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WHAT THE MOON SHINES ON. *
. by ANNIE K. BIXH'NT.
Faces of beanty in festive thrones,
Lit up with music, and mirth, and songs;
Eyes of bewildering, varying hue—
Seldom on spirits sincere and true.
Jeweled bosoms, anil Parian brow,
Jesting saln\e and courtly bow;
These, but alas! not these alone,
Are some of the scenes that the moon shines on.
Soft falling veil and a bridal wreath
lliiling a struggling heart beneath;
Altar prepared, and a victim bride
Sacrificed for some kinsman's pride;
Falsely vowing to love and obey.
While the truant heart is away, away; .
Her jewelled hand clasped in one more warm,
While close at her side stands an unseen form.
Hark 1 tis n spirit voice she hears.
While her lashes conceal the coming tears;
It is the one which blessed her youth,
Ere gold had purchased her woman truth ?
Nay; twas only a moonbeam spoke
Words to a heart that was well nigh broke;
Sad are the scenes I’m doomed to see,
Malden! I weep while I gaze on thee !
A bower of roses—a youthful pair
Learning their first love-lesson, there;
Soft hands clasped, and eyes cast down
To hide n blush, not a gathering frown,
Ah! the moon would smile If she did not know
That human love too oft brings woo;
That those who listen end most believe,
Must learn that the fondest ones deceives!
•
A coffin black —and a young bride there
With the white flowers still In her shining hair;
Her hands clasped o'er a bosom cliill,
Where tho diamond glitters proudly still,
Smiles on the lips, where the kiss of love
Is lingering yet, though they ne'er may move—
Oh God 1 how they pray for a tone —a breath
From the pale lips closed with the seal of death.
A pallet of rags in a corner lying
Catchipg the breath of the faint, and dying;
No pillow to ease the aching head—
A pitcher of water —a crust of bread.
Curtains of rags of various hue,
Where tho keen north wind comes whistling through;
No watcher-to tell when life's sand run out,
Only the moon on her midnight rout.
No sounds of music—no tone of mirth
A cold bare room—and a clean bare hearth;
A handful of ashes—and children’ despair,
Crying Because no warmth is there—
Uncombed hair, and small naked feet
. That have paced all day tho snmv-olad street;
Nursed by hunger, and want, and pain,*
Asking alms but alas I in vain.
A sickly light—an uncarpeted room
Shrouded In poverty's darkening gloom;
No picture to brighten thu naked wall,
Or gladdcu when tears unheeded fall.
A weary woman in want, and dirt
Singing again the ‘song of the shirt
Wearily toiling for life—for bread
While the cold night lamps die out overhead.
A single candle of sickly beam—
Dreary abode for a Poets' dream 1
A fair young maiden with struggling soul,
Breathing her life in a glowing scroll;
Fashioning thoughts that have filled her brain
With beauty that made her forget life's pain,
Imparting to paper a music sweet,
While her hands glide over the snowy sheet
Dreaming that he may read her song,
And sigh because of her early wrong;
Catching In momentary pause,
A far faint sound of world's applause.
But the heetic-sisit blooms on her cheek.
And the hacking cough is low, and weak—
Yes: fame will come— when the icilloics irace
Their graceful bough* o'er a nameless grace.
Hush'tis the dice-box—oh! no; not there!
See the ghastly face—and tho wild despair! •
The greedy clutch of tho winning one,
The maniac glance of the wretch undone—
Think of the weeping sister and mother
Mourning the ciimcs of a son and brother—
Fortune, and truth and honor gone.
Are some of the Beenes that the moon shines on.
Hark! tis the sound of wild revelry
The wine-cup sparkles and floweth free,
Wreathed with roses, but tearing beneath
A hideous serpent whose name is Death!
Hear the ribald jest, and the laughter loud,
And the boisterous mirth of a reckless crowd—
The inoon smiles never on such a spot:
Nor Virtue—her very name's forgot
Not there—not there—tis the gilded hell
When Satan ghats over our race's fall;
Sin hides beneath that polished floor, «
And faces are there which blush no more;
The painted cheek and lip are there,
Striving to hide the soul's despair.
Oh! the laugh which rings on the listening ear,
Is mirth from the whited sepulchre !
Stars of the heavens I would not be ye,
Too dark are the scenes which you often see.
Moon! I envy you not your light, '
It falleth too oft ou woe and blight.
