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THE TIMES & SENTINEL.
TENNENT LOMAX & ROSWELL. ELLIS,
EDITORS AND PROPRIETORS.
THE TRI-WEEKLY TIMES tfc SENTINEL
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[WRITTEN FOR THE TIMES k SENTINEL.]
A. Scrap from Aunt Patty’s Scrap Bag.
THE PEA-GREEN TAFFETA.
By c uroliite Lee Ilcniz.
Estelle, a little older than when she last ap
peared before the reader at the wedding feast ot
her sisters, was seated at the side of her ancient
Aunt. It was a dark, rainy night, and the child,
as she looked from the hearth to the windows,
against which the sere leaves drifted, thought of
her faraway sisters, Emma and Bessy,and was
sad. Bhe was getting to be a little more wo
manly in her tastes—more literary—was espe
cially fond of romantic tales of love and chival
ry, and, consequently, did not draw quite so
largely from Aunt Patty's Scrap Bag, as she
formerly did. Yet there were moments, such
as the present, when that venerable receptacle
seemed to her, as in the morning of childhood,
the hiding-place of the genii.
“Aunt Patty,’’ said she, opening the closet,
mounting a high chair, taking down the memor
able bag, and depositing it in Aunt Patty’s lap,
“tell me the history of some of your scraps, to
night. There is a plenty left here, though I
made that large patch-work counterpane, so
carefully put aside. Aunt Patty, 1 do believe
your scraps are like the Widow’s cruse. You
may take ever so many out, vet there are ever
so many left.”
“Yes, yes,” replied Aunt Patty, trying to draw
up the contracted sinews of her neck, but suf
fering it to lull painfully again towards the left
side, “when so many nice, friendly fingers are
filling it up all the time, it isn’t strange that the
bag, like the cruse, keeps full. Let me see.
1 hese are most all new scraps. Somehow or
other, l can’t remember about these, as l can
the pieces, given me long ago. The people,
now-a-davs, it seems to me, don’t do as many
smart things, nor say as many smart sayings, as
they did in Parson Broomfield’s day. They
are more alike, as it were, and what you hear
of one will do about as for another. There
is nothing to remember, and I know I’ve got as
good a memory as any body of my age ever
did have. 1 don t believe there is one single
tiling that happened when I was a girl, and that
I then knew of, that ever escaped me.”
“I remember everything that Frank says and
does, Aunt Patty. 1 wonder to hear you say
that the people were smarter when you were
young than they are now. Mr. Selwyn said
the world was growing better and wiser every
day. I’m sure 1 grow wiser every day myself.”
It was amusing to see the air of precocious
wisdom that dignified Estelle’s blooming face.
Aunt Patty smiled benignantly, fully believing
all that she asserted of herself, though some
what doubting the truth o( Mr. Selwyn’s re
mark, and leaning forward on her crutch, put
her trembling right hand into the bag.
“How in the world,” she exclaimed, drawing
a piece of pea-green colored taffeta from the
rainbow shreds on the top, “how in the world
did that get here, mixed up with the new scraps ?
This belongs to old time history. Well, well;
this does carry me back, sure enough, a long
way, full fifty years, it not more, when I saw
Patience Hilliard dressed out in that fine smooth
taffeta, looking so fine and pretty, just as if she
stepped out of anew band-box. Poor Patience !
I wonder if she is alive now.”
“What makes you call her poor, Aunt Patty?
I should think anybody who wore such a fine,
rich silk as this, ought to be rich.”
“ There's such a thing as shining in borrowed
plumes, child, as you shall hear presently. And
that reminds me of a bad habit little girls have
now-a-davs. Borrowing each other’s finery
and tricking themselves out in each other’s
rings and gew-gaws, like the Jackdaw in
Fables. Don’t do any such thing, darl
ing. It will be sure to bring you into trouble.
Now, Patience Hilliard was a poor girl, and
used to dress, at home, in homespun, and noth
ing finer than calico abroad. Her mother got
her living bv spinning and weaving, and mak
ing butter and cheese, and such like. Patience
was right industrious and helped her mother as
much as she could, so that siie got her name up for
being the smartest girl for work anywhere about.
