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THE FRIEND IF THE FIIUT.
iflfifE
, c ordie 10 ‘^ ct On o re,! ’ ’ n t * ,e 7 ear 1850,
V’ rt ], e Southern District of Georgia.]
;0 R JONES’ COURTSHIP,
OR
j.irentiires of a Chrislmas-Eve:
4 domestic comedy,
I.y TWO ACTS.
By Major Joseph Jones.
ACT ir.
§CCR6 I‘—A M ood.
„ r \{ a ;ok Jones in a brown work
ing shirt.
Hfrjof, —I’ve a great mind to hang
.<eK- It it wasn’t for the disgrace
;'he thing* ding me if J wouldn’t
cwing right up to the first grape
t \ C ome to. I thought my case
had enough off before, but its a
sight worse ever sense I
rliat dratted chunk out. Cus
.{obacker; I wish I’d never seed
in my file. Jest to think how
5:1 had the thing ded ! But that’s
; vav with human affairs. We’re
arunnin after the butterfly of
• iness, and as like as not
overv moment we think we’ve
•iiby the legs, we pitch head over
els into the mud-puddle of dis
ippiottnent. I’ve tried my’ best to
Mtaoood face on the thing, but its
all no use. The jig’s up, and my
cuke are dough. Why the whole
kino’s all over the settlement, and
imbody, even the niggers on the
nation, is laughin at me about
scrape I got in tother night.
Jwhat makes it worse, the gals
:s 1 done it a purpose. I mought
as well go and stick my r head in
irnets nest as to ever let old Miss
dins see my T face agin, after
aking all her cups and sassers
1 smashin her spinin wheel all to
lers. And then to go and git
nt into the gals bed room, jest
:en they was a undressin ! That
;'sthe climax of the whole busi
?, and l don't believe I could
r raise the brass to speak to Miss
.:v agin after that. It makes me
► c
ill all over now, jest to think of
Well, we’re gwine to kill hogs
•lay, and I feel jest in the humor
fit. I to be tender hearted
ce, but 1 could kill every livin
the plantation to-day, and
ed hang myself into the bargain.
the Major goes off, enter negro Ser
vant with a letter.
-W.— Stop, Massa Joe,Miss Mary
*me give you dis. (Exit Ned.)
■hijor. —What, eh ! a letter from
Mary! Yes, bless her dear
:dt soul, I know her sweet little
■ ers> Them’s her i’s and d’s and
5i [Kissing the letter.) How my
does tremble, I’m afraid to
’ it. What could she write to
ab°ux\ I understand, I ’spose
4s way fashionable young
‘"‘hat’s been to college, gives
*JJfcdar kick to a pore feller. —
1 needn’t been to the trouble
a kick to me, for I never
“ j dure to look at her across a
• afield agin, no how. But let
se e what it is. Maybe I’ll feel
r “hen I know the worst.
‘‘ hs the letter.) “ Joseph, ”
:° 5e ph! How sweet that does sound
. * her! If she’d jest said dear
Jse Ph, Id o believe I’d fainted
V l,l In y tracks, — 11 Joseph, after
j,. opened the other evening ,” —
. a^e ath warrant, jest as I cx
after what happened the
■fining, it is proper that I should
1 you “ —yes the fatal blow
/ c °me at last—“ inform you that
dilemma in which you
placed ” —dilemmy, dilemmy—■
o?e that means devil of a fix,
sure enough it was—“ were
l after the light was extinguished,
result from any design on my
what! —did not result
a ‘ Jesign on my part. The only
ai burning in the house was
Duuitfli tu jL'itrraturr, nnii Slrt, tljc f>Dns nf Cnnjnrinirf, (Dbii /fllomslrip, Jllnsotiri} unit dprurml 3ntrliigrnrf.
in the girl's room, and they cither by
accident or for their mischief, put it
out ” —jest like ’em, the rogues !