Perjured soul—and a broken vow,
Crushed heart hid by a smiling brow,
Sin cursed soul, and an oily tongue
Gloating o'er tears from beauty wrung—
Virtue crushed down by iron heel—
Fortune with ever turning wheel
Raising proud vice to an earthly throne,
While the honest jssir weep and die alone.
v Hearts where the ‘canker worms’ always gnaw
V Bridal favors—and funeral pall
Watched by the God who loves us all —
Nttiese, and the talc is not yet done,
of the scenes that the moon shines on.
Tue of War. —The hideous nature
of war has selorW reC eived a better literary il
lustration than which has just ap
peared in London *\es. The information is
taken from tho Gazette, of April,
1813, and published in Times, of
May 22, 1813, some months ay r the French re
treat from Moscow. The documtot states that
in the Government of Minsk tliereWere burnt,
up to the end of January, 1813, the aNtd bodies
of eighteen thousand seven hundred anoWn e ty
seven men, and two thousand seven liunWd
and forty-six horses. In that department tliefV
still remained to be burnt—of the former, thirty'
thousand one hundred and six, and of the lat
ter, twenty-seven thousand three hundred and
sixteen: Those were all lost at the passage of
the Beresina; but the total number taken into
account as being consumed by cremation in Rus
sia was two hundred and thirteen thousand five
hundred and sixteen human corpses, and ninety-
thousand eight hundred and sixteen dead
horses 1
ft
xkk seram nsu And sxrkhib*.
- . - ■ -
[Written fur the Southern Field and Fireside.]
JACK HOPETON AND HIS FRIENDS; !
OR,
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A GEORGIAN.
BY WM. W. TURNER. »
Not long after this adventure, I was riding
witli my father over the plantation, and we came
to where Jones was overlooking some of the
hands.
“ Mr. Hopeton,” said Jones, “ some of the best
low-ground corn is badly injured.”
“ How was it done ?”
“ It was trampled down by Mr. Warlock's cat
tle."
“ Is'nt the fence around the corn a good one ?”
“ First rate; but there are not many fences
which will turn an old steer of Warlock s, that
stays on the creek swamp.”
“Well, it is strange that people will allow
mischievous stock to go at large.”
“ I don't much think this steer will trouble us
anv more, if Juba tells the truth about the mat
ter.”
“ Why, the old fool hasn't killed him, lias he?”
“No, sir.”
“What, then? I have always given strict
orders that when my neighbors’ stock break into
my fields, they shall be sent home, and the own
ers informed of it.”
“ Well, I did this, the first time the mischiev
ous old brute got in the corn; and the second
time, too, which was last Saturday. On Sunday,
Nep was down on the creek fishing—a rascal!—
and he saw this steer, with many other cat
tle, trampling on the eorn. I was gone to see
Mr. Hill, who is very sick, so Ncp came to the
house and told Juba—Juba got those ugly curs
Os his, with two or three of the boys, and put
out for the low-ground. There he dogged the
cattle till ho was tired, and at last got the old
scamp that broke the fence, in a corner, where
the boys held him by the horns and tail while
Juba cut a good sized sappling, and beat liim till
he. could hardly stand. When the steer was
turned loose, lie struck a bee-line for home, and
hasn’t been back since.”
“Well. I am sorry it happened, but still Juba
acted perfectly right.”
“I am sorry for it myself,” said Jones, “ for I
am afraid Juba lias got himself into a scrape.”
“ What sort of a scrape ?”
“Why, I understand that the Warlocks swear
if they ever catch Juba off of your plantation,
they will skin him. They've had enough of com
ing here, it seems.”
“ These men are the pests of the community,
and if they are as troublesome to every one as
they have proved to me, I should think the
neighbors would all agree with me that they
ought to be driven off. Well,” continued my
father, while his thin lips became white and
quivering—a sure sign of deadly wige with him
—“ Let them dare to lay a hand on Juba for this
cause, and they will wish they had never been
born.”
I saw that trouble was brewing.
“Father,” said I, as we rode off, “I had
rather not leave home till this matter is settled
with the Warlocks. I acknowledge that 1 am
somewhat uneasy for you.”
“You need not be,” was tho reply. “They
are cowardly dogs.”