She was as pretty a girl, too, as one wants to
look upon, and always as neat as a new-bound
hymn book. It was a pity she got it into her
head to be proud of her good looks and ashamed
of her nice, homely dress. But that wasn't so
much her fault, as the silly folks that were always
flattering and fooling her. She used to carry the
butter to the stores, all stamped up with flowers
and devices, and I remember it was the nicest
butter 1 ever Law in m v life. Mrs. Hilliard had
a nice, green clover patch behind the house,
and her cows didn’t starve, I assure you. All
her butter was as yellow as gold, and it turned
into gold, too. The young men who stood be
hind the counters, used to praise Patience’s red
cheeks and bright eyes more than they did the
butter, so I’ve heard say, till she set such store
by her beauty that she took mincing steps and
talked as if cotton was in her mouth. In those
days we used to have quilting frolics, and many
times they were worth a dozen such stiff, formal
parties as they have now.”
“Why didn’t we have a quilting frolic, Aunt
Patty, when the scrap counterpane was quilted?
It would have been such a nice opportunity.”
“M ell, I don’t know, child. I suppose it is
because 1 am too old to think of such things,
and Mrs. Worth, my niece Emma, that was,
don’t care about that kind of party gathering.
When she was a young girl, she never did. She
never liked frolics.’’
“Do grown folks ever play forfeits, Aunt Pat
ty ?” asked Estelle, opening her blue eyes in as
tonishment. “I thought it was children’s play.
“There’s many a grown up child, darling, and
life is pretty much made up of children’s play.j
Well, 1 was talking about quiltings. It they ;
are old-fashioned now, they were all the rage j
then. The young men—they used to call them <
sparks —always came after the quilting was i
over, and the fiddler came, too, and they wound j
up with a dance. Now, one of our neighbors
had a mighty great quilting, and invited ever j
so many young people to it. Though l was i
always so lame and awkward, and couldn’t i
dance, 1 could use my needle curiously, and :
they were always glad (o get me at the quilting
frame. 1 was never thinking about the sparks 1
like the other girls, and kept steadier to my ‘
work.”
“Why, Aunt Patty ! What’s the reason you
never thought of them ?”
“Because there is not one in a hundred worth
thinking about, and they are all after beauty I
and finery, and havn’t a word to fling away to
a poor cripple like me. Now, Patience never
wanted for admirers, though she would have
been better oft’ without them, for had it not
been for them she never would have thought of
doing the mean trick I am going to tell you about.
Just before the great quilting, Patience went to
take care of a lady who was sick—a very rich
and beautiful lady—who wore the prettiest ;
clothes of any one in town. She never went to j
any of the gatherings, for she lived, as it were,
above them ; and vet she was so good and kind
to the poor, nobody called her proud. Patience
couldn’t come to the quilting; lint when the
dance began, she came rustling into the room
in a beautiful, shining pea-green taffeta, just like
this. I could hardly believe my own eyes, for
I’d never seen her dressed in anything finer than
calico before. She had artificial flowers in her
hair and gold ear-rings in her ear, all set with
pearls. She swam about, for all the world like
a peacock with its tail flashing in the sun, and,
really, if it hadn’t been for the astonishment one
felt, one couldn’t help thinking she was wonder
ful pretty. There happened, (l can’t conceive
how, hut he was sure enough there,) there hap
pened to be a young Frenchman there, who
danced as light as a butterfly, and had teeth
as white as polished ivory. He took a won
drous facy to Patience, whom he probably
thought the finest lady in the room. Everybody
was whispering about Patience and wandering
where her fine dress came from.
“It isn’t hers,” said one, “any more than it’s
mine. If it is, she stole the money to buy it,
for butter and cheese never manufactured that.”
“I don’t believe no such thing,” says 1, think
ing it right to take her part, because they were
all talking behind her back, which was mean
and unchristian-like. “Patience always was an
honest girl and her mother brought her up well.
It must be a present to her. I dare say Mrs.
Shalee gave it to her. That was the name of
the sick lady ; and I really did believe it, though
I didn’t think of it before I said it. Patience
J was a belle that night if there ever was one.
