- f t the heathen, and when there was a
• infinitely rich in consolation as well as
I • ••rcy
I1 Ip a * raes most heartily wish, that 1
, c . t one to whom a severe pen
’“posed in the name of a holy church,
‘’ a comfort. Yet, why do I not go
, | a^e u pon me, myself ?Is it indeed j
I J 9 an< i hardship only I stand in need of 1 |
’ in order that my inner life j
i, 1 * J - V ie y iolent resistance of the ex-
L “ de, come forth, and I might once more
, f'ody and with a swelling breast.
,v hy can I not forthwith kneel down
I- re T
st ain and feel the heavy
I L falU “g from my heart ? lam forced
tj, ‘fuou fooll quod petit, hie est—
-ice, where thou must kneel, is here.
Looking for a Domestic Wile. 1
BY KIT CARIVK.
•I hardly know which I like best, Jose
phine Reynolds or Hattie Burke,’ said young
Benson to himselK Josephine is a splendid
looking, a queen in every movement, and
commands admiration wherever she goes;
hut on the other hand. Hattie is a little gem,
and has a sweet disposition, although, per
haps Josephine has as good. Both can shine
in the parlor, and for aught I know, in the 1
kitchen also, as all farmers’ daughters should i
he able to do. l\ ell, 111 call on them, this
• Monday afternoon, and endeavor to decide
the matter. It's washing day, I know; but |
so much the better time to sound on house
hold duties: and as I am going out of town
the fore part of this week, it will he a good
excuse foi t ailing now.’
j George Benson was a smart, intelligent
young man—poor, but engaged in a profita
ble business, which bid fair, in a few years,
to place him in independent circumstances.—
Be wished to marry, but felt the necessity of
wedding someone who was domestic, and
would be a helpmate.
He was very much interested in both Hat
tie and Josephine, and hardly knew which
i he should prefer for a wife, as both had many
excellent qualities, hut finally concluded to
i decide in favor oi the one who should prove
to be the most domestic.
George's walk that afternoon brought him
to Mr. Reynold’s about three o'clock. Jose
phine's mother ushered him into the parlor.
In a few minutes Josephine entered and wel
comed him cordially. To his surprise, in
stead of being fatigued, as one will after a
Monday’s washing, she looked as fresh and j
blooming as a rose, and as trim in her dress
as though ready for a party; while her mo
ther, in her calico working dress, looked jaded
ami care-worn, and referring, by way of
apology, to its being washing-day, soon left
j the room.
•Excuse my calling on Monday, Miss Rev- 1
nolds.’ said George,, but I was going to leave
town for a week, and thought I would hap- .
pen in a few moments before I went.’
<O, you are perfectly excusable,’ replied
Josephine, ‘I am glad, indeed, that you call- !
ed.’
‘I shall make but a short, stay,’ continued !
George, ‘as I presume you are quite w eaiy
your ’
‘O, no, not at all. as I have been down to
the village shopping all the afternoon. Moth
er always does the washing, as I hav’nt any
taste that way.’
Then you have been at liberty all day 1’ I
‘Yes, certainly ; washing day is not differ- j
; ent with me from any other: I never did a
• Monday’s washing in my life. Mother tried
| to initiate me into the mysteries of the art I
| one day, but I was so awkward that she had ,
to give up the experiment; and she said then
that there was no danger of my ever beeom
! iug a wash-woman.’
Indeed!’ said George to himself.
‘Father,’ continued Josephine, ‘would hire
the washing done every week, hut mother
says she had rather do it herself for economy’s
sake.’
‘A knowledge of housework, especially of
cookery, is very desirable in a young lady,’ j
replied George.
T suppose it was once cqpsidered so,’ re- I
plied Josephine; but gentlemen now-a-days i
generally hire their wives a wash-woman and
a house-keeper, and that answers every pur
pose, and saves a lady the trouble of acquaint- |
ing herself with such disagreeable matters. — ;
Gentlemen of the present day do not wish
their wives to be slaves, but companions.’
‘Very convenient logic for the ladies,’
thought George.
Some have a taste for such duties, and pre- :
fer to make themselves acquainted with them,’
said he, ‘for the sake of overseeing their ser- j
vants and knowing for themselves that things
are doue as they should he, if for no other
purpose.’
‘True, hut I'm not of that sort. I ahhor
them. Housework is perfectly hateful—de- j
testable to me. 0, dear. I should consider a
man cruel who wished to confine me to it e
ven part of the time.’
‘Well,’ continued George, drawing a long
breathj for he was surprised to hear Jose
phine express herself so directly contrary to
all his previous notions of a woman’s duties,
; ‘a lady sometimes marries a poor man, and
finds it for her and his interests to confine
herself to circumstances, and attend to duties
which are not agreeable to her, for the sake
of assisting her husband, and rendering his 1
burthen lighter.’