“I grant that. They may not attack you
openly; if they would, my uneasiness would be
less. ' What I fear is, that they may try to do
you a secret injury—l hardly know what. They
are not men to hesitate at any thing—perfect
assassins in spirit, and ready to become so, in
deed. You have heard the reports already in
circulation as to their former crimes.”
“ Oh, yes; but they will hardly venture on an
assassination here. And this reminds me—l’ve
concluded to let you take that trip out West, and
you won’t have time to stay at homo much long
er, if you go before commencing your college
course.”
“ Then I’ll forego my project, and would fore
go almost any other, rather than leave you at
this time.”
CHAPTER 111.
I heard of several threats made by the War
locks, and was rendered very uncomfortable
by them. My father tried to persuade me that
my fears were groundless, but I insisted that he
should go armed. He did not require much per
suasion, as he well knew that a good repeater,
carried in his pocket, could do no harm, and
might preserve his life.
One day we rode to a distant part of the coun
ty, and had to pass by old Warlock's house. In
going we saw no one; but coming back we per
ceived a table in the piazza, and around it Jake
and Joe Warlock, their father and several con
genial spirits, indulging in cards and brandy.
From one of the men present we afterwards
heard that the following conversation took place
as we rode towards the house.
“Boys,” exclaimed the old man, “yonder
comes the scoundrel who lias been in my way
and yours so long. I've got just enough of
liquor in mo now to do any thing. If you are
not up to the mark, swallow a tumbler of brandy,
and that will set you right.”
" Men,” he continued, turniug to his guests.
“ are you going to stand by us, or are you such
cowards as to lie afraid of this aristocrat?”
“ Why, we ain’t afraid," said one, “ but we'd
rather not have a fuss. And besides, Mr. Hope
ton is a very clever man, if he is aristocratic.
Many’s the kind act lie does for the poor people
round here.”
“Yes,” said another, “ last summer, when so
many of my folks were sick, he sent over a dozen
ploughs and hoes and helped me out of the
grass.”
“You lying cowards!” broke out the violent
host; “ you are afraid. Jake,” he said, turning
to his sons, “are you and Joe ready?”
Some little reluctance displayed itself in their
faces.
“If you don’t revenge yourselves now,” he
shouted, “for the beating you got, I'll turn you
off, you whelps!”
“Oh!” said Jake, “I wonder if you didn’t
stand by and see nu> knocked down, without
rfising a finger to help me.”
“ And you'd better not talk about turning us
off,” said Joe; “for if you do, I’ll turn State’s
evidence, and let a cat out of the bag which
would scratch rather badly.”
At this the old man turned pale, and Joe
added.
“But it would be foolish in us to quarrel. We
are as ready to have revenge as anybody; but
you’d better not threaten us any more, for we
won’t stand much of that game.”
All right, boys,” said the father, brought to
said he, turning once more to his vis
itors. Ve you going to help us out ?”
“No/Nuiswered a small, hard, wiry-looking
man, soberest of the party, “ and you
had better let them alone, for if you happen to
kill one of thenvwe’ve heard you say enough to
make an ugly court." *
“ If eyer you tum'ipformer against me I'll cut
your throat I"
Seeing the turn matters were taking, Joe, who
' * - "
, was the soberest of the three Warlocks, endea
! vored to change the face of affairs.
“We don't want to kill Hopeton,” said he,
winking to his father, "We only want to give
him a good beating.”
“Well,” answered the wiry man, “go your
own way, but if you don't kill them devilish
quick after you commence with them, you’ll
come off second liest”
“Yes,” said the man who had received the fa
vor, “ I know them well and they are game to
the backbone.” *
“ May-be you intend to help them?” said the
old man, an ominous frown gathering on his
brow, as lie gazed on the last speaker. V
Now, gratitude would have required this, on
the part of the man, but lie was timid, and over
awed by the bullies around liun.
“ I shan’t interfere either way,” said he. “You
: all must do your own fighting. I intend to keep
1 out of it”
“ So do we,” said the others!
“ Clear out of my house, then, you infernal,
ungrateful, cowardly scoundrels 1 You are no
longer friends of mine!”
“ And never were,” muttered the men as they
left the house.
By this time we had arrived opposite the gate,
the three ruffians had come out and planted them
selves in tiie road so that we could not pass,
without riding over them. I was very much
surprised at their preparing to attack us thus
openly, fearing assassination as I had. I w;is
sorry to have a rencontre with such men, hut,
being convinced that it must come, was glad to
have it brought to an issue so soon.