Her cheeks were as red as damask roses, and
j her eyes sparkled like live diamonds. Yet she
looked uneasy-like, as if she didn’t want us to
follow her too close, or watch her too hard. I
| tell you what, Estelle, it must be an awful feel
-11 ing when anybody does anything they don’t
, wan’t found out; but, remember, the Lord finds
out everything we do, just as easy as if it were
’ | done in broad sun-shine, no matter bow secret
and dark we may be. Towards the close of the
evening, when Patience was dancing more like
i a spirit than a human being, her dress caught a
! nail and tore a great ugly place right in the front
breadth. 1 thought she would have gone raving
distracted about it. Everybody 7 got round her
| to see what was the matter. ”
“This is a bad accident,” said the young
Frenchman, who was dancing with her.
“No, sir,” she cried, sobbing like a baby , “it
is a pea-green taffeta.”
Every body laughed, and that only made her
| cry the more. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for
her; so I told her if she would come into an
other room with me I would try to mend it (or
her as well as I could. I was always eonsider
| ed a good hand at darning, though one wouldn’t
think so, to see my poor fingers. I made her
| take off the dress, and set to work in right good
j earnest, and it really looked so nice one hardly
| could tell where the rent was. But one of the
girls that belonged to the house, and 1 do believe
: she did it out of envy and spite, insisted upon
j pressing it with a warm iron, to flatten the
; stitches, and she scorched it as brown as my
snuff’ There was a piece as large as the palm
of my two hands scorched right out.
“Oh! mercy,” cried Patience, turning as
j white as a snow-flake, and wringing her hands,
j “what shall I do? I’m mined and undone—l
wish I was dead—l wish I’d never been born.”
“I’d be ashamed to take on so, about a fine
dress,” cried the gill, who had spoiled it; “it’s
j right down wicked, I declare it is.”
“\ou did wrong to burn it,” says I, looking
her right in the eye, all the time—“you know
you did—you never tried the iron on a piece of
cloth first, to see if it was hot. You wouldn’t
have served vour own dress so, you know you
j wouldn’t.”
She got mad at that, and went out slamming
the door after her. Then Patience and 1 were
alone, and though I thought she was wrong, I
tried to comfort her!
“Oil! Patty,” said she, “I’ll tell you—l couldn’t
tell any body else in the whole world. If it was
mine, I wouldn’t mind it so—but it is Mrs. Sha
lee’s. I took it out of her bureau drawer, think
ing it would do no harm and that she never would
know any thing about it. I meant to put it
back, and all the other things too—-oh, dear 1
What shall Ido ? What will become of me ?”
“Tell the truth, Patience,” says I, feeling won
derful bold to speak, for I knew I had right on
my side. “She won’t be half as angry, as she
will to find it out in any other way, tor find it
out, she must. Besides, it is your duty 7 , and as
you’ve done the sin, you ought to bear the
shame.”
“I can’t,” she cried, “I havn’t got courage i
enough; you might do it, but I can t. It we
cut a piece off the breadth, perhaps she never j
would know it. Please help me, Patty’, and see
if it would do.”
I shook my head and told her 1 would’nt have
any thing to do with it, if she went on deceiving,
but if she was willing to tell the righteous truth,
1 would go to Mrs. Shalee’s the next day and
stand by her, while she did it. . 1
Patience never went back into the dancing j
room that night, but when the quilting broke
| up, she peeped out of the window and saw the
young Frenchman, that was so taken with lie.,
i waiting on a girl with a calico frock on, one
I whom she despised too. The way she cnee
1 then, l couldn’t begin to tell, (or lie had asked i
he might wait on her, most as soon as she Came
! into the room. I don’t believe sue slept one i
1 wink that night, for when the conscience is un
quiet the eye-lids won t stay down.
“How can you tell, Aunt Patty, asked Es- ;
i telle, looking up fondly to that good, but home- ;
! ly lace, “when you never did any tiling wioug, j
l in your life ?”
“That wont do to sav,” replied Aunt l a tty,
meekly’, laying her hand gently on Estelle s ring
leted head, while a warm and genial ray of sat- j
| isfaction penetrated her heart, at this expies- ,
j sion of perfect confidence in her excellence— j
“I’m nothing but a poor, erring creature at the
best, but Ido try to walk in the right way.—
Thank the Lord ! the lame can find room in
the straight and narrow path, as well as the
whole and strong. II it were not tor this crutch,
I might be farther from the kingdom ot Heaven
than I now am.”