‘Yes, but I make no calculations of that
kind,’ said Josephine firmly, though pleasant
ly, for she was really an agreeable girl, though
allowed to grow up with erroneous notions
in regard to domestic affairs. ‘I prefer not
j to wed a man unless he is able and willing to
support me in ease and style.’
‘Then you would not make the right kiud
; of a wife lor me,’ thought George, thoroughly
sick of Josephine’s remarks; and as soon as
possible he changed the topic of conversa- i
tion.
‘What a lucky escape.’ said our friend, to ;
himself, an hour afterwards, as lie was weud
ing his way towards Hattie Burkes. It is a
good thing for me that I sounded her upon
housekeeping before I proposed, otherwise Ii
might have got myself in a pretty fix. W hat ;
a figure 1 should have cut with such a wife; ;
why, I should have been obliged to turn cook
i and wash-woman myself, for I could not af
ford, in my present circumstances, to hire all
my work done. I should have to stay at
home and wash Monday, iron Tuesday, per
haps. anl bake Saturday, leaving only three
days out of seven to attend to my own busi
ness. What a fix! Beautiful times l should
have —my business would be neglected, and
I should poorer than ever; if I could afford to
hire a housekeeper, it would’nt better the
* case much, as I should have to give the di
rections and see that things were done pro
periv. Josephine is verv far above such de
testable matters, as she calls them. A man
that’s going to have such a wife ought to
know it in time to get initiated into house
hold mysteries before marriage. Such a Miss
would do well fora rich man, but not forme.
, Now for Hattie Burke; and if she turns out
like Josephine in her taste and dislike of do
mestic duties, setting aside the knowledge of
i them, which she cannot avoid having, as all
say her mother has drilled her thoroughly in
them, and is full of whims relating to their be
i ing slavish, Ac., why, then I'll seek a life com
panion in some other part of the country,
and perhaps make it a part of my present
journey abroad to look for one.’
Hattie welcomed him in an old calico dress
with short sleeves, ala wash tub, and with ‘
her brown hair, that generally curled so beau
tifully. gathered up neatly and snugly on the
back of her head.
•I ought to apologize,’ said she, as they
entered the parlor, ‘but I dislike apologies;
and then you know that Monday is washing j
day, and washing day, we farmer’s daughters
have to be in the suds then,’
And there’s where I hoped to find you,
George came near saying; but checking
himself,-he replied,‘l know it, it's part of a
woman's duties, and I am sure an apology
would be out of place!’
‘So I thought.’ said Hattie.
‘I fear I am intruding,’ said George.
‘O, by no means,’ replied Hattie, ‘we are
, through with our washing, which held out
later than usual, as mother has been quite un
j well for a week, and I was obliged to do the
whole of it to-day. You will stay to tea. of
course it will be perfectly convenient. Moth
er’s headache has come on, and she has laid
down, but father will be in presently to en
tertain you.’
George's countenance was brightening up
every moment, and lie began to think his
fear groundless in regard to Hattie, but lie
: was resolved to test her ideas tlioronghlv.
‘What! can you do the cooking also!—
You must enjoy good health to be able to
• perform so much service.’
‘O, yes, returned Hattie. I'm gcnerallv
pretty healthy, and then. I'm loud of it. too.
and you know that is half the battle. Motli
> ereven goes so for as to say, that is sometimes, ;
, I can cook and take care of the house as well
as she. but then that’s her flatterv. of course,
to encourage me.’
‘But such work is hard—some say slavish.’
continued George.
‘T think differently,’ replied Hattie; it is
not slavish, and need not he so hard as many
contrive to make it. There is a right way to
do everything. Some have what is called a
knack, but that is simply finding out the ea
siest way of doing it well; one can make
housework comparatively easy in that way.’
‘Well, some consider it a disgrace,’ contin
ued our hero, and others complain that they :
, have not a taste for it.’
•It is not a disgrace,’ said Hattie; ‘on the
contrary, T think a young lady may be. proud
of a knowledge of housekeeping. Many of
the first ladies in the land have not felt above
; it, and why should I, who am nothing but a
j farmer’s daughter? As for the taste for wash
’ ing , a girl might as well acquire one first as
last. A man’s wife must understand such
things, and the time to learn is when single.
T have often thought how ashamed T should
be, if married, and unable, the first day com
’ mencing housekeeping, to cook my husband
a decent meal. What would he think ? Why
that I was a mere doll, good for nothing but
to look at it; I should cry from sheer vexa
i tion.’
