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From the Philadelphia Enquirer.
Feuds among Friends and Relatives.
RECONCILIATION.
It is surprising to notice from what
trivial causes serious difficulties will
sometimes arise. A word, a jest, the
hasty expression, has, in many instances,
broken the friendship of years, and been
the first cause of a bitter, remorseless
and undying feud. Alas! for poor hu
man nature. The prejudices and pass
ions of the heart, the selfishness and j
malevolence of men, are too often the
sources, not only of unkind ness and pain
to others, but of perpetual disquiet and
unhappiness to themselves. There are
in the world, too, individuals who appear
to take delight in fomenting trouble, in
increasing misunderstandings, in widen
ing and imparting additional rancour to
difficulties between friends. These ma
lignant hypocrites, for they deserve no
better appellation, generally profess to
be extremely anxious to adjust the trou
ble, to restore the confidence, and recon
cile the feelings of the excited. * They,
however, at the same time, contrive by
an artful word, or a half admitted insin
uation. to embitter and infuriate both par
ties, and thus to convert into little better j
than fiends, individuals who a few years, j
or perhaps a few months before, would
not have hesitated to make any sacrifice !
for the assislance of each other. It is, I
moreover, a strange perversity in many \
minds, to be unwillwig to acknowledge 1
an error or repair a wrong. They are I
naturally perverse and dogged, and, by
some strange process of reasoning, en
deavor to convince themselves that they
are acting under the inlluence of princi
ple and honor, when, in fact, they are
governed by very different motives.—
“ Blessed are the peace makers!”—
How often may a truly benevolent friend,
one who is disposed to do what is right
without any malignant motive, one who
wishes well to all about him, and to man
bind at large, step in, and by the exer
cise of prudence, moderation and for
bearance, reconcile a difficulty. How j
truly philanthropic is the spirit which
animates such a mind ! How much bet
ter thus to heal and adjust, than, by a !
Contrary course, to irritate and perplex ! i
The Work of reconciliation is truly chris-!
tian. It is calculated to bring peace to !
many a troubled breast, to sooth and give
balm to many an agitated mind and!
wounded heart—to convert hatred into
love, harshness into kindness, and to i
make ns, by reflection on the past, asha- j
med of our moments of petulence and
passion, and anxious to avoid such er
rors and imperfections for the future.
What nobler task could an individual
be engaged in, than that of bringing to-,
gether friends and relatives who had
been long separated—separated, too, bv
some trivial cause, by some hasty word,
by some harsh expression or allusion,
which at the time was not meant to of
fend or wound. It is so easy at times,
and especially when one is peevish, fret
ful and out of humor, to imagine insult,
where nothing of the kind was intend
ed. We all, too, have particular moods.
We have our hours of gloom, discontent
and disaffection. At such times, we are
universally sensitive. The slightest thing
will stir us into passion, or induce us to
utter someting harsh or complaining.—
It is at such moments that difficulties are |
apt to arise* We cannot even bear or- j
dinary railing, while the remotest allu
sion to any offensive subject or sore
point, is at once regarded as an act of;
wrong and outrage. This too,, we know, i
and realize ourselves, in our calm and i
thoughtful moments. But we lack the i
nerve to admit the error, to take back i
the harsh expression we have used, to i
proffer an apology, and to hold out the
hand of reconciliation. How fatal has <
this obstinacy been to the happiness of j
many! A slight offence, and perhaps I
one that was never intended, has increas- g
ed with the strength of years, by the i
nursings of moody thought, the insinua- <
lions and misrepresentations of pretend- $
ed friends, and thus, what might have <
AUGUSTA WASHINGTONIAN.