“Did you refillv go to Mrs. Shales s, Aunt
Patty ?” asked Estelle, after a pause, in which
j Aunt Patty seemed lost in devout meditation.
“Yes, child, I did go; and 1 wouldn’t have
missed it for all the pea greep taffetas, this room
could hold.”
“Please tell her,” said Patience, “I can’t do it, ;
I should die before I got through.’
I never pitied any body worse in my
life, than I did Patience. Her eyes were all
swelled up, and there was a red rim round them,
and her cheeks were all ot a bluish white. I
walked softly into the room, making as little
noise as I could with my crutch, on the line, sott
carpet. I had never seen Mrs. Shalee since she
was sick, and I hardly knew her, her face looked
so thin and white, and then she looked so sad
and wistful out of her eyes, a kind of farewell
look, as if she felt she was going to die. She
held out her hand, and 1 was most afraid to
touch it, so little and weak it appeared, at the
side of mine.
“Mrs. Shalee,” says I, “I don’t want to
worry you, and I hope you won’t be angry but
Patience” —here Patience burst out a sobbing,
and I choked so, l couldn’t speak one worn.
But presently I got my courage up, and told
her the whole story, from beginning to end,
without any palavering, and begged her to
pardon Patience, as she expected the Lord Al
mighty would pardon her at the judgement day 7 .
I never shall forget her look, never, when I
had finished. Do you think she was angry?”
“Oh, no !” answered Estelle, “but sorry, very
sorry. Was she not?”
“Yes! her beautiful sad-looking eves filled
with tears, as they fixed themselves on Patience,
who stood by the side of the bed, with her apron
ail over her face. Clasping her thin white hands
together and lifting them upwards,”
“Oh !” she cried, in a voice scarcely above a
whisper, “of how little value is a silk dress, to
! me, lying as I am, on a dying bed. A white
! muslin shroud for m v body and a wedding gar
ment for rny soul, is all 1 now ask of men or
; God.”
’ It was the scieinriest scene I ever beheld. It
seemed as if an angel was speaking. She
didn’t look as if she belonged to this world;
| and I hardly felt that I was in it myself. ’There
was something, I can’t tell what, that made Pa
’ tience take the apron from her face and look
[ right at her.
; “Yes, look at me,” said the sick lady, in such
■ a gentle, mournful tone, the tears streamed from
my eyes to hear her—“look at me, poor, de
luded girl. What are beauty, dress, or admira
tion to me ? Shadows, shadows, all vanished
away ! ‘There is but one reality, and that is
eternity. Remember this, when lam gone —
and set not your heart on the passing vanities
of earth.”
“Oh, Mrs. Shalee”—interrupted Patience, in a
burst of penitence and grief, “if you’ll only lor
give me this time, I’ll never do so no more.”
“I forgive you freely,” said the sick lady—
“and may God open your eyes, to see the power
of truth and the beauty.of holiness.”
( i “Estelle, I never forgot that morning—l never
! shall; old as lam now, and though that frail,
1 beautiful form is all dust and ashes, mingling
with common dust—it comes back to me all
alive as it were, as if but a day had passed since
then. As I was leaving the room, she called me
; back to the bedside and said—
“Y'ou are a good girl, Patty—l’ve heard Par
son Broomfield speak of you, Patty ; I’m going
to the land where the lame shall need no
crutch, for the Lord God shall be their strength
and their stay 7 .”
Aunt Patty paused, and taking her handker
chief from l*er pocket held it to her eyes. The
memories of her youth rushed in such a full
stream through the channel of age, that the vva
. ters overflowed. Estelle, over whose sweet,
j young face, a soft, solemn shadow Lad been
| gradually stealing, laid her head on Aunt Patty’s
! lap and wept from sympathy.
“Did she die, Aunt Patty* ?”
“Yes, not many weeks after, she was laid in
her grave, but l believe it ever a soul went to
glory, hers did. It was the longest iuneral I ever
saw. Every body followed her; the poor as
well as the rich, and I don’t believe there was a |
dry eye, when Parson Broomfield preached her j
funeral sermon. Oh! he was a glorious man,
Parson Broomfield was. I’ve heard good preach- ,
: ing since, but never any body that preached like j
him. It seemed, when you were listening to
■ him, as if somebody was pouring oil all over
I the soul—and he too, is singing the song of
j Moses and the lamb ! ’
Again the waters of memory overflo wed, for
the valves that close over the sensibilities of
age are easily 7 opened. That beloved andven
era ed nam i always touched a master chord
; and produced a long vibration.