‘Well, really, I begin a’most to think, Hat
tie,’ said George, ‘that you would even con
sent to marry a man who would expect j'ou |
to do housework all your days, if you loved
him, you seem to make such an agreeable |
business of it; but I should have had but lit- |
I tie respect for the man who subjected you to it |
| unnecessarily.’
‘Yes,’ replied Hattie, smiling, ‘if I really j
love a man, his being poor would not lead 1
me to reject him, even if his situation was j
such as to subject me to close attention to
my home duties all my life.’
‘That's the very girl for me,’ said George to
himself, as Ilattie left she room to arrange the
tea-table; ‘I need not look further.’ And
before he left the house that night, he made
an offer of his heart and hand, and was ae- j
cepted.
And so ends our simple sketch. If there
is any moral in it, young ladies of ordinary
discernment will not foil to discover it.
From the American Union.
ANNIE LEE; OK THE BRIDAL
som
BY KATE RANDOLPH.
Annie Lee was a poetess. Nature made
her one, and she sung os the bird sings, and
the (lower sends out fragrance. She lived
with her parents in the beautiful countrj. j
i Annie had many admirers. The old loved
her for her sweetness and simplicity. She
; had lovers, too, men of refinement and cul- |
ture, who looked down into her young heart,
and saw the treasure that lay at the bottom. ,
But as yet Annie loved no one more than
i her parents; she sung her songs from out a
: gushing, happy sold, and rejoiced the hearts i
and made beautiful the lives of all who came j
near to her.
One summer day as Annie sat sewing and j
chatting with her mother, they saw from the
window a stranger guest approaching the
cottage. It was Earnest May, an old friend j
who had been absent ten years from his na
tive country. He had returned with a mind |
richly stored with experience and knowledge j
gained from abroad. Ten years before, he j
had taken Annie Lee in his arms and petted j
her as a pretty and gifted child as she really |
MACOIW, OA. MAY 24, 1836.
was. lie was then a young man of twenty,
Annie a child of seven years.
Annie looked into the face of their guest,,
and wondered how she could have forgotten
her old fi iend. Earnest looked into the beau
tiful poetic eyes of the lovely girl, and thought
he had never seen, even under Italy’s fair
skies a more attractive face. The visit was
brief and soon came to an end. Earnest May
went to his life of his study and thought. An
nie, still aeottage girl, went more often into the
deep wild woods, to weave into graceful song
the fancies that crowded her brain. Anew
inspiration had come to the young girl with
the presence of the stranger. A cord hither
to untouched now thrilled in strange, melody
and Annie’s song was more complete and
harmonious.
Earnest May was not a declared lover. He
1 was ever calm and dignified in his affection
for Annie. He may have loved the beautiful
child but how well no one could tell; per
haps he thought only of her as a gifted child
of song, and so lingered in her presence
chained by sympathy of mind over mind.
Annie did not ask herself if Earnest loved
her. She only felt his kindness, and was
blessed in her own absorbing passion.
One summer day Annie was surprised by
the arrival of Earnest. She had not been
warned of his approach and she sprang over
the door sill with a light, almost wild step*
to welcome him.
‘You did not tell me you were coming,
Earnest, and now I am more glad that you
did not, for the surprise is very sweet.’
‘I have come sooner than I thought to, for
I have something to say to you, Annie. I
love most tenderly, even passionately, a love
ty girl. Do not turn your eves from me, I
am sure you are my good friend.’
‘ls she very beautiful, Earnest?’ said Annie,
trembling.
‘A Yes, Annie, more beautiful than even
your own wildest fancy ever wove into song.
Will you, dear child, when you are in the
glow of your highest imagination, write a
bridal song? and let it be more rich in beauty
than the sky is at midnight with stars. Oh,
Annie, she is divinely beautiful, for a gifted
soul looks out of the soft features, and tinges
the smile and lights the eye with more than
a human beauty. Will you not rejoice with
me. that at last I can sec with a lover’s vis
ion, that the scales have all fallen from dead
eyes, and now every where see newness of
life.’
Annie was silent; she did not say that she
rejoiced in her friend’s happiness.
‘Forgive me Annie for withholding this
secret from you so long. It was sweet to
keep it in my own soul, and gloat over it,
and look at it with a miser's eye. You for
give me, Annie ?’
‘Yes, Yes, I forgive.’
Earnest and Annie did not meet again till
the family circle was gathered for the even
ing. Earnest sat apart from Annie, and en
gaged the old people in pleasant conversa
tion. Annie listened, but looked out into
the night on the soft moonlight on the green
sloping bank she was exerting a more than
physical power over her thoughts, and striv
ing to beat back the low rumblings of the
tumult that deep down in her young ardent 1
nature was bursting into new rebellion.
