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POET3&3T.
FROM THE BOSTON LYCEUM.
In the year 1697, a body of Indians attacked the
town of Haverhill, Mass, and killed and carried into
captivity 40 inhabitants. A party of the Indians ap
proached the house of an individual who was abroad
at his labour, but who, on their approach, hastened
to the house, sent his children out and ordered them
to fly in a course opposite to that in which danger
was approaching. He then mounted his herse, and
determined to snatch up the child with which he was
unwilling to part, when he should overtake the little
.flock. When lie came up to them, about 200 yards
from his bouse, he was unable to make a choice, or
to leave any one of the number. He therefore de
termined to take his lot with them, and defend them
frtmi their murderers, or die by their side. A body
of'the Indians pursued and came rp with him, and
when at a short distance fired on him and his little
company. Ho leturncd the fire, and retreated al
ternately, still however, keeping a resolute face to
thoonomy; and so effectually sheltered his charge
that he finally lodged them all safe in a distant house.
I* THE FATHER’S CHOICE.
Now fly, as flies the rushing wind—
Urge, urge thy lagging steed !
The savage yell is fierce beliind,
And life is on thy speed.
And from those dear ones make thy choice—
The group he wildly eyed;
When “father!” burst from every voice,
And “ child!” his heart replied.
.There’s one that now can share his toil,
V And one he meant for fame, p*
And one that wears her mother’s smile,
’Ytnd one that bears her name.
AAj one will prattle on his knee,
flu- slumber on his breast,
Anyone whose joys of infancy,
Ai’e still by smiles expressed.
,T.hey, feel no fi nr while he is near,
He’ll shield them from the foe ;
But oh! his ear must thrill to hear
Their* shriekings should he go. v'
In vain hjfefcpiiv’ring lips would speak,—
No woMs his thoughts allow;
There’s bV-ning tears upon his check,
Death's jnavble on his brow.
And twic«The T sTr.ote his clenched hand—
Then lp.de his children fly!
And turned, aryl e’en that savage band
Cowered at his wrathful eye.
Swift as \e lightning wing’d with death,
Flashed lyrtli the quivering flame!
warrior bows beneath
deadly aim. *
rie9.that.rend the sl^pe,
•r purpose Yno*c;
diildreni or it dies
e of hire, i.
ads tllB conqueror ^
9 the inwde^er’e
duty, these jalon
the good man's 1
Their fierce
The fathi
Not. the wih
His heart
He saves
The sacr
Ambition
Hate
But lot
Can
ft. iMU
at strikes, sweet love,
Thev come! they comet—he heeds no cry,
Save the soft child-like wail,—
“O, father save!” “My children, fly!”
Were mingled on the gale.
And firmer still he drew his breath,
And sterner flashed his eye,
As fast he hurls the leaden death,
Still shouting, “ children, fly!”
No shadow on his brow appeared,
Nor tremor shook his frame,
Save when at intervals he heard
Some trembler lisp his name.
In vain the foe, those fiends unchained,
Like famish’d tigers chafe,
The shelt’ring roof is neared, is gained,
All, all the <Jear ones safe!
FROM “ EVENINGS IN GREECE,” A NEW- WORK, BY
THOMAS MOORE.
/
I saw, from yonder silent cave,
Two fountains running side by side,
The one was Mem’ry’s limpid wave,
The other, Cold Oblivion’s tide.
* Oh Love!’ said I, in thoughtless dream,
As o’er my lips the Lethe pass’d,
‘Here in this dark and chilly stream,
Be all my pains forgot at last.’
But who could bear that gloomy blank,
Where joy was lost as well as pain ?
Quickly of Mem’ry’s fount I drank,
And brought the past all back again:
And said, * Oh Love! whate’er my lot,
Still let this soul to thee be true—
Rather than have one bliss forgot, .
Be all my pains remember’d too l’
Compliment to a newly married pair, by the edi
tor of the Connecticut Mirror.
I saw two clouds at morning,
Ting’d with the rising sun;
And in the dawn they floated on,
, And mingled into one.
I thought that morning cloud was blest,
It mov’d so sweetly to the west.
I saw two summer currents
Flow smoothly to tbeir meeting,
And join their course with silent force,
In peace each other greeting;
Calm was their course through banks of green,
While dimpling eddies play’d betwocn.