“What became of Patience 1 ” said Estelle.
“Did she never get married 1”
“I never saw any thing like children,” said i
; Aunt Patty, taking a larg pinch of snuff, from
I the gold box, Mr. Selwyn presented her on his
weduing eve. “They always ask such silly
questions, as if all a woman was born and bred
for was to get married. Why, some of the best
women that ever lived are old maids, I just as
lief speak it as not, and walk alone through
the world scarring blessings every step they
take. Ido think they are the most unselfish
beings in the world, if they aint selfish, bt.
Paul says it is better not to marry, but to live
to glorify the Lord, and every body knows he
was inspired and spoke with a cloven longue
olf
“7don’t mean to marry,” said Estelle, empir
ically. “I think )you |are right, Aunt Patty, 1 .
is better to be single. Frank asked me to wa j
for him, but I wou dn’t leave you and morner ,
for any body, though I liked them ever so we ,
But you did not tell me about Patience.
“Patience,” said her historian, ‘Svas an alterea
girl, from the morning I told Mrs. Shalee abou
the Taffeta. She gave up all her airs and hneiy,
and though the girls in the village taunted her
and called her by the nick name of * ea-
GreenTaffetta,” she never talked back to them,
but looked meek and sorry,remembering * hat
: Mrs. Shalee had said to her. \ ou can t think how
much prettier she grew, for the spirit that is in
one makes a wonderful difference in tne looks.
! She did not care about going to any more dan
ces, butthe young men waited on her to the sing
ing’school as if nothing had#happened. She
used to meet the young Frenchman there, for
he staid about the village, and after awhile she
! walked home with nobody else but him. Ihe
people began to talk and whisper, and said he
wns making a fool of her, but one Sunday
morning they were published, and in a month
I more they were married, and I was at the wed
ding, Patience hadn’t on one bit of finery, not
! even so much as areal flower, nothing but a
plain, white dress, not so much as a lace tucker
on it. Folks said she’d repent of her bargain,
for he couldn’t be much, to marry a poor girl
1 like her. But he was a nice young man and
made her a good husband, as far as I know ; he
set up a sort of fancy shop and every one liked
10 buy of him, he bowed so much and had such
a pleasant way of smiling and showing his
I white teeth.”
“Patty,” she used to say sometimes —“if it had
not been for you —oh ! Patty, you’ve been a
j good friend to me.”
“ “I left the place when your mother married, and
have never seen her since.”
“How did you get this scrap of silk, Aunt
Patty?”
“I just cut a little piece from the top of the
skirt, where it was turned under, that time f
mended it for Patience—l didn’t call that any
robbery.”
“Oh no 1” cried the child ; “but here is a pret
ty piece of purple satin. Whose was that ?”
“Never mind now ; it’s getting sleepy time
one of these days, perhaps, I will tell you all
about it.”
COLUMBUS, GA.
Friday' morning, January, n, 1853
Mr. Stephens on Cuba.
Mr. Stephens has made a very sensible speech on
Cuba. We concur entirely with him, and we are right
glad to do so for once. lie has no particular desire to
acquire Cuba at this time, especially ns Spain is unwil
ling to part with the Island ; but he will make no
pledges for the future. “Let the future take care of
itself.”
He indulges, however, in a strain of congratulation
over the “compromise,” which, we think, neither the
j manner of its passage, nor the history of events since,
at all justifies. The furor of abolition fanaticism has
not at all abated since the occurrence of that auspicious ?
event. Indeed, anew impulse has been imparted to it
by the flood of abolition literature which has followed
i the appearance of Mrs. Stowe’s infamous book; and,
! we doubt not, but that hereafter the power and inilu-
I ence of this party will be more portentous and con-
I trolling over the legislation of the country when occa
sion offers for them to try their strength.
Mr. S. congratulates the country that, by the pas
sage of the compromise, the principle was established,
that when a territory applies for admission into the
Union, it may come in, with or without slavery, as the
people in such territory may determine for themselves.
Mr. S. admits that the “compromise” only covered the
territory to which it applied ; but “the principle is
much more comprehensive and of much greater value.”