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A WEEKLY PAPER: DEVOTED TO TEMPERANCE, AGRICULTURE, & MISCELLANEOUS READINGS, j
Vol. III.]
been explained in a breath, what would i
have been forgiven promptly and gener
ously, had the first word of atonement or j
explanation been uttered, has rankled
and deepened until the fearful feelings of j
hatred and revenge have become dark
features of our nature. Better, far bet- i
ter in every case, where a doubt exists :
as to the propriety of our own course, to !
stretch out the hand of reconciliation.—
Better to forgive, once, twice, aye, a
dozen times, than mistake or misappre
! hend, and on such fatal error, to foment a ;
deadly and undying enmity. It has been
[eloquently and beautifully said, “that!
j when the veil of Death has been drawn I
: between us and the objects of our re- j
| gard, how quicksighted do we become to j
their merits, and how bitterly do we then
remember words or looks of unkindness
which may have escaped us in our inter
course with them. How careful should
| such thoughts render us in the fulfilment
|of those offices of affection which it
may be in our power to perform! for who
; can tell how soon the moment may ar
j rive when repentance cannot be followed
by reparation.”
From the Spirit of the Times.
MARRIAGE OF BILL WARRICK and
BARHR Y BASS.
As described in a letter from Miss Nan
cy Guitou to Polly Stroud.
To Miss Polly Stroud, nigh Noxvil, in
the State of Tennysee, dost by where
the French Broad and Holsin jines.
Piney Bottom, )
this July 9, of 1844. $
Miss Polly Strud—tlere maddam.—l
now take my pen in hand of the presence j
opportunity to let you know we are a.I
j well, but I am purry in sperits hoping this
j few lines may find you the same by gods
mercy as I have bin so mortyfide I could
! cry my eyes out bodily. Bill Warrick,
yes Bill Warrick, is married to Barhry
| Bass ! I seed it done—a mean, triflin
dececvinst creetur—but never mind—
Didrit I know him when we went to old
field school—a little ragged orfin Boy,
with nobody to patch his close torn be
hin a makin of a dicky-dicky-dout of him
self —cause his old nigger oman Venus
was too lazy to mend en? Didnt I know
him when he couldnt make a pot hook or
a hanger in his copy book to save his life,
as for makin of a S he always put it
tother way, jist so g backwards. And
then to say I were too old sot him and
that he always conceited I was a sort of a
sister to him ! O Polly Stroud, he is so
likely, particular when he is dressed up of
i a Sunday or a frolick—and wlmt is worscr
: his wife is prutty too, tho I dont acknovvl
: ige it here. Only too think how I doat
| ed on him, how I used to save bosim blos
soms for him, which some people calls
! sweet sentid shrubs—and how I used to
1 put my hand in and pull them out for him,;
and how I used to blush when he sed j
! they was sweeter for comin from where j
i they did ? YVho went blackberrvin and j
i huckleberyin with me? who always rode ;
!to preechun with me and helped inc on
the horse? who made Pokeberv stains in (
dimdns and squares and circles and harts j
and soon at quilt ins for me? —and talkin
:of Polk—l do hope to fathers above that !
; Poke will beat Clay jist to spite Bill, for!
he is a rank distracted Whig and secre-;
(ary to the Clay Club—who always j
threaded my nedle and has kissed me in ■
perticuler, in plavin of kneelin to the
wittyist, bowing to the puttyist and kissin
of them you love best, and playin Sister !
Feebe, and Oats, Peas-Beans and Barly |
grows—at least one hundred times?— :
Who vvated as candil holder with me at j
Tim Bolins weddin, and sod he knowd ;
one in the room hed heap rather marry,;
and looked at me so uncommon, and his j
eyes so blue that I felt my face burn for a j
quarter of an hour? who I do say was it
but Bill Warrick—yes, and a heap more. :
If I havent a grate mind to sue him, and
would do it, if it wasnt I am feared hed
show a Voluntine, I writ to him Feber- j
ary a year ago. He orter be exposed, j
for ifhe is widderer heel fool somebody
else the same way he did me. Its a burn
in shame, I could hardly hold my head up
at the weddin. If I hadnt of bin so mad
and too proud to let him see it I could of ;
cried severe. j:
Well, it was a nice weddin—sich ice
cakes and minicles and raisins and orin-;
gis and hams—flour (loins and chicken i
fixins, and four uncommon fattest big!
goblers roasted I ever seed. The Bryde
was dressed.in a white muslin figured i
over a pink satin pettycoat, with white
gloves and satin shoes, and her hair a 1
curlin down with a little rose in it, and a !