“ and I had just succeeded in re-lighting
it when you entered our chamber, and
Carry blew it out again.’' I —Of course
she did.—“ With this explanation you
will understand why I did not return
to the parlor," —Bless her dear little
soul, how condescendin !—“ I hope
you will not attach any importance to
the circumstance, nor to the little mis
adventures that resulted f/om it." —
Ain’t thera change in the weather?
—“ The only damage done was the
breaking of a few pieces of crockery
ware, and mother's wheel, which is so
old that a little breaking can be of no
injury to it.” Drat the infernel thing,
I tried to set it up agin, but it seem
ed, in the dark, to have more’n
forty legs, and wouldn’t stand up no
how I could fix it. But let me see
what’s in the noly bemy, whar the
gals always put the bigeend of ther
letters. “We all hope you received
no damage yourself, and will be very
glad to see you at our house this eve
ning. when we expect some company at
a little Christmas party. * Yours very
sincerely, Mary Stallings.” Ha,
ha! ha, ha! She ain’t mad at
me a bit, and I shall see her again
to-night. Ha, ha! fm on my legs
agin. I begin to feel natural once
more ! I’ll give the hogs a respite,
as the lawyers ses, and postpone
hog killing time a few days in spite
of the almynack. I’ll go and rig
up a little for the party, and I’ll take
monstrous good care to leave my to
backer-box at home this time.—
Whorra! who cares for cousin Pete
or old whiskers now ! When Mary
Stallings smiles all the world looks
bright! (Exit Major Jones.)
Scene II. —Another part of the Wood.
Enter Crotchett.
Crotchett. —l must keep away from
the village, and I must lose no time
in bringing this matrimonial opera
tion to a close. I see by the pa
pers that they are on my track.—
Thanks to my profession, I have
been able to disguise myself so as
to prevent recognition thus far, but
if I would avoid a residence in Sing
Sing for a few years at the expense
of the State, I must make myself
scarce. I must go to the party to
night, and if possible, prevail on
Miss Stallings to elope with me at
once. I believe the girl is decided
ly in love with me, and if I ain’t
mistaken, will throw herself in my
arms at a word. She is fond, of
romance, and I’ve made her believe
that lam rich. If I can succeed in
in inducing her to fly with me to
night, it will be an easy matter to
reconcile that old fool of a mother
of hers, when her objections will be
of no avail; and the fortune that I
shall obtain will enable me to com
promise matters with the law, and
to shave notes instead of faces for
the balance of my days. Ah, who
have we here? My green medical
friend. He too is an aspirant for the
hand of Miss Stallings, I wonder if
he has seen the advertisement. Now
for a hard face.
Enter Dr. Jones.
Dr. J. —Ah Crotchett, good even
ing to you.
Crotchett. —My dear Doctaw ,I’m
happy to meet you. Have you seen
my wival, the Majaw, lately ?
Dr. J. —Not since the night of his
remarkable adventures in the dark.
Ha ! ha ! I’m told that he’s utterly
disconsolate ever since.
Crotchelt. —Ha, ha, the fellow may
well be ashamed of himself. It
serves him right for frightening us
so. It seems that was all a twick
Doctaw, to drive us off*.
Dr. J. —To be sure it was. But
it did’nt avail him much. He’ll
SAVANNAH, GA., SATURDAY, APRIL 6, 1850.
hardly have the impudence to show
his face there again.
Crotchett. —l should think not Doc
taw. Indeed l’in utterly surprised
at the fellow’s presumption.
Dr J. —He’s thoroughly cured of
his infatuation now, you may de
pend. Do you go to the party this
evening ?
Crotchett. —Certainly. Do you ?
Dr. J. —To be sure I do. It is
Christmas-Eve, and we’ll have a
merry time of it. But have you
heard of the excitement in town ? ”
Crotchett. —No. What’s to pay in
Pineville !
Dr. J.— Oh, great excitement, sir.
Everybody on the que rive. It seems
that a thief is these parts, for
whom a great reward is offered.
Crotchett. —Aw ! Is it possible !