The effort was too great. A dizziness stole
into Annie’s over-taxed brain. She saw the
trees dancing, the brook waving backward
and forward, and the moonlight shadow
swam before her eyes. She uttered a faint
cry, and would have fallen from her seat, had
not Earnest who had been watching her in
tently, sprang forward and caught her in his
arms.
They took Annie to her bed.
The powerful excitement of the day, with
her effort to conquer it, had created fever in
her veins and hotbrain. Fora week Annie
■ lay in great danger.
In her unconscious state, Annie talked con
stantly of Earnest, of his’beautiful bride, and
jof her own grief. Sometimes she would
fancy she was preparing the bridal wreath,
1 and would call for fresh flowers from the
brook. Again she would repeat the words
of Earnest;
‘Ah, Annie, she ismore beautiful than your
wildest fancy ever wove into song.”
Then she would improvise rhyme, saying,
‘this thall be the bridal soug. I will not be
the naughty child of my dear friend. I will
write him a bridal song, and sing it too at
his wedding.’
‘Earnest, at such times, would listen with
1 the deepest feeling to all those rcvelationsof
her poet soul. He wrote in his tablets each
1 line of the sweet verse she had named the
’bridal song.’ He was never absent from her
side, and the first, object that Annie saw on
the return of consciousness was Earnest May.
She held out her thin white hand to him,
and tried to speak her thanks for his pre
sence.
Many weeks or weariness and languor came
to the poor sick girl ere she could leave her
bed. There seemed to be something holding
her back from health. Her mind was not
quiet anil at rest.
Earnest read the soul of the young girl,
and on each day felt more than ever like a
guilty wretch, who had crushed in his rude
hand a beautiful and fragile flower. Well as
he had imagined he had understood her, he
found he had no conception of the extreme
; delicacy and senitiveness of her nature. No
attention or kindness from him could in any
way wipe out the great wrong he had done
her. But what was in his power to give, lie
gave with earnestness and devotion. It was
i he who sat by her bedside, and strove by
pleasant conversation and reading to entice
her back to health and cheerfulness. His
i arm bore her slight frame from the sick room
into the genial sunshine.
Nor was Earnest wholly unsuccessful in
| his efforts to restore Annie to health ; and j
when the soft air touched her palo cheek,
there sprang up again in her soul a desire to
live, if but to revel in the beauty of nature.
One day Earned bore Annie into the gar
den arbor. Annie was still weak, and very
pale from the effect of her long illness. She
seemed as fragile as an infant in the arms of 1
the strong man. How slight a breath might
nip the beautiful flower; and yet a strong I
will was beating in her bosom, and a brave
heart was in that frail tenement, that was
buoying her bv on the wave of destiny, and
and would surely bear her safely to some pro
tecting harbor.
Earnest drew from bis bosom a tablet upon ,
which were inscribed the lines of the soil”
. • i • . . . ° ,
improvised in Annie’s delirium. He com
menced reading itjto Annie, who sat perfect
ly absorbed in the strange mystery. The
rhyme, the thought was hers, but how could
she account for the traceable lines?
Earnest closed the verse, and replaced the
tablet, and then said in a low voice:—
‘Annie, this is our bridal song.’
Annie turned her beautiful eyes into the
face of Earnest, as if to read the meaning of
his words.
‘Dear Annie, why did you let your wild,
wayward heart mislead you, when I strove
to tell you of my love for you ?’
‘Yourlove for me. dearest Earnest! you
said she whom you loved was very beautiful
and gifted.’
‘And so she is, sweet Annie. Who, An
nie, but you, could have inspired such love
as has blessed and well-nigh wrecked jny
life.’
‘And is it me, dear Earnest, that you loved .
so tenderly, so passionately ?’ And the poor j
girl buried her face in the bosom of Earnest j
and wept, the first happy tears that had touch
ed her cheeks for many long weeks.
‘You, and you only, my beautiful child
poet ?’ and Earnest raised the small head
from his bosom and kissed away the tears as
he playfully said :
‘Haste, Annie, and soon be well, for I long
to sing the bridal song.’
Reader is the story told ?
Daddy Donk** Sermon at Tim
ber Cut.
BV .1. J. HOOPER.