Such be your gentle motion,
Till life’s last pulse shall beat;
Like summer’s beam, and summer’s stream
Float on in joy, to mectf
A calmer sea, where storms shall cease—
A purer sky, where all is peace.
SKETCHES OF DISTINGUISHED FEMALES.
Catharine Sedgwick—Author of two
very popular novels, the “ New-England
Tale,” and “ Redwood,” is the daughter of
Judge Sedgwick, and was born at Stock-
bridge, in Massachusetts, in the year 1798.
She issdpservedly ranked among the most
elegant fyose writers of the day ; and is un-
derstood'to be now engaged in the prepara-,
tion of a series of Tales, founded on scenes
in New-England.
Madia ^dgeworth—Is the daughter
of Rithard Lovell Edgeworth, Esq. of
Edgewoith-town; Ireland, a gentleman dis
tinguished in the literary world for his tal
ents and writings.. The daughter is said to
excel her parent in talents ; she has devo
ted herself to literary pursuit^ with zeal and
ardour. |One of her objects has been to per
feet the | ; ystem of female education, in
which she has in pari succeed
■ ’ f \ * / iter" ' iVl
* 0 ' V ' '
-*• v > ■*#. ::*v •
vel writer she ranks among therabst erni
nent, and. the Irish character has rflfvcr bee^J^^ntering
appearance at Drury-lane theatre,
in 1782,
her success was complete, the public was
astonished at her powers, end she was ac
knowledged to be the first tragic actress of
thea<K. For more than twenty years she
retained hifr high rank as an actress, and
Continued, during that period, to enchant
the loters of the drama. She also pos
sesses considerable merit as a sculptor.
Mrs. Siddons has accumulated an ample
property, with which she retired from the
Etage to the quiet of domestic life.
Jane and Ann Maria Porter.—These
ladies, are sisters, and daughters of Sir
‘Robert Porter. They have long held a high
rank among the female novel writers of the
day. The former has written “ Thaddeus
of Warsaw,” “ Scottish Chiefs,” and other
works which have been well received by the
public, and very extensively read. The
younger sister has published “ The Hunga
rian Brother,” “The Recluse of Norway,”
and more recently, the “ Fast of St. Mag
dalen.” Until the appearance of that splen
did series of works, the Waverly novels,
these sisters had gained a great degree of
popularity.. They have, however, with
others, been obliged to yield to the unrival
led merits of the “ Great Unknown.”
Anna Letitia Barbauld.—This lady is
the daughter of the . Rev. John Aiken, an
English dissenting clergyman, and wife of
the Rev. R. Barbauld, master of a school
in Norfolk. She was born in the year 173.4,
and was early instructed in the Latin and
Greek languages by her father. She is
distinguished for her learning, as well as
for her numerous works which" have gained
her great celebrity. She is now far ad
vanced in life, and yet retains great vigor
both of intellect and of body. Asa writer
of prose, she has surpassed almost every
female of her time and is equalled for ele
gance of diction, and soundness of seriso,
by few of the other sex.
Madam D’Arblay.—Better known by
her maiden name of Miss Frances Burney,
is the daughter of Dr. Burney. This lady
has deservedly attracted public attention, and
gained a high reputation for herself, by her
writings. She unquestionably ranks among
the first female novel writers of the a«*e.
Her first work was- Evelina, publislied°in
1777. To this succeeded Cecilia; she has
also written a tragedy, which has been per
formed on the English stage, and recently a
novel, called the Wanderer, or Female Dif
ficulties. Madam D’Arblay is now a widow,
and resides since the death of her husband,
in England.
serve
drpwn with equal truth and spirit
.one. writer. Her publications wl
numerous, have been well received on both
sides the Atlantic. ^
Joanna BailLie—Is a single’fady, who
resides chiefly in her native country, Scot
land. She is distinguished for her talents
and writings, and has published a series of
plays in several volumes, illustrative of the
strong passions of the mind. She has also
written a collection of metrical legends of
eminent characters, in one volume.
Madam Angelica Catalini—Is, pro
bably, the most distinguished female singer
of the age. She was born near Rome, in
1782, and educated in a convent. Her fa
ther, who was a silversmith, becoming em
barrassed in his pecuniary affairs, his daugh
ter became a public singer at Milan, at the
age of fifteen and was highly applauded by the
Italian and French critics and journals.