AUGUSTA, GA. JANUARY 4, 1845.
chain around her neck. I dont know j
: whether it was raal pool or plated. She
i looked butiful and Bill did look nice, and
! all the candvdates and two preachers and I
: Col. Hurd was there, and Bills nippers,
: the likeliest nine of them you ever looked !
: at, and when I did look at ern and think, I ;
raly thought I should or broke my heart. ;
i Well, sicli kissin—several of the galssed
that there faces burnt like tire, for one of]
i the preechers and Col Hurd wosnt shaved
! dost.
Bimeby I was asetlin teanin back, and i
Bill he come behin me, and sorter jerked i
me back, and sheared me powerful.—
We had a right pood laugh on old Parson
Brown as he got through a marryin of
nm—says he, ‘*l pronounce you, Wil-»
liam Warrick and Barbry Bass, man and
oman,” —he did look so when we l&ffed,
and he rite quick sed—“man and wife—
salute your Bryde,” and Bill looked hor
rid red. and Barbry trembled and blushed
astonishin severe.
Well, its all over, but I dont keer—
theres as good fish in the sea as ever
comeouten it. Im not poor for the likes
of Bill Warrick, havin now three sparks,
I and one of them from Town, whose got a
I pood grocery, and leads the Quire at
church outer the Southern Harmony, the
.Mission Harmony is gone outen fashion.
Unkle Ben’s oldest gal Suky is guine to
marry a Yirginnv tobaeker roler, named
Saint George Drummon, and he says he
is kin to Jack Randolf and Pokerhuntus,
who they is the Lord knows. Our Jack
! got his finger cut with a steal trap catcbin
|of a koon for a Clay Club, and the boys
is down on a tar raft, and old Miss Coliis
1 and mommy is powerful rumatic, and the
measly complaint is amazin. I jist heard
you have got twins agin—this lime-stone
water must be astonishin curvous in its
affects. What is the fashuns in Tenny
see, the biggest sort ofßishups is the go
here. My love to your old man, vour
friend. NANCY GIIITON.
Old Miss Coliis and mammy is jist
eomo home. Betsy Bolin is jest had a
fine son, and they say she is a doin as
well as could be expected, and the huck
lebery crop is short on account of the
drouth.
Margaret and the Mi lister,
A Scotch Story : not Founded on, but at!fact.
BY LAUHIE TODl).
I spent a month in London in 1833.
During this period I was engaged every
night, Sundays excepted, to sonic club,
society, converzatione, or dinner party.
Among the latter, from the peer to the
peasant. On one occasion I dined at
Lord B ’s. There were twelve at the
table, and six servants, in splendid uni
form to wait I put on my
best black, and went in thi carriage to
‘this important affair. I had got a few
j glimpses of high life previous to this, so
(•tlint I felt some confidence in myself
i The mistressof the feast at the head of the
| tableand on her rightsat a young lady, Mis
] C ,at the right of whom 1 was seated, ]
while the eldest daughter of the family, a j
j fine young lady of seventeen, sat at my :
right hand. So that l sat between the j
two. When I looked at the servants!
i with their powdered beards and clothes
jof scarlet—at the vessels of gold and si]-
i ver. jars of china, and platters of glass,— ;
jat the lords and ladies, the sirs, counts, j
'at the room, the seats, sofas, ottomans, i
and foot-stools of which I had read of
! eastern luxury and splendor, and whose
gas lamps and chandaliers sent forth a
! blaze more brilliant than a winter’s sun—
i 1 thought this was rather going ahead
of any thing of the sort I had yet seen,
and was afraid I might make some blun
; ders; however I was resolved to main- i
tain my confidence, and make myself,
j perfectly at home, like my worthy coun- 1
jtrymen, Sir Andrew Wyle; at a ball j
i given by the Dutchess of Dashingwell,
and the next square to the one in which
: I was then partaking of London hospital
jity, I soon found that Miss C was a
j social, intelligent mortal, and felt myself!
at home with her at once.
“Miss,” said I, “I have been at some
fine parties in Edinburgh, Glasgow and
; Liverpool, but this is carrying the joke
a little beyond anything I have before
| seen ; I may go wrong, and I am some
! what like the old woman in Scotland,
who went to dine with the minister; so
if I blunder, you must help me along.”