My bretheren, continued Father Donk,
thar’s a thing been on my mind all the time :
I’ve been talking to you this morning.’ Look’s
like the Lord has been callin’ all day for me j
to talk it right out 7 But, my breethren—;
here the parson's voice faltered, and he wip- J
ed his eyes with his hunting shirt—l nately
hate to say the word bekase it’s consarnin’ i
givin up the Church here on Timber Cut
Creek, whar I’ve sowed the good seed—
glory to God—and whar it sprouted and ,
bro’t forth fruit, some fifty and some an hun- ,
dred fold. Breethren, the Church and me
seem to be-a-differin’ un some p’ints o’ faith,
and reckon I'd better go. Yea Lord, thy
will he done, but Timber Cut is dear to the
heart of old Daddy Donk ! Here I’ve striv
and here I’ve snakpoled Satan as far as the
Lord has give me strength. Praise the Lord
I’ve give the varmint’s hide some mighty
tight dressin’s but he is a gittin’ the upper
hand of the Daddy Donk now !
‘Yes, breethren’—here the speaker warm
ed up evidently—‘you that lives away down
here on Timber Cut, don’t know what's n
doin’ away up yonder to Jacksonville; but I
tell you, breethren! Yes, I’ll raise my voice
and tell it so loud, that there shan’t be a man
nor a woman, nor a child, on all Timber Cut,
hut shall hear it— Satan has had another flirt
with the old strumpet of Babylon —and what
d’ye reckon she’s bro’t fortli ? Why Sons-o’
Temperance !
Yes, breethren, and ‘fore you know you’ll
have across of the same stock down here on
Timber Cut! 1 see it a-cotnin’! And right
here, brethren, this fetches me up to thep'int
T was aimin’ at a while ago. Bless God bree
thren, you all know that when old daddy
Donk fust come down on Timber Cut, about j
a year ago thar wam’t but two or three bree
thren of the Two Seed faith on all Timber
Cut! But your old Daddy preached and he
prayed in the neighbor’s houses, and by-and
by breethren we got up a ‘scription to build I
a house to the Lord, and the breethren was
libera l , and we built this nice house—and
hreothren, we had seven dollars and half,
over and above buildin’ the house ofthe Lord!
And the Lord prospered the Church on Tim- j
her Cut* on every hand ; and we took the
money that was over and above the buildin’
of the meetin’ house, and we laid it out in \
fifteen gallons of mighty good corn whiskey for j
the breethren to use on our meetin’ days!
Oh, glory to the Lord, them was the days
when the church on Timber Cut was likt a
srreen hav tree! Then you seed the breethren
a flockin’ in of a Sunday mornin’?—Then
was the time your old Daddy Donk went
down into the water, with somebody or an
other. every metin’ day ! And breethren.—-
here the speaker sobbed between his words
—there was added to the church enduring
the time we had that good sperriU forty-five
members !
Praise God! it was just exactly three to
the gallon , breethren !
But now, breethren, continued the venera
ble Donk with a trembling, plaintive intona
tion, Init now. breethren, them sperrits has \
been out for two meetins. Your old Daddy
comes down every month to see you, and
preach for you, and fight Satan for you, and
thar’s not a drap in the kag!’ The church,
too, is lukewarm, and Satan seems to be a
giftin’ it all his own way. Breethren, I hope
she Lord will bless the church on Timber
Cut, but the wav things is fixed, breethren, |
your old Daddy Donk is satisfied in his own j
mind that the Lord is about to call somebody j
else to take charge of the church on Timber !
Cut, for your old Daddy do not feel willin’ to i
rastle for souls with Satan and give him all
under holt!
Frow the Kdgejirfd Ad-eertieer.
Little Sam Walker.
Mr. Editor: Knowing the disposition of
many of your readers to see the examples of
patriotism, and the solicitations I have had,
is my only appology for giving you a narra
tive which came under my own observation,
which you can use for what it is worth.
It will be remembered that war was de
clared by the United States against Great
Britain, in June, 1812. Shortly after General
Orders were issued in Georgia for a draft of
Militia for regular service. I then resided
l in Lincoln county. A general parade was
ordered, a company volunteered, and I was
soon after elected to command the same.
For some ten months nothing occurred
worthy of note, only a regular course of
drill and disipline. I think it was on the 12th
of August, 1813, by order of Cos! Walton
Harris, iny company paraded at Lincolton
for review, and preparatory for entering ser
vice, at which time three or four substitutes
were offered by those whose business would
not permit of their leaving at that season.
Among the rest the hero of my story, “Lit
tle Sam Walker,” with whom I was then
unacquainted. He had not volunteered, for ;
his age and size twelve months before, had
not brought him into notice; but now he had
grown up and became very anxious to go
into the army. He was not yet seventeen
years old, of sallow complexion and feminine
voice, and weighed about one hundred and
fifteen pounds. After the review, he was
offered as a substitute, when the following
dialogue ensued :
Col. Harris—Young man how old are you? j
Sam Walker—About seventeen, sir.
Col. ll.—Sir, you are very small to go in
to the army.
S. W.—l am, sir, but Tam very willing
to try it.