Doubted, Mr. S. Principles have been established in
1 a much more solemn manner than this one was, for the
; benefit of the South, which have been trodden under
foot by a reckless Northern majority. Witness the
Missouri compromise ; the fugitive slave law ; the ta
’ riff compromise; and the principle which was even
! engrafted into the constitution, that slaves should only
| be taxed three-fifths of their value ; which one of them
| has been respected ?
Indeed, we deny that any principle was established by
i the compromise. The North, with few exceptions,
| voted against its most vital measures ; and even those
! few Northern statesmen who voted out and out for the
I Utah and New Mexico bills, in which the principle is con
■ tallied, which Mr. S. regards of such moment, did so
] upon the avowed ground that God had stamped the
! Wilrnot Proviso upon every rock and valley of those
i territories; and boldly expressed their determination
Hfiever to admit another State into the Union which
tolerated slavery in its limits. Such were the deciara
| tions of Mr. Webster, the great leader of New Eng
land, and, indeed, of Northern sentiment; and he came
; well nigh losing his popularity by the course he put -
| sued in reference to those measures, And where angels
i stumbled, men may well dare to tread,
No ; the compromise settled no principle favorable to
| the South ; and whenever occasion offers, vve venture
| the prediction, that the North will trample Mr. S.’s
i “guarantees” in the dust if it become necessary to effect
j her selfish purposes.
In God’s name, the farce of the compromise has
been played long enough. Let us try to forget that j
darlr chapter in the history of our native land, and turn j
our eyes and energies to the building up in the South of ;
a party of principle, which will, in the future, boldly
meet and successfully resist the foul wrongs which are
looming up in the future as the heritage of the South, j
Election of Judge.
At the request of highly respectable political friends
in Randolph, we publish a call for a Democratic meet
ing to nomiuate a candidate for .Judge of the South-
Western Circuit. While professing to be a party man
in the strongest sense of the word, neither the bounds
of conscience, and in all that relates to our attachments
to party friends, principles and organization, we feed :
bound to express our regret at a movement which |
tends to bring the ermine of the bench into the arena
of political strife. We had supposed that the h ading
object had in view by those who advocated a change in
the mode of electing Judges, (a change which has our
entire approbation,) transferring the election from the
Legislature to the people, was to lift the Judgeship
above the factions they had hitherto held, as the mere
prizes and rewards of party fealty. We submit that
nothing has been gained, in this particular, at least, if t
these posts of Judicial dignity and responsibility are to
be the goals of popularity and strength in a party con.
flict. Wo are, therefore, sorry that our friends have
started this movement. If to be initiated at all, we
should have preferred to have seen it begun on the
other side. Wo hope, therefore, that both parties will
agree to a political amnesty in respect to the Judges’
elections. If, however, these offices afe to suffer th
I common lot and be thrown into the arena of party com
j bat:"if the mantle is not to he detur dignissimo, bu*-
i ‘
j to the strongest and best party-man, we, of course,
j shall enter the struggle on out* side and do our best Ur
j our man, unless there should be a palpable difference in
1 favor of the opposing candidate in point of character and
| qualifications. For we hold that, in an office like this,
! where the rights and liberties of the people are involved
I party allegiance must give way to public interests.
Mr. Clayton’s Letter.
! w e are bound, in justice to Mr. Clayton, to give his
j communication a place in our columns, though there
are many personal reflections in it which wa had rather
had been left out of it.
W e will admit a communication from Col. Winter ; bu t
with this, the controversy must close, in our columns at
least.
I If this controversy shall end in enlightening the pub
j lie as to the cause of failure, and probable issue of the
! suspension of the Bank of St . Mary’s, we shall not regret
that it has found room in our paper.
The South-West Georgian.
j This paper is offered for sale. The reason assigned
| by Mr. E. W. Allen, sole Proprietor , is that he has
I “no inclination whatever to appear before the public in
j any character, much less that of Editor.” A still
i stronger one, we presume, may be found in a sen ten e
| which we see in another part of the paper. It is this:
j “Haying on hand a set of books with two years’ earnings
j duly charged, vve are fearful to risk a third year on the
i credit system, lest the (old) hooks might not hold all .
i and the profits would not authorize the purchase of a
j new one” There’s wit it) that sentence, though not
; much wisdom.
j A venerable writer, in speaking upon buying and
selling, uses the following quaint language .