To this she readily consented, “ But
what of the old lady in Scotland ?” said
she. *
“ I have heard my father,” I replied,
“ tell the story, some fifty years ago.—
It happened in the parish where he liver-”
[Xo. 25 ]
j She was much surprised to hear that
he, my father, then lived, in his ninety,
first year.
“On a certain market day,” I contin
ued, “ Margaret, the wife of a neighbor
ing farmer—in addition to her load of
hens, geese, &c., brought a small basket
;of eggs as a present to the minister.— ;
Having sold off her load of sundries, she !
■ wends her way to the parsonage. After j
i inquiring how he, the wife and taw the I
bairns did, she said :
“I hae brought ye two or three fresh
eggs so the gude wife, to help her in ma
king your ban rocks,” (Christmas cakes.)
“The eggs were kindly received, and
• it being dinner hour, she was invited to
, stop and eat her kail, (soup.)
‘“Nav, nay,’ says Margaret, ‘I dinna
ken to behave at great folk’s table.’
‘“Oh, never mind,’ said the minister,
‘just do as ye see we do.’
“ Margaret was finally persuaded, and
sat down at the table. It so happened that
the minister was old and well stricken
with age, and had, withall, received a
stroke of palsy—in conveying the spoon
from the dish to his lip, the arm being
unsteady, the soup was apt to spill ; there
fore, to prevent damage befalling his
clothes, it was his custom to fasten one
end of the table cloth to the top of his
( waistcoat, just under the chin. Marga
ret, who sat at the opposite end of the
table, watching his motions, pinned the
j other end of the table cloth to a strong
j homespun shawl, under her chin. She
] was attentive to every move. *The rnin
ister deposited a quantity of mustard on
. the edge of his plate, and Margaret, not
, observing this fugal exactly, carried the
spoon to her mouth. The mustard soon
, began to operate on the olefactory nerve.
. i She had never seen mustard before, and
did not know what it meant. She thought
she was bewitched. To expectorate on
the carpet would be a sin. She was al
most crazy with pain. Just at this mo
ment the girl coming in with some clean
plates, opened the door near to which !
she sat.
Margaret at once sprang for the door,
upset the girl, plates and all, and swept
the table of all its contents, the crash of
which added speed to her flight. Ma.
king two steps at once in descending the
stairs, the minister, befast at the other
end of the table cloth, was compelled to
follow as fast as his tottering limbs could
move. He held to the bannisters till the
pins gave way, when away flew Marga
ret, who never again darkened the min
ister’s door.”
The Secret ot Success.
There are some men who appear born
to good fortune, and others whose desti
ny appears to subject them to eternal
failure and disaster. The ancients rep
resented Fortune as a blind goddess, be
cause she distributed her gifts without
discrimination; and in more modern
times the belief has been prevalent that
the fortunes of a man were ruled chiefly
jby the planet under which he was born.
I These superstitions, however ridiculous,
i show at least that the connection between
| merit and success is not very conspicu
lous, yet it is not therefore the less per
petual. To succeed in the world, is it
; self a proof of merit; of a vulgar kind
; indeed, it may be, but a useful kind not- j
j withstanding. Wo grant indeed, that
I those qualities of mind which make a
man succeed in life, are to a great ex
tent subversive of genius. Nevertheless,
numerous illustrious examples might be
given of men of the highest genius be
ing ns worldly-wise as duller mortals.
It is the pretenders to genius, rather than
the possessors of it, who clainvthe large
j exemption from those rules of prudence
, which regulate tiie conduct of ordinary
1 mortals, and array themselves in the de- i
jformities of genius in the idea that they "
| constitute its beauties. There are some (
indiscretions, we believe, to which men
of vigorous fancy and keen sensibility
arc naturally heir to, and for which it
would be as unjust to condemn them with
ri<ror, as it would be to blame one of the
cold-blooded sons of discretion for being 1
destitute of poetic fire. let every devi
ation from prudence is a fault, and is not
to be imitated, though it may sometimes ,
be excused.
The most important elements of suc
cess is economy, economy of money and
of time. By economy we do not mean !
penuriousness, but merely such whole
some thrifts as will discline us to spend
our time or money without an adequate
return either in gain or enjoyment. i
An economical application of time i
hrirgs leisure and method, and enable? '
WASHINGTONIAN
TOTAL ABSTINENCE PLEDGE.