Col. H.—Do you suppose you are able to
carry a musket, knapsack, &c., and march
thirty miles a day ?
S. W.—l do not know, sir, but I think I
can go as far as any of the oi hers.
Col. ll.—Are your parents willing?
S. W.—l have none, sir—they are dead.
Col. H.—Then is your guardian willing? I
S. W.—l have no guardian, either.
Col. H.—Have you no friend or relations
who would object?
S.W.—‘Squire Bond, sir, is my uncle, and
the Ensign is my brother.
Col. ll.—Call Ensign Walker.
The Ensign was accordingly called and
critically examined about the age, health, <fcc., |
of his brother. He said he had no objection ,
to his brother’s going, hut lie feared that he
was rather young and feeble to undergo the
many hardhips incident to a soldier’s life.
Whereupon Col. Harris observed, “Young
man, you must stay at home a while longer,
and eat more mush, and grow fast, and wait
for the next tour of duty. I regard you too
small to take—you are therefore dismissed.’’ !
Sam Walker turned off reluctantly and
mortified. I then received instructions to
have my company equipped and paraded, at
Lincolnton, in two weeks from that time, to
take up our line of march for the Creek |
Nation, which was accordingly done on the
2Gth of August, 1813. Previous to my de
parture, I was accosted in the street by Sam
Walker, who said :
“Captain, will you let me go with you in
the army ?”
To which I replied in the affirmative.
“But will you see me paid and draw uiy
rations?”
“Certainly I will you sir,” was my prompt
answer.
“Well, Captain, where will you camp to
night ?”
“At Freeman’s Spring, five miles off”
“That’s all that I wish to know. Now
say nothing about it and I'll be with you be
fore day,” whispered my young friend, as
we parted.
Sometime after, Joseph Walker, the En
sign, asked me confidently what Sam intend
ed to do. I told him. He then observed if
I would let him go as a substitute, that he
knew one who would give him all his equip
age and thirty dollars, and that he might as
well have it as nothing. I consented, and
Sam was soon after presented to me as a
substitute and accepted, to the gratification
of the company, and marched off from Lin
coln, with his companions, in regular line to
Fort Hawkins, where they soon drew their
guns and bayonets, and the sentinels posted.
On the third night Sam Walker was put
on guard. And here I must observe that
the* General had not yet arrived, and Col.
Harris, by seniority, had command of the
whole army. The Colonel, in company with
one Major, three Captains and two Doctors,
walked out that evening in the neighbor
hood of Fort Hawkins. During their ab
sence the Officer of the Day changed the
countersign. On their return, at a late hour
of the night, they were accosted by Sam
Walker, just after bis being placed on guard,
who hailed, “Who comes there? ‘
Col Harris replied, “The grand rounds.” ,
S. W.—Advance, sir, and give the coun
tersign.
The Colonel advancing, gave a sign.
S. W.—Stop, sir, that is not the counter
sign, and you are a prisoner, sir.
Col. H.—Y on dare attempt to stop me?
*B. W.—Yes, and you dare to pass me, sir.
and I'll put my bayonet through you, (at
the same time charging upon the Colonel.’) t
Col. II.—(In a bold and commanding tone.)
—Sir, nothing but your ignoranee prevents j
me from taking your heed off
3. W.—You can try it if you like, but if
you attempt to pass here I will kill you if I
can.
Col H.—(More boldly and enraged)—
1 Y—darn’d little scoundrel, do you know
who you are talking to, and that I am the
Commander of this army ? If I don’t pass,
I’ll have your head taken off to-morrow.
S. W.—Well, sir, if you pass here I’ll have
my bayonet in you to-night, and so all of
you set yourselves down as prisoners for the
guard-house. I know you, CoL Harris.
They all obeyed the orders except the one
in the rear, who, during the confab, stole
back and went round, and by some other
sentinel got through the lines. He then
I immediately applied to Maj. Groves, the of
ficer of the day, to go to the relief of his
| friends. The Major, on encountering Sam,
was hailed with “who comes there?”
Maj. G.—The grand rounds.
S. W.—Advance and give the counter
sign.
The countersign was given.
S. W.—Right, sir; pass on. ,
Maj. G.—But I come to release the prison
ers you have.
S. W.—Pass on, sir; you can’t have them
Maj. G.—But 1 must have them—l am
the officer of the day, and have a right to
take them.
S.*W.—l tell you to pass on, sir, for you
shall not have them until I deliver them at
the guard-house.
The Major then passed on, and the prison
ers saw no prospect of relief, until the two
hours passed round. They then resorted to
a stratagem. One of them said he was very
thirsty and proposed going to the spring,
close by, and all rose to their feet, for that
purpose, when Sam cried out, “stop, not a
man leaves only at the risk of his life.” Find
ing they could not scare Sam, one ot them ,
appealed to his liberality and humanity.
