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I _ilottrnal of f'olitiral anir tfnrcral l)rtus-|n Inflate'of -(gqnal VOL. IX.__BATH, THURSDAY MORNING, APRIL 12, 1855. NO. 4a .a (Bustrrn <£inua tS PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY MORNING, BY GEO. E. NEWMAN, Editor and Proprietor* Office in north end of PibceV Block, third story, comer of Front and broad Streets. Terms. If paid strict iff in advance—per annum, $ ] *5? If payment is delayed 6 mo*., 44 44 If not paid till the close of the year, ”*uw JIT No paper will