We, whose names are hereantoftr,-
nexeil, desirous of forming a Sncii ty for
oar mutual benefit, and to guard against
ia pernicious practice, which is injurious
I to °ur health, standing and families, do
• pledge ourselves as Gentlemen, not to
drink any Spirituous or I Mult I.iquors,
| Wine or Cider.
us to drive our business, instead of our
business driving us. There is noth
ing attended with results so disastrous, as
such a miscalculation of our time and
means as will involve us in perpetual hur
ry, and difficulty. The brightest talents
must he ineffective under such a pressure,
;nnd a life of expedients has no end but
j penury. Our receipe for succeeding in
j the world then, is this, work much and
j spend little. If this advice he followed,
| success must come—unless indeed, some
umvise adventure, or some accident n
gainst which no human foresight could
provide, such as sickness, conflagration,
or other visitations of Providence, should
arrest the progress onwards; hut, in the
ordinary course of human affairs, success
will ever wait upon economy—which is
the condition by which prosperity must
be earned. Worldly success, however,
| though universally coveted, can he only
desirable in so far as it constitutes to
i happiness, and it will contribute very lit
tle unless there be cultivated a lively be
| nevolence towards every animated be
j ing. “Happiness,” it has been finely
observed, “is in proportion to the num
ber of things we love, and the number
of things that love us. To this senti
ment we most cordially subscribe, and
we should wish to see it written on tho
tablet of every heart, and producing its
fruits of charity. The man whatever bo
his fame, or fortune, or intelligence, who
can treat lightly another’s wo—who is
not bound to his fellow-men by the mag
ic tie of sympathy, deserves, ay, and
will obtain, the contempt of human
kind. Upon him all the gifts of fortune
are thrown away. Happiness he has
none ; his life is a dream ; a mere leth
argy; without a throb of human emo
tion; and he will descend to the grave
“unwept, unhonored and unsung.”—
Such a fate is not to be envied, and let
those who are intent upon success, re
member that success is nothing without
happiness.
Here are beautiful sentences from the
pen of Coleridge. Nothing can be
more eloquent—nothing more true :
“ Call not that man wretched, who,
whatever else he suffers as to pain in
flicted or pleasure denied, has a child for
j whom he hopes, and on whom he doats.
Poverty may grind him to the dust, ob
scurity may cast its darkest mantle over
I him, his voice may be unheeded by those
among whom he dwells, and his face
may be unknown to his neighbors: even
pain may rack his joints, and sleep flee
from his pillow ; but he has a gem with ~
which he would not part for wealth defy
ing computation, for fame filling a world’s
ear, for the sweetest sleep that ever fell
on mortal’s eye.”
Another Heroine.
Generally speaking, women have more
courage and penetration than men.—
Among the innumerable instances of wo
man’s bravery, we mention one of a late
occurrence. The three criminals, E. J.
Efner, Charles Martin, and Benjamin
M’Lean, who escaped from the jail in
Charleston a few days since, were ar
rested in Midway, and lodged in Barn
well jail; and whilst there, they had
succeeded in cutting loose the rivits from
; their chains, by means of a case knife,
which was converted by them into a saw ;
and when freed they rushed to the door
j opening into the yard. But the Jailor’s
! wife, witji woman’s bravery, was too
! quick for the criminals; having succeed
| <>d in closing the door from the outside.
They then removed the iron bars from
the fan lights over another door, and
M’Lean jumped through ; but on being
knocked down and secured by some one
of those who came to the assistance of the
jailor’s wife, the others made no farther
effort at escape. They were re-convey
ed to Charleston.— Hamburg Jour.
Tell not thy secrets to a friend, for thy
friend has a friend.
In no circle in life are the endearing
ties of friendship so strongly entwined, as
in school.
Pride frequently keeps people in igno
rance.
A Philosopher being asked by what
means he had acquired so much knowl
edge, replied, “By not being prevented
by pride, from asking questions when I
was ignorant.”
In a discourse in behalf of a blind
asylum, the speaker began by gravely re
marking, “If all the world were blind,
what a melancholy eight it would be,”