“It is naught, it is naught, saitli the buyer ; but
when he is gone his way, then he boasteth.” See also
the “Horse Swap” in the Georgia Scenes, which is the
best commentary vve have seen on this text.
News from California.
The steamship Daniel Webster arrived at New Or
leans Jan. 7, and brings news from California up to the
loth Dee.
Sacramento City and Marysville have been again
inundated. Much damage was done. Shasta City, it
is reported, has been destroyed by fire.
Catharine Hays’ concerts were crowded nightly;
i the first choice seat brought sllsO. It was purchased
by the Empire Engine Company.
Anew block of marble is being prepared for the
Washington Monument.
Two flouring mills are soon to be erected in the
Township of San Jose. It is calculated that SOO acres
of grain will be sowed in that township, and 500 in
Contra Costa county.
f Executions by vigilance committees were continued
I at San Pedro.
i | Flour was selling at San Francisco at 40 a $42 per
: | bbl.; pork at 38 a S4O per bbl.; hams 18 a 20c. per
I b,; lard IS a 20e.
KewYcrk—Governor Seymour's Message.
Oar State Legislature met tu Albany to-dayof wheH
j Governor Seymour’s inaugural massage was reacß^Copie*
l of the paper were received in this city j* io-davf—
; Prolixity is a ponderous feature of the document. The
State of New York, it is true, is in many important respects
i a nation in itself, yet vast as are its public concerns, one
; finds it exceedingly difficult to conclude that a clear and
! concise exposition thereof should lougitudinaily outrun
: I even the average dimensions of a President’s “annual.”—
1 | It contains much important mformation however—in \
1 a full and authentic history of the Empire State for and
< i
during the year of grace 1852. 1 subjoin a few of the
, j most important items.
l i The number of patients in tlTe State Lunatic Asylum
ii Utica under treatment during the year was 825. Dis
• charged in the same time, 400. The number of insane
! persons in the State in 1850 was 2,500.
| The public funds devoted to educational purposes on
1 I hand on the 3Cth Septemder l ist amounted to $6,641,-
i I 93092. Total amount pai l I'm* Common Schools during
‘ | the year, $2,249,814 02.
■ j The number of convicts in the State Prnon is 1,783 —
, 1 an increase 0f69 upon the returns of the previous year,
i The finances of the Stats are stated to be in an unsatis
factory condition. The Governor refers to the Comptrol
i Jers’ report, which shows that the expenses of the St. ■
Governor, for the fiscal year ending September-20th, 1852
i exceeded the revenue about $200,000, an .1 adds, that
• unless the expenses of the State are curtailed* it must
withdraw its benefactions to institutions of learning
! and asylums for the unfortunate subjects of mental and
physical infirmities, or it must increase the amount of tax
( esjmposed Aft* the support of the Government.
Fatal Eailroad Accident—Further Particulars.
Narrow Escape of President Pierce—lnstant Death
| of His Son—Mrs Pierce, with a Number of Pas
sengers, seriously Injured-
Boston, Dec. 6.—A frightful accident occurra
on the Boston and Maine Railroad* about noon-day.
whereby the life o r the President elect was greatly err
j
dangered, and his only son instantly killed. When near
j th<- town of Andover, in Massachusetts, the train was
thrown off the track by some obstruction, and precipita
ted down an embankment twenty feet high, turning a sum
j rnei setand falling upon a pile of rocks at the bottom of the
embankment. The ears at the time were filled with
i sengers, among whom were Gen. Pierce, his lady utni
i only son, an interesting boy often years. Gen. Pierce
was the first to extricate himself from the fragments of th
! ear, which was literally smashed to atoms; and thoug-a
sound in limb, he complains of considerable pain in tl
back, His son was instantly crushed to death. Mrs.
j Pierce received a number of severe contusions, nene t
! which, however, are considered dangerous. Many other
i passengers were badly bruised, and the down train hfc*
just brought in six or eight ot the wounded. i lie Citizen
of Andover were assiduous in their attentions to the sn.-
fi-rers.
Senator Hunter has returned to Washington from Vir
ginia. Nothing definite had transpired iu regard !o tl
cabinet.