O11 her first app<^ ta qnee in England, in IfJOG,
she was fouir c f doubt’ to all the continen
tal panegyri ^ as at | pn pt?ver since ceased to
be greatly^. to \ Her voice is singularly
powerful, equally melodious in the high
and low tones. Her figure is finely formed,
and her deportment majestic. She is still
heard with delight/ Vpth in Great Britain
and on the continents \ v
Mrs. Opie—This lady was born in 1771.
She is the daughter of Dr. Alderson, an
eminent physician of Norwich. She early
evinced superior talents, by composing
poems and descriptive pieces, at an age
when young ladies have not Usually finished
their education.—In 1798 she married Mr.
Opie, -a celebrated painter, and soon after
his death, in 1S08, she published a memoir
of his life prefixed to the lectures he had
road at the Royal Academy. By this and
other publications, she has acquired con- Vers
siderable reputation, both as a prose and
poetical writer.
Mrs. Siddons—Is the daughter of Mr.
R. Kemble. She was bora about the year
1749. This lady commenced her career as
a singer, but she soon relinquished that om-
ploymeut, and attempted tragedy. Oii;
the whip. Hafk ! already he
“age—the horn sounds—the
bng the street,^and out runs
bj to bid him welcome. Ob-
ance*r-to $ome he gives a
grim nod, to others a smile of recognition ;
but* thrice happy is lie who is honored with
“go it Jemmy.” Beatified James! thou
hast lived eternity in a moment. “ Felix,
heu, nimium felix, tua si bona noijs !”
In the nature of his vocation the Coach
man bears no indistinct resemblance to the
Poet. The one gives the rein to his hor
ses, the other to his imagination ; and,
when either run wild, the consequences are
equally hazardous. The poet drives his
steed along the high road to Parnassus;
the coachman, more terrestrial in his call
ing, rattles them along the King’s highway.
The poet is the child, of feeling, ditto the
coachman. The one feels, what he writes
the other whathe drives—the one gets drunk
with inspiration, the ether with gin—and,
finally, the one gives spur to his Pegasus,
the other to his leaders.
Independently of these poetical associa
tions, our hero is illustrious from liis con
nexion with classical lore. Pelops was a
coachman, and has been immortalized, for
his ability to drive at the rate of fourteen
miles an hour, by the first Grecian bards,
rr " history of his ivory arm is nothing
The
THE COACHMAN A SKETCH.
The Coachman’s eye, in a fine phrenzy rolling,
Doth glance from right to left, from left to right:
And as imagination bodies forth.
The distant vehicle, the dexterpus Jehn
Keeps his own side, and gives the passer by
A nod of congratulation or contempt.
There is something in the nature of a
Stage-coachman that smacks, like his own
whip, of conscious importance. He is the
elect of the road on which he travels, the
illustrious, imitated of thousands. Talk of
the King indeed! the King, even on his
highway, is but hut “ cakes and gingerbread
to the Jehu* For him John Boots whistles
welcome; not so much through the good
ness of his disposition, as through his teeth
—and the publican waxes honest in his gin;
for him, Betsey the pretty bar-maid displays
the symmetry of a well turned ankle, and
the landlady speaks volumes in a squint.
Survey him as he bowls along the road,
fenced in coats numerous as tho seven bull
hides of Ajax. Listen to the untutored me
lody of his voice, as he preaches the word
of exhortation tfl(nis tits, and enforces his
more than a metaphorical illustration of the
merits of his whip hand. He fractured it in
driving for a wager against King iEnomans,
a brother whip ; but it was so well set by
Esculapius, the first surgeon and accoucher
of his day, that popular ignorance, unable
to account for the cure ascribed it to Ceres.
Hippolytus, with whom Diana herself was
detected in a faux pas, was another notori
ous coachman, and kept the most fashiona
ble curricle of his day. I might quote di-
other instances which, as Valpy’s
Grammar expresses it, “ a familiarity
with the best writers will easily suggest;
but there would be no end to my essay, for
in good sooth, “ hills peep o’er hills and
Alps on Alps arise,” when I attempt to enu
merate the charioteers whom in my school
days I have been taught to reverence.
But in addition to such classical advanta
ges, the coachman is celebrated for the
morality w r ith which his name is associated.
“ All the world’s a stage,” says Shaks-
peare ; and Time may be considered as the
Jehu who rattles it along the high road, of
life to eternity. To“ reflective minds this
association will appear obvious, and in his
more serious moments the philosoper will
love to consider a journey to Path as a type
of his journey <0 eternity.