Whereupon Sam said, if they would pledge
their honor as gentlemen, and leave their
swords and hats in his custody, they could
go. This was the hardest trial of all; but
finding themselves so completely foiled and
thinking yet to succeed, they submitted and
drew off their swords and hats and went to
the spring, where a consultation was held,
which resulted in the belief that they could
never succeed. And they returned in time
for Sam to march them of!’ to the guard
house, at the expiration of his two hours.
Soon in the morning Sam came to my tent
and related to me the whole circumstance,
and expressed some fears from the threats of
Col. Harris ; but when I told him that he
had done exactly right, and that I would
stand between him and all damages, he as
sumed a confidential air. The whole affair
went like electricity, and Little Sam Walker
was sought after, and soon became as noted
in the army as Col. Harris.
He served a faithful tour through the
campaign, and at the battle of Colleba, the
27th of January, he received a ball in the
shoulder. When the battle was over, and
the wounded collected for surgical operations*
I went to see them, when Sam’s first saluta
tion was, “Well, Captain, they have give it
to me, but they have not got me yet.” We
soon had the ball extracted, when Sam
claimed it of the Doctor, and said if the In
dians returned, he intend and to give it back
to them, lie did his duty like a hero, and
returned to Lincoln, the theme of praise in
every crowd. R. Parks.
[From the Montgomery Advertiser A Gazette.]
Another Letter from one of the
KanuaN Emigrants.
Independence’ Jackson Cos. Mo.-) j
April 30. 185 G. )
Gentlemen. —We left St. Louis on Wed- j
nesday, 23d inst. aboard the steamer Key
stone, which, besides Buford's company of
over 300, had many passengers, so that there
was scarcely room to stand upon her any
where. Some shrewd thief availed himself of i
uproar and confusion of the embarkation to
break open Buford's trunk and abstract there
from about $2,000. It was done so quickly
as almost to amount to legerdemain. The
trunk was carried aboard well strapped and
secure, and in a minute after was found, the
straps burst, the lock broken, and the money
gone. A bran new chisel, lying near, show
ed us how the robbery liad been effected;
but, as yet there is no clue to the enterprising
and successful gentleman who made use of
it. This disastrous accident alone excepted,
we got along as well as 500 men on one
steamboat could have looked for. There was
much cramming and squeezing, occasional
violations of the second, and declarations of
intention to violate the fifth commandment,
protracted sessions at the dinner table, and
very little sleep. Still, nobody got into a
tight, and only one man tell overboard, and
he not a member ofthe company. It was at
night and we did not see him, but heard bis
cry for assistance, at first loud and high, but
then feeble and more distant, as he buffeted |
with the terrible current of the Missouri; ,
and though we cannot tell what became of
him, we can hardly hojie tliat he made the
shore.
The Missouri is a very different river from
the one into which it Hons or rather rushes.
It is the largest of the two streams at the 1
junction, and ought not to lose its name.— ,
Coming in with such force as to carry its mud- j
dy waters almost entirely across the Missis- !
sippi, it imparts its own character to that I
stream ; anil though their united floods roll j
on with a less furious current, the whitish
mud of tlie Missouri maintains its supremaev
to the Gulf. The enormous deposit which it
makes is continually changing the channel so :
that a pilot's experience is of little use to him
—the Missouri of 5G being entirely different
from the Missouri of ‘55. Consequently, we
were constantly heaving the lead, and in i
spite of our precautions, got aground about a
dozen timee a day.
Wt* reached Lexington on Sunday morn
ing, about 10 o’clock, and there received the ‘
first evidence of tire appreciation of this peo- j
pie of Buford’s undertaking. The wharf was i
NO.
i thronged, and with a fine brass hand at our
head, we marched to the Courthouse, where
a most generous welcome was offered us in
I ] 0
a stirring speech by Gen. Win. Shields, eve
, ry sentence of which was responded to by
i- the great crowd that jammed the Court room
with an enthusiasm that testified the sinceri
ty of their joy at our arrival. They turned
| the Sunday iuto a Southern holiday. The
congregations abandoned their churches, and
, the Rev. Mr. Acres, one of the most eminent
of their pulpit orators, mounted the rostrum
and moved our hearts with an admirable
speech—which while it glowed with the fire
of a Southern patriot’s spirit, had in it noth
ing winch the purest Christian might not ap
prove. The citizens then escorted the com
pany back to the boat, and they departed a
bout 12 M., for Kansas city.