“ Well, sir!” asked my father, in a sharp tone,
“Why do you stop tue road? What will you
have ?”
“ Why,” answered one of the party,” wo heard
that ypu wanted to ting us, and we thought we’d
just give you the chance.”
“You he! you scnmndrel! You’ve heard no
such thing. You have done nothing for which I
should attack you, since the night you game on
my plantation; and I want to have no further
dealings with you.”
“Come, come, you must mind how yon give
the lie,” said Jake, “or we’ll give you a taste of
what you gave me the night you had the advan
tage of us with your double-barreled gun.”
“Yes,” said Joe, “we will give you tho most
unmerciful Hogging you ever heard off, if you
don’t keep a civil tongue in your head.”
“ Silence, you insolent puppy!” exclaimed I,
placing my hand in my pocket.
“ Don't be in a hurry, Jack,” said my father,
well understanding the movement. “Be calm,"
he continued, having himself now become per
fectly cool.
“ I have heard,” said lie now, in a cold, haugh
ty tone, to the drunken wretches before us, “that
you intend flogging one of my negroes for sim
ply obeying my orders. I also understand that
you have been making threats against myself.—
So far as they are concerned, I intended paying
no attention to them, except by going prepared
to defend myself; but I intended seeking an in
terview with reference to Juba, that I might
warn you not to abuse my slave on account of
an act for which I alone am responsible.”
“ But,” said the old man, taking my father’s
moderation and calmness for fear, “you didn’t
have to seek an interview. ’Here I am ready to
gi*’o you any satisfaction you want. I dkl say
I d give old Juba a whipping, and I will do it, if
it costs me niy life.”
“Look, you sir; the proper reply to your lan
guage would lie a cut in tho face with this ri
ding whip; but I will not act rashly. What has.
Juba done, that you should wish to beat him
cruelly ?”
“ Almost killed one of my liest steers."
“ Wasn’t the steer making havoc with my best
com, for tho third time ?”
“ Yes;” but what neighbor would let his nc
| groes abuse stock for doing what any of them
will do if they get a chanee ?”
“You sir, for one; even when your fences are
not good. I keep good fences, but no barrier
will turn some of your cattle.”
“ It makes no difference;” roared the drunken
old fool; “if I don’t flog old Juba within an
inch of his life, you may cut my ears of!'; and, if
his master interferes, I’ll serve him the same
way.”
My father sat on his horse, considering what
course to pursue, still perfectly collected. Seeing
this, his foe concluded that he certainly was
frightened, and losing all prudence, he rushed
forward with a drawn pistol.
“ Come on, boys,” he shouted, “ let’s pay them
off now. They are armed.”
Jake and Joe were rather tardy in their move
ments, and I, witli my repeater in hand, watched
them, believing my father to be a match for his
antagonist. A quick shot was made, and old
Warlock sunk to the earth, while in the very act
of tiring—his ball going under the horse my
father rode, and slightly grazing one leg. The
sons drew back, and, when we made toward
them, fled, leaving their father on the ground.—
Upon this, we turned to look on the body of our
fallen foe.
“This is what I nevof wished to do,” said my
' father. “Itis a hard necessity, but I was forced
into it, and it shall not make me miserable. But
here, Jack, let us raise him.”
I complied, and we found, I must say to my
great joy, that life was not extinct. We called
some of the negroes, and while they were con
veying their master to the house, “ saddle your
swiftest horse,” said my father, “ and ride for Dr.
Stubbs 1 Henry!”
It happened that even this man had one slave
who loved him devotedly, and the order was
obeyed with a ■will. We staunched the blood,
flowing from the wound, and placed the unfortu
nate man on an easy couch, waiting impatiently
for the physician. Mr. Warlock called for water,
and, after drinking, seemed disposed to talk. We
persuaded him to be silent, telling him we had
sent for a physician. We had not long to wait.
Dr. Stubbs, a most excellent surgeon and gen
eral practitioner soon galloped up and came into
the house. He was a tidgetty, curious sort of
man, although one of great nerve. lie com
menced. after surveying the scene before him—
“My dear sir, what does all this mean ?”
“ Doctor,” was the answer, “ I shot this man
down about half an hour since—that is all.”
“ What 1 you don’t mean that you killed a man
in cold blood, do you ?”