Turn we to survey another instance of
the importance of the coachman, in the ten
der affections with which his vocation is
connected. He is the winged Mercury of
love, the Cupid of Valentine’s-day, the le
gal conveyance of reciprocal esteem from
friend to friend. He alone can “ speed the
soft intercourse from soul to soul,” af the
sensible pace of eight miles an hour, (inclu
ding stoppages) and bring the travelled hus
band to the anticipative optics of his wife.
Sweet to behold him, in a calm summer
evening, bowling along the village enshrin
ed like Ixion in a cloud—of dust, with a
crew of breathless urchins screaming avel-
come as he passes. A smile is on the face
of the hamlet, and even the school master
doffs his hat at his approach. The maid
servant rushes out in hope of a packet from
her lover and the barber, with the weekly
newspaper tossed down to him from the
box, flies pregnant with greatness, to be de
livered at the village ale-house.
With respect to his accomplishments, the
coachman is deservedly illustrious. If his
conversation has-not the copious elegance
of Coleridge, it has all the easy copiousness
of nature, with expletive beauties more pecu
liarly its own. It is at once nervous, flow
ing, and anecdotal, enforced with energetic
anathemas, and garnished with technical ob
scurities. In music he is no mean profi
cient ; his school, as Byron said of Christa-
bel, is “ wild and singularly original and
beaatiful,” and not unfrequently contrives
$0 “ snatch a grace beyond the reach of art.”
Some, however, prefer the Italian, others
the Irish, others the English—but I prefer
the whip school of music ; for, like the in
strument from which its name is derived, it
is striking, flexible, and melodious ; and 1
can imagine nothing more touching than to
hear a coachman as he travels along the
road, “ warble his native wood notes wild”
to the pathetic .tune of the Lass of Rich
mond Hill, or the more impassioned canzo
net of Sally in our Alley,
An Ill-Matched Couple.—At the Police
Office, Union Hall, London, a tradesman
named Maskall, 45 years old, was lately
charged with having turned his wife out of
doors, and refused her any support. Mrs.
Maskall was only eighty years of age ; she
said she had been married about a twelve-
month ; that her husband squandered her
property, beat her, and turned her into the
street without a pinny. The brother of the
young lady, said that the defendant had
wheedled his sister into matrimeny, secret
ly, and afterwards made her part with her
money by terrifying her in a most extraordi
nary manner. When the hypocrite got into
bed with his wife, he would alarm her al
most into fits by pretending to have a con
versation with tlie Devil, and declaring that
Old Nick would'.certainly appear to her, un
less she consented to give up all the money
shaking wittTtfie(palsy, fhe looked towards
fter husband, an^jjdded, “ 1 think, r.fter all,
you will stand a‘chance of seeing the Devil
in earnest, yourself; you are a base man, to
have treated me in the manner you have.”
To a question from the magistrate, she re
plied, “ I have had three husbands before
him, God help me ! I’m sure I don’t know
what tempted me to throw away myself upon
him,—it must have been his wheedling
ways.” The magistrate said, “ this should
be a lesson for oid ladies not to think of
venturing into the bonds of matrimony, at
any rate, after having arrived at threescore
and ten.”—The defendant was ordered to
pay his wife six shillings a week ; when put
ting his hand in his pocket, he drew out a
week’s payment and gave it to her, observ-
ing, he hoped she would live just to spend
that and no more.
she had in tliei funds. By this expedient,
and by personal violence,—for he was in
the habit of beating her with a haqi-bone,—
he at length succeeded in getting every
farthing she pbssessed, which be spent at
public houses. The wife said, § Ay, in
deed, every word my brother said fc true
then putting ou her spectacles, W head
General Picton—The gallant General
had been for some time under a cloud, the
principal cause of which is stated to have
been his rough and unpliant temper. The
third division had always been called par
excellence, “ the fighting division,” being
ever foremost where danger was the great
est. During the late advance, however,
they had been saddled with the scaling lad
ders, and other necessary lumber cf the
army, and this had greatly annoyed Picton,
and contributed to produce still greater
ebullitions of temper which it would have
been more prudent in him to have restrained.