Mr. Johnston, my friend, not being very
well, and the crowd on the boat being unfa
vorable to his improvement, we determined
to take the land route for Kansas City, and
: stayed over.
On Monday by appointment, I made &
speech, and from the wild and incredible en
thusiasm with which every pro-slavery sen
timent was received, instead of being in a far
distant town, two thousand miles from home,
and within two hundred miles of Buffalo
Range, in the cold North-west, you would
hake imagined that you were in Barbour Cos.
surrounded by the Southern Rights maniacs
of July, 1851. As I came down from the
stand, they ran up and hugged me in their
arms, and immediately, without any solicita
tion on my part, subscribed $1,600 to help
Buford furnish and subsist the men.
Now, gentlemen, in respect to the beauty,
the wealth, the refinement, and the elegant
taste of this country, you would not believe
me if I tell you the whole truth. 1 came here
to look on coolly, and not be carried away by
excitement, or deceived in consequence of
credulity, blit I assure you in all “soberness
of truth,” that all we have heard about the
fertility of the soil is true, and more than true,
j Talk about Border Ruffians! Why, gentle
men, everything that taste could suggest,
and wealth could minister, ornamental park*
and fair grounds,, stone colleges and beautiful
churches, brick residences in the country
everywhere, iron railings round the yards
set in stone, stone fencing round the farms,
Durham cattle, blooded horses, Berkshire
hogs, brass bands and the best Hcidseek.—
Farms of 1500 acres, ten miles from town,
that have been actually and lately sold at SSO
per acre. I saw a gentleman, George W.
Baker, Esq., who cleared on one crop, made
by eighteen hands, $13,000. SSOO to the
hand is as common here, as S2OO in Barl>our
j county, and rushing men, what we would call
ten-bags-to-the-hand men, making often sl,-
000 to the hand. I received this evidence
with distrust and incredulity at first; but
there is too much and too reliable testimony
to permit any body, but a foolish skeptic, to
deny it. The soil is all aa black as ink, five
feet deep, and as fine as pulverized Peruvian
bark. You will be amazed to hear, notwith
standing this, the roads in wet weather are
( good. The prairie roads here are as fine as
the piney woods roads in Alabama. Every
family in Lexington has its coal mine, and
just digs what is wanted whenever they
please. The supply is inexhaustible.
On Tuesday, 29th inst. 9 a. m. we started
after a very hard rain, and accompanied by
Mr. Thomas Hinekles and Col. S. Anderson,
of Lexington, who are sent on with us by
the Emigrant Aid Society, of La Fayette co.
to help and advise Buford and lus men, and
reached this place. 45 L-iles over prairie roads,
by 6 p. m. with five people in a hack, and
only two mules. What do you Montgomery
i prairie men say to this? The country thro’
which we travelled, is the most lovely that
my eye ever rested upon. I saw hundreds
of black walnut trees, three feet thick; lines
of fencing made wholly of black walnut.—
Most magnificent orcliards of cherry and ap
ple trees (the peach trees are all dead from
last winter’s frost) hundreds of fine cattle
cropping the prairie grass now tender, green,
and about ankle high. I saw no land that
could be bought for less than sls per acre,
and much not for sso—fine brick residences
every where—and all the evidences of a
wealthy and highly cultivated people, and
this ohly thirteen miles from the Kansas line.
No wonder these Missourians struggle for
such a prize, and I assure you in my opinion,
she will die, before they will surrender it.—
It is two priceless to lie given np, and I now
begin to understand the secret of the'uncon
querable spirit of the Border Ruffians. They
have outgeneraled the enemy thus far—you
would be surprised and amazed to hear how
skillfully. But that game must stop now,
and we must rely upon the assistance of the
South. Missouri has stood in the pass of
Thermoyplae as long as she can stand there.-
Human energy can do no more. She has
held the overwhelming forces of the foe in
check thus far, by almost superhuman ef
forts; but unless the South corks instantly
to the rescue—yes, in the blessed year of
1856—glorious Missouri must at last succumb,
and all her chivalric daring will have been in
vain. For God s sake cry “To the Rescue,”
to our people. Make them hear, and tell
tlem that while in coming to Kansas they
will save the otherwise lost and ruined South.
I they will, at the same time, inhabit the most
j lovely country in the world, and make the
most judicious movement to advance their
pecuniary interests.
1 make a speech here at 2p. m. Tins town
contains 3,500 inhabitants, the new Court
House just put up cost sß,ooo—negro fellows
hire for $250 to S3OO per annum, and land
all around town worth SIOO per acre. These
! facts give you some idea of what sort of a
■ country this “Western wilderness” is, and
j wirat reason they have to stand up to slavery.
I Rcmeuiber always wa ar only thirteen tpjUa