Dr, J. —Yes, I have one of the
bills in my pocket. Here it is.—
[Reads.]
“ Four hundred dollars reward! —
The above reward will be paid for the
apprehension and lodgement in any safe
jail, of Theodore Wiggins." .
Crotchett. —Aw, the fellow has a
very romantic yet familliar name.
Dr. J. —Very.—“ A barber by
trade , who recently absconded from the
city of New York, having stolen a pock
et book from the subscriber, r.ontainivg
a large amount of money.”
Crotchett. —T he scoundrel.
Dr. J. —“ Said Wiggins is about
five feet six inches high—light com
plexion, with red hair, and grey eyes —
is very affected in his speech and man
ner, and dresses foppishly . lie left in
this city a wife and five children.
Crotchett. —Oh ! the villainous
wretch !
Dr. J. —“ He has been traced to
Georgia, where it is hoped he will be
detected before he has time to perpetrate
more of his evil deeds. Address Samp
son Sadler, 151 Pearl street,New York,
or Foster Blodget, Augusta, Georgia.”
Poor devil! he’ll fare hard if they
catch him in these parts.
Crotchett. —He should be hung
without judge or jury, the execrable
villain.
Dr.J . —Bill Simpson is after him
like a fox hound on a warm trail,
and if he catches him, he’ll go home
to New York in a suit of Georgia tar
and feathers, if no more.
Crotchett. —It would be serving
him right. But I must prepare for
the party. Let me see, its now
near tea time. (Aside.) They’ll
hardly smell me out to-night, and
if all goes well, I’ll break cover to
morrow morning, with Mary Stal
lings for my traveling companion.
I’ll see you at the party, Doctaw.
Bon svvoi—bon swoi.
[Exit Crotchett.
Dr. J. —Crotchett’s an amiable
fellow. He seemed so much affect
ed at the account of that rascal. —
He’s a gentleman of the first water,
and devilish good company for one
who finds so few congenial spirils in
this uncivilized region. He’s al
most persuaded me to pull up stakes
and go to New York to live. He
says a man of my talents would
soon rise to the top of my profes
sion there, and that 1 would then
have a proper field for my exertions,
where I could make ten thousand
dollars a year easier than I can
make a living here, where people
never get sick and don’t take any
thing but “yarb tea,” as they call
it, for all sorts of ailments. If I
could prevail on Mary Stallings to
go with me, I don’t think I’d vegi
tate here much longer. I know she
loves me, and if I can just find
her in one of her romantic moods,
she will elope with me at a mo
ment’s warning;just for the novelty
of the thing. I sounded her a little
on the subject last evening, and she
promised to consider the matter. I
won’t let her oft’ to-night. I’ll try
to prevail on her to consummate my
happiness this very Christmas-Eve.
[Exit Dr. Jones.
Scene lll—The Parlor. Man/, Car
oline, and Kesiah, with other young
ladies discovered on the stage, dressed
for an evening party. Enter Mrs.
Stallings.
Mrs. S. —Well, gals, you all look
monstrous fine this evening. Dear
me, it minds me of my young days,
to see young people enjoy them
selves. But them was different
times from these, gals. We did’nt
have no French Muslins and Bera
ges, and Foulard Silks, nor no Al
pacras, nor Balzarines, to dress in,
like you have now. No indeed.
But ever} 7 gal had to spin and
weave her own gown, and if she
got as much finery in her whole life
time as one of you puts on in a eve
ning, she mought think herself well
off.
Mary. —Yes, mother, but that was
before the age of enlightenment, and
human progress. Every thing is
different now.
Mrs. S.— Yes, my child, every
thing is different now, shore enough.
Them was the days of reality, when
things was what they seemed to be ;
when the gals was butiful and mod
est, and the boys was honest and
brave. But them days is gone, my
children, and we that lived in ’em
is fast gwine too. Ah me ! when I
think ofyour poor dear father what’s
dead and gone—
Mary. —Come, dear mother, don’t
be unhappy to-night. Don’t think
of the past to make you cad, when
ail around you are so happy.