On the march, head quarter’s baggage has
the privilege of continuing its route, with
out turning aside to allow any troops to pass
it. One day, Picton overtaking it with his
division, ordered it off the road until he had
marched by. A part complied, but Lord
Wellington’s butler refused to obey,
pleading head quarter privilege. Upon
this, it is said, that Picton struck him with
the umbrella which he usually carried to de
fend his eyes, which were weak, from the
sun, and accompanied his castigation with a
threat of having him tied up and flogged by
the provost-martial if he did not immediate
ly give way to the division. In the battle of
Vittoria, Picton did not think that such a
post was assigned to his troops as their oft-
tried valor seemed to challenge. An Aid-
de-camp of Lord Wellington riding up to
him shortly after the engagement had begun,
and about the time Lord Dalhousie was
expected to debouche, inquired of the Ge
neral, “ whether he had seen his Lordship ?”
Picton’s voice was never musical, and on
this occasion it was absolutely hoarse. “No,
sir,” was the reply, “ I have not seen him-
but have you any orders for me, sir ?
“ None,” said the aid-de-camp. “ Then,
pray, sir, what are the orders you bring V*
“That, as soon as Lord Dalhousie shall
commence an attack upon that bridge, the
fourth and sixth divisions are to support
him.” Picton, drawing himself up and
putting his arms a-kimbo, then said, “ You
may tell Lord Wellington from me, sir,
that the third division, under my command,
shall, in less than ten minutes, attack the
bridge and cprry it, and the fourth and sixth
divisions may support, if they choose! Upon
this the gallant General mounted his horse,
and putting himself at the head of his troops,
waved his hat, and led them on to the charge
with the bland compellations of “ Come on,
ye rascals! come on, ye fighting villains !”
The bridge was carried in a few minutes.
These particulars I bad from Colonel ,
who was badly wounded in the battle, and is
at present laid up at Vittoria.”—Personal
JS'an-ative o f Adventures in the Peninsula
during the War of 1812-12.
Johnson and Burke.—No great man ever
praised another more than Johnson praised
Burke. Remarking, in conversation, that
the fame of men was generally exaggerated
in the world, somebody quoted Burke as an
exception, and he instantly admitted it—
“ Yes, Burke is an extraordinary man—his^
stream of mind is perpetual.” “ Burke’s
talk,” said he, at another time, “ is the ebul
lition of his mind; he does not talk from a
desire of distinction, but because his mind
is full.” An argumentative dispute with
him, he seemed to think, required such ex
ertion of his powers, that when unwell at
one time, and Burke’s name was mentioned,
he observed, “ if that fellow were here now,
he would kill me. Burke (added he) is the
only man whose common conversation cor
responds with the general fame which he
has in the world. Take up whatever topic
you please, he is ready to meet you.!’- Of
all the triumphs of Mr. Burke, it was per
haps the greatest to compel the admiration
and personal love of a man whose mind
was at once so capacious and so good, so
powerful and so prejudiced, so celebrated
and so deserving of celebrity.—Prior’s Life
of Burlcc.
A Precious Relique.—They show many
reliques in the churches here (Brussels,)
but none that are of great curiosity or in
terest. I was told that at Cologne they
have the first animal that drew blood and
thus broke the general peace—viz. the Flea
that bit Eve the Eight after her fall, and to
her great dismay, for it is said to be nearly
as large as a well-grown prawn. I, cannot
say that I believe this entirely, yet as I have
seen so many wonderful things, I cannot
say that I disbelieve it. The unusual size
of the creature is in favour of the truth of
the story, and of the antediluvian -origin of
the insect, for there were giants in those
days, ?nd men reached a prodigious age;
but, since the deluge, both ourselves and
our fleas are a stunted, short-lived, aguish
race.—Joumql of a Traveller on the Con
tinent.
state of matrimony, and who had turned his
attention to tho i gilded ’ be auties of the day
—selected at length, for his particular ad
dresses, a lady, who was reputed rich, as
well in the ‘ matter of lucre,’ as in personal
and mental .accomplishments. He felt the
charms of hi^ fair one stealing over his
senses, and pasting a ‘ witching spell ’ upon
all his faculties. But, like a discreet young
man, before he was too far gone, he wanted
to make assurance doubly sure—and to
leave no ‘ loop whereon to hang a doubt ’
touching the worldly possessions of his be
loved. Fame, it is true, had spoken her
wealthy, but Fame had a cruel fashion of
exaggerating in these matters. In a word,
if the truth must be told, our lover was'not
so madly in love, but he was able to preserve
some * method ’ in it. And before the glori
ous passion reached its crisis, he lmd the sin
gular prudence to examine tho records, and so
obtain an exact knowledge of the wealth of
his charmer. How happy was he to find
that her estate was clear; and for once even
more valuable than rumour had proclaimed it.