“No, sir. I said nothing about ‘cold
blood.’ ”
“My dear Doctor,” said my father, perceiving
him to be on the eve of speaking again, “you
are examining the wound, I see, but I don’t un
derstand how you can do it properly, while talk
ing so much. When you are through with your
professional duties, I will satisfy your curiosity.”
Dr. Stubbs proceeded, silently, to the exami
nation of the wound. The ball had passed out,
and the painful operation of extracting it, was
thus avoided. We assisted all we could, and
when the dressing was finished,
“ Now, Mr. Hopeton,” said the Doctor, “I do
hope you will relieve me of my suspense, by ex
plaining this mysterious affair.”
“ I will, soon,” was the reply, “ but you forget
that ice wish to ask a question first. You surely
will tell us whether or not this wound is mortal?”
“Mortal? Why no—not exactly—that is.it
will not prove so, if the patient can be kept
quiet: but if he indulges in his usual fretfulness,
his life isn't worth a straw.”
“ Well,” said I, drawing a long breath—for I
felt as if a weight had been taken off niy breast
—he has been very quiet, so far, and I hope he
will remain so.”
“But that explanation, Mr. Hopeton. For
God's sake, don't keep me in suspense any
longer.”
'• We will remove to the piazza then, if you
please.”
“ I beg you will not leave this room, gentle
men,” suddenly exclaimed Mr. Warlock, in a
voice so altered from its usual tone that we could
hardly recognize it.
“ I acknowledge,” he continued, “ that the act
of shooting me was perfectly justifiable, and it
gives me satisfaction to confess so much. I will
tell you all about it, Doctor.”
“ Don't do it,” said the Doctor. Don't do it.
You must keep quiet. You must,” he added,
seeing the old man raise his head impatiently.
“ Come sir; you know I never was afraid of you
when you were at your worst, and of course I
am not now that I hear yon speak like a gentle
man and a Christian —for the first time in my
life.”
“ I think, Mr. Warlock,” said my father sooth
ingly, “you had better follow Mr. Stubbs’ direc
tions. Too much excitement might throw you
into a dangerous fever.”
“And do you really care enongli for me to
give me such advice?” Asked the thoroughly
sutxlued man.
“ Certainly. Do you take me for a heathen ?”
“ Ah! You will please excuse me for judging
you by my own bad heart. I know' so well, that
if I.had found you, or one of yours, at death's
door, I would not have lifted a finger to aid you.”
“Name o'God!” broke in Doctor Stubbs, “are
you two going continue to prate nonsense,
while I am dying of curiosity?”
“ It is more than likely. Doctor,” said I.
“ And why then can’t you enlighten me ?”
“I can.”
“ Well, why havn’t you been doing so all this
while ?”
“ Because you never asked me.”
“You have grown very ceremonious, of late.
Well then, you scamp, I do ask you, now.”
“Toolate. Doctor; I won’t bo second choice.”
The Doctor began to swear like a trojan, and
would have burst with curiosity, had not my
father come to his relief. He narrated to him,
in as few words as possible, the circumstances
of the case, sparing the feelings of the suffering
man as much as he could.
“Are you not thoroughly ashamed of your
self, sir?” said the Doctor to his patient, after
hearing my father out.
But he’was answered in so repentant a tone,
that even lie was softened.
“It is time for us to go now, Jack,” said my
father, rising.
“Mr. Hope-ton,” said the wounded man, “I
am going to make what will seem to you a
strange request —it is, that you and your son
pjiend the night with me.”
“It is out of the question for me to do so.
The Doctor will make arrangements with your
overseer to let you have the proper attention.
Your sons, too, will doubtless do everything to
render you comfortable.”
“Ah 1 never mind my sons. So far as atten
tion is concerned, Dick there, poor follow, will
wait on me faithfully—though I can’t see why,
for I’ve led him a dog's life. To be sure, I’ve
treated him with a nearer approach to kindness
than I have displayed toward any one else, and
I suppose he feels gratified at it. But, Mr.
Hopeton, I wish to see you privately, soon—l
have an important communication to make to
you.”
“ I will certainly come and see you very soon,
and often, as long as you are confined to your
room.”
We shook hands with tho old man and left
the house.
“I forgot one thing,” said Mr. Warlock, call
ing tous. “Tell Juba he needn’t fear me any
longer—l am a changed man.”
On getting home, we delivered this message
to Juba. He scratched liis lieud and shook it
dubiously.