[ The girls caress the old lady, who dries
her tears and embraces them tenderly.']
Caroline. —No, mother, don’t be
sad to-night.
Mrs. S. —Well, well, there now.
I won’t be unhappy to spile your
enjoyment, my daughters. I was
happy in my day, and so must you
be while you are young. But come,
are you all ready for your company ?
Have the gals had their tea ?
All. —Yes, yes !
Mary. —And now, mother, you
must grant U3 one little boon.
Mrs. S. —What is it, my dear ?
Mary, (beseechingly) —Let us have
one dance.
Mrs S. —What! Dancing in my
house.
All the young ladies —Oh yes Mrs.
Stallings, do let us have a dance.
[Mrs. S. hesitates as they all gather
round her.]
Caroline.-— Only just one mother.
Mary.— lts Christmas-Eve, mother,
remember.
All. —Ah yes ! do Mrs. Stallings.
Mrs.S. —Well,gals, 1 monstrously
hate dancing in the house; but
being as its Christmas-Eve, you
may have one little dance—only one.
But here comes the gentlemen. Now
remember gals, one only dance.
Voice off.— Ole Misses ! ole Misses !
Mrs. S. —Thar’s them pesky nig
gers agin. I do believe they’re all
crazy about Christmas times.
[Exit Mrs. S.
(To be continued.)
Be true, if you will be believed.
Let a man but speak forth with gen
uine earnestnesss, the emotion, the
thought, the actual condition of his
own heart, and other men—so
strangely are we knit together by
the tie of sympathy—must and will
give heed to him. In culture, in
extent of view, we may stand above
the speaker, or below him, but, in
either case, his words, if they are
earnest and sincere, will find some
response within us ; for in spite of
all carnal varieties in outward rank
or inward, as face answers to face,
so does the heart of man to man t
IHmllnnrnns.
CHARITIES.
To diffuse immediate happiness
upon those near at band, without
reference to future and more per
manent good, is the short sighted ob
ject of the uncultivated feeling of
benevolence. When cultivated, but
with a wrong direction, its operation
is still of the same kind, but more
mischievous, as it is exerted through
a wider spherje. Many of the wide
spread charities of the present day
furnish examples of this. They
seek to remedy a present evil—to
relieve a present suffering,by means
which multiply for the future those
pains and sufferings many-fold.—
A late writer on the principles of
charitable institutions remarks that
they are more numerous—that more
exertions are made for the relief of
the poor now than at any former
period—yet poverty and crime are
on the increase. What is the rea
son of this? The writer alluded to
goes on to prove that it is to be found
in the fact, that remedies are often
applied without discriminating be
tween the different causes which
produce these evils, and therefore
perpetuate and increase them, or at
best only palliate them. But the
real cause of this want of discrimi
nation and consequent failure, is the
fact that it is not real benevolence at
work, but a something between the
seeming of love of approbation and
a bargain to get as cheaply as pos
sible to heaven. People wish to
stand well in the opinion of their
neighbors, ituid they ha Yfi
heard that “he that givelh to the
poor lendeth to the Lord,” and they
approve of the security and invest
a small sum, but never more than
they can conveniently spare ; to do
that would be imprudence. They
do th eir chanties, that is, give an- i
nual guineas, the press generally
blowing a trumpet before them ;
but they neither watch the spend
ing of the money, or care much
what becomes of it—consequently,
the more remote the sphere of ope
ration, if to build a church at Je
rusalem for converted Jews, or to
make Christians of Caribs, the
more liberal the donation. Chil
dren should be early taught to dis
tinguish between seeming and real
benevolence—between generosity
that costs nothing, that is, involves
no self-sacrifice or even self-denial,
or that which proceeds from love
and duty. When the higher class
es are really in earnest about rais
ing the condition of the lower—
when they cease to consider them
as mere objects to perform their
charities upon, as convenient step
ping stones to heaven, as so much
truth and philosophy in everything.