Flying, then, on the wings of love to the
dwelling of his lair one—in good set phrase,
he declared his affection for her—made a
tender of his heart and hand—and besought
her to smile upon his pdssion, and make him
happy. But the ‘ flattering tale of Hope;
was not to be raized.’ The star of our
lover’s happy fortune had, alas! not yet cast
its silver light above the horizon ! By some
means, it happened, that the young lady had
been apprised of the extent of her lover’s
curiosity—and in the midst of his descant
upon flames, darts, and cupids—she very
composedly drew from her reticule a small
piece of money, and approaching him made
this reply— 4 Although I may not profit by
your very favourable sentiments towards
me—still, cannot think of your being a
loser on my account. As you have been at
the expense of a 4 search ’ I must insist upon
being allowed to replace the amount so ex
pended !’ So saying, she put an eighteen
penny piece in her lover’s hand, and he—
went his way!
Love and Prudence.—A young gentle
man who was desirous of entering the holy
A little comedy is in representation at
Paris, called 27ie Husband of Five Years
Old. Two children, about five years of
age, ask their parents if they cannot be
married. The father feigns his consent,
and pretends to marry them. The two
children are delighted at first ; but thev
soon quarrel about the possession of a play
thing. They then plead for a separation
before their parents, who grant them a di
vorce, to their great mutual satisfacton.
The dialogue of this piece, which is perfect
ly natural and characteristic, renders it ex
tremely amusing. The intelligence of the
two children, who play the parts of husband
and wife, is said to be truly astonishing.
A lady has petitioned for a separation
from her husband, he being not^ over 25,
and she less than 20 years*.of age. The
wrongs she complains of are as follows : his
refusing her a franc (less than 20 cents) to
to complete the purchase of a hat; his hav
ing kept her encharte privee, on the 16th of
July, from 9 o’clock in the morning to 7 in
the evening ; and his having extinguished
the light before she had finished reading a
romance, which interested her. Her pe
tition was not allowed.—Fr. paper.
Ingenious Defence.—At the? late Lime
rick Assizes, a man of the name of Patrick
Magrath was tried for stealing the great coat
of the prosecutor. After this fact had been
proved, the learned Judge called upon him
for his defence, when the prisoner addressed
the court: “ My Lord, he saw what a bad
way I was in for clothes, being almost naked,
and he said, 44 1 would advise you, Pat, the
first coat or blanket you can get, to throw it
over your shoulders;” I did so, my Lord, and
now he is prosecuting me for following his
own bad advice, and this is my defence,
please your Reverence’s Lordship.” The
Court was convulsed with laughter.—Bell’s
Weekly Messenger.
A Judicial Anecdote.—Not many years
ago, a judge in the interior of Pennsylvania,
whose character for parsimony was well
known, went into a shop to buy a horn
comb. The lady waiting on him, asked
eight cents for it: The judge offered six,
which was finally accepted. He took the
comb, and laid flown a five penny bit, which
is exactly six and a quarter cents. After
staying an unusual length of time in the
store, a servant entered with information
that dinner was on table— 44 I’ll be there
presently,” .said the judge—another mes
sage came, the judge still lingered behind—
“ Why do you stay l” said the lady. “ I am
waiting for my change,” said the judge.
“ W hat change Sir ?” inquired the Lady—
“ Why, the difference between six cents,
and the f’penny bitsaid the judge !— 44 I
know not how to accommodate you, but by
cutting a cent into four equal parts, and giv-
you one of them,’’ replied the lady ! Os,
saying which, thfcjudge stepped up to a box
containing snuff) and putting his haft cl into it,
observed— 44 Well then, I’ll take it out in
maccouba /” He took a cents worth!
Bless ine,” said the lady— 44 like a hound
on a scent, you pinch hard, and give no
quarters/” - 1
An article has been “going the rounds,”
respecting a certain Mrs. Hamilton, who is
said never to have displeased her husband
during forty-seven years of married life. A
correspondent of the Charleston Mercury
explains the wondrous event by saying—
Maj. Gen. H. was ordered off on duty be
fore tho expiration of the honey-moon, and
did not return until’ his wife was dead.