“Well, have you got no reply to make?"
asked I.
“He b’leves in de debil,” was the reply, “and
dat’s do reason lie sends me sicli word. He
thinks de ole club-footed sarpent is waiting for
liim right now. wid his iron pitchfork. Jes let
him get well, an’ lie'll be as bad as ever. I
don't spec lie'll bother me, though, ’cause lie’s
’fraid of master. ’Twant for you all, he’d be
after me with a sharp stick.”
“I think,” said my father, “you are mistaken.
The old xnan will hardly be as wicked here
after.”
“ May be not.”
“At least, then, you’ll forgive him, till you
see he’s no better.”
“’Twouldn’t do no good for me to forgive
him. I can't forgive without I bleve his repent
ance is ginnyu'ine, and I don’t hardly bleve dat
vet.”
“ Why, you old reprobate, you are too vin
dictive.”
“ I don’t know what dat is; but I tries to do
right and serve you, ’cause you’ve been a good
master to me. I likes dem what ’specs my
' fcclins, es I is a nigger.”
Juba seemed incorrigible, and was dismissed.
That night, at supper, my mother received an
account of our day’s adventure. She turned
pale at the recital, but —she was a woman of
great spirit—gave expression to her indignation,
when she heard *of the great insolence of the
canaille with whom we had been engaged.
Wlien, however, she learned how repentant and
subdued the old man was, she gave utterance to
words of womanly sympathy.
“ But, Jack,” said she, after we had disposed
of this subject, “ I hear nothing of the western
tour you were so anxious to make. Has your
ardor abated?”
“ Not in the least; but I knew that a difficulty
was pending lietween those Warlocks and father,
and I wished to see the end of it."
“ Well, it is surely all over now, and you can
go.”
“ I am very anxious to do so, but am afraid
the embers may be still smouldering in those
men’s breasts. I know father is able to take
care of himself but I hardly feel satisfied to
leave home now.”
“The feeling is natural,” said my father, “but
I think it hardly necessary for you to stay now.
Had you .not better go to college ?”
“Oh,” interposed my mother, “do let his wlnm
about this trip be gratified.”
“Why, Mrs. Hopeton,” said her husband,
“you are the first woman I ever knew to be so
anxious for her son to take a wild goose chase
like this.”
“ Well, I am aware it is a little unusual] but
I know how fully Jack has his heart set on this,
and I believe he has sense enough, or good im
pulse enough, not to do anything very wrong.”
“ I believe Jack to be as good as most boys;
but I assure you none of them have much idea
of right and wrong. Now. I think if this young
one goes oft’ on the kind of jaunt he speaks of,
he had better have some old head with him. # lf
I could only persuade Charley to go now. ’
“Why, father,” said I, “he will hardly wish
to go my gait. I’d be more than glad to have
his company, only I am sure he would not be
willing to pursue as eccentric a course as I wish
to take.’’
“ A nice business you would make of it, sir;
and a good 'way you take of reconciling me to
your fancy.”
“Why, I will be perfectly candid with you,
father. I want to shirt out, I hardly know to
ward what point, and come back, I know
whence. lam willing to be limited as to time,
but hardly anything else. If you have confi
dence enough in me to give your consent to this
scheme, I shall feel very grateful; if not, I shall
not indulge in dark thoughts about it, but com
mence my college course when and where you
think best”
“ And so, sir,” said Mr. Hopcton, after some
moments’ thought, “you are unwilling for'Char
ley to go with you?"
“ I am sure this objection of yours is foolish,
Jack,” said my mother. “Charley’s presenco
will bo no restraint, even on a youth like you.
He is too fohd of pleasure himself to wish to
curtail yours.”
“ You both misunderstand me,” said I. “ Un
cle Charley’s company would be very agreeable;
but I know he would not be willing to endure
the inconveniences and even hardships to be en
countered jn the round I contemplate. He is
too luxurious—too fastidious. He hasn’t got
the same warm blood coursing in his veins that
I have.”
“How can you expect a matured, sensible
man to have such ?”
“ Why, I think you have a little of it, your
self, father,” said 1, “in spite of your apparent
coolness.”
“ I’erhapa you are right,” was the smiling re
ply. “I shall write to Charley, nevertheless,
and ask him if ho will go with you, understand
ing fully what it is you propose to do.”