The quarryman in hewing stones,
the mason or statuary in shaping
them, or the poor man in breaking
them, have h id volumes of facts be
fore their eyes, which if registered,
might have settled atl the knotty
points in mineralogy. ‘And the
same may he said of him who sinks
mines, levels hills, cuts through the
hearts of mountains, or even lays
down the gravel or pebbles in the
garden walk. How true the words,
that the thinking find
“Tongues in trees, books in the running
brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.”
Every worker in iron, brass, tin,
copper, steel, silver, or gold, is per
petually experimenting in those met
als, and therefore, has an immense
sphere of natural science and phi
losophy glittering before him. —
What a physiologist the butcher
ought to be. What a botanist, en
tomologist, and, indeed, naturalist,
generally, every farmer’s man and
dairymaid might become ! Many
of these have ten thousand more ad
vantages for study than Solomon.—
The philosopher walks miles in the
pursuit of truth ; but truth follows
and environs the cowherds, shep
herds, and ploughmen. The ex
perimentalist has to pnt up forges,
or furnish laboratories, at great ex
pense and trouble ; but the smelter,
the blacksmith, the founder, the
glass-blower, and a hundred other
mechanics and operatives, have all
this apparatus daily before them,
and therefore, without ativ trouble,
might sound the depths and scan
the heights of knowledge. Nothing
would be required but a little obser
vation.
Diamond, cut Diamond.— The other
day a gentleman who had occasion
to cross New York in a cab, found
on alighting that he had no change
in his pocket. The only shop at
hand was a cigar store in which
were some three or four fellows, be
sides the proprietor, puffing the vil
lainous weed.
The gentleman entered, re jue t
ing the cab man to follow him, and
handing a tive dollar bill to the
“Yorker,” asked him to change it.
The cigar-vender handed him a
three dollar bill and the balance in
silver, out of which the cab-man
was paid, and went on his way re-
joicmg.
But a moment afterwards, the
gentleman, looking at the hill,[found
it to he a very suspicious looking
document,purporting tube a promi
sory note of the Dogtown Lumber
un<] Mining Oi’ SO{l]o SUC'h
ambiguous or apocryphal institu
tion. Finding he had been shaved,
he asked the cigar vender if that
was a good hill.
“A good bill! yes, I wish I had
ten thousand of ’em,” was the an
swer. “ Bill,” winking to a \ illain
ous looking ‘ B’hoy,’ “ isn't that
’ere a good hill ? ”
“ Good as wheat,” said the b’lioy,
and “good! good!” was echoed
round the shop.
“ Very well,” said the gentle
man, “ I asked for information.—
You seem to have no doubt of the
genuinenessof the note, and as you
were kind enough to accommodate
me, I think the best thing 1 can do
is to break it at your counter. Gen
tlemen, try another cigar apiece at
my expense.”
The cigar man was regularly ta
ken in and done for—caught in bis
own trap. With great reluctance
he changed the spurious note, and
the operation cost the intended vic
tim hut about a shilling.
As he was leaving the store, one
of the ‘ B’hoys ’ touched him on the
shoulder.
“You’re one of ’em,” said he,
“I’ll bet high that you’re a Yan
kee.”
“ I ain’t anything else,” replied
the gentleman, “and while I’m in
this small village, I mean to keep
my eyes open.”— Olive Branch.
The Speed of Birds. —lt is said that
the speed of swallows, when emi
grating, is not less than fifty miles
an hour; so that when aided by
the wind, they soon reach warmer
latitudes. It has also been calcula
ted that the swallow can fly at the
rate of ninety-two miles an hour,
and that of hawks and several other
tribes to be one hundred and fifty
miles an hour.
Snow. Crystals of snow are
from one-third to one-thirty-fifth
of an inch in diameter; their fig
ures are diversified stars.- The
occasional red color of snow is
ascribed to a fungus growing on
the surface.
NUMBER 5.