“ Tell him, then, father, if you please, that if
at any time he is too lazy to take any proposed
route, because it is a little ‘ hard to travel,’ I
shall not hesitate to leavoliim.”
“Very well.”
A very few days afterwards, my father showed
me a letter he had referred, from which the fol
lowing is an extract:
“ You ask me if I will go with Jack out West,
and you go on to givo me some idea of the
method of his intended trip. Even without
these hints, I should feel very little disposition
to start out with so hair-brained a youth; and
as it is, I declare to you I h&d # rather be con
demned to follow the wanderings* of a young Ca
manche, or the gyrations of a young Arab of
the desert, than his mad careerings. Turn him
loose on a prairie, and it will be easier for him
who never saw a lasso to noose the wild horse,
than to tame this youth again. The buffalo
which he expects to hunt will not be more thor
oughly impatient of the dominion of man, than
he will boos the trammels of society.
“No, Harry—pray excuse me. I did hope to
teach your boy somewhat of the manners and
customs of civilized life—the courtesies of soci
ety—the potent art of dressing—the power of
conversation; but when" you ask me to lend my
aid in spoiling so promising a youth of fashiou,
you ask me to do violence to the instincts of my
nature —to act in direct opposition to my pro-'
conceived notions of propriety; and I am com
pelled to refuse.
“ Seriously, though, I believe’ it a very good
idea to allow Jack to travel a little —and, just as
, seriously, I can’t go with him. My path now
I lies in the haunts of civilization. You know
very well that I loved adventure once, for you
and I have had many a wild tramp together;
but it is all over now. Let your boy find a com
panion of his own age, or go alone.”
[to be continued.]
—
The Blennerhassett Pacers. —Mr. W. H.
Saft’ord writes to the Missouri Republican that he
is in St. Louis, and has procured from the family
of the late R. S. Blennerhassett, in whose pos
session they were placed for publication, the pa
pers of the famed, but ill-fated Blennerhassett,
rendered conspicuous for his associations with
Burr. The Blennerhassett papers are thus de
scribed :
They consist chiefly of his private journals,
correspondence, essays, historical and political,
letters in relation to the Burr conspiracy, from
Burr, Alton, Tyler, Bollman, Meade, Floyd, and
others implicated; also, the journal of the expe
dition until arrested and broken up. I have also
the letters, manuscripts, and fugitive pieces of
poetry of Dady Blennerhassett, which of them
selves would form a respectable sized volume.
Those papers are voluminous, and afford a sat
isfactory biography of the Blennerhassett fam
ily, and a minute and complete disclosure of the
objects of, and parties concern.d in the Burr expe
dition.
Mr. Safiord is about to publish those docu
ments.
The Cherokee Georgia Baptist Coxven
| tiox. —Wo are indebted to some friends, who
I have just returned from Dalton, for the following
I particulars in relation to the action of that body.
\ The convention convened on .Saturday last, ami
| adjourned on Tuesday evening following. A
large number of delegates were in attendance
from various sections of this State, and several
from other Strtes, among whom were Rev. Mr.
Pendleton, of Murfreesboro’ College, and Rev.
Mr. Dayton, of Nashville, Tennessee, and some
from Kentucky. It was determined by the Con
vention to use every effort to have the Cherokee
Baptist College at this place, endowed and placed
on a permanent basis, and to establish a paper
to advocate their interests. It was not deter
mined at what point the paper should be pub
lished, but Cassville and Rome appeared to have
the preference, and it is more than likely, if the
enterprise succeeds, of which there seems to bo
no doubt, that one of these places will be select
ed. This matter has been left in the hands of a
committee tej select the place of publication.—
Rev. Mr. Daniel was appointed agent for tho
fund to endow tho college.
[Cassville(Ga.,) Standard, May 19.
Vapor.—Dr. Dick, the celebrated philosopher,
says there arises, every twelve hours, no less
than thirty million cubic feet of water, which is
more than sufficient to supply all the rivers on
the earth. This immense body of water is form
ed in clouds, and carried over every part of tho «
continents; and again it is condensed into rain,
snow or dews, which fertilize the earth. Should
this process pause, we might wash our clothes,
but centuries would not dry them, for evapora
tion alone produces tliis effect; vegetation would
wither; rivers would swell the ocean; the op
erations of nature would cease. So closo is tho
connection between this process and vegetable
and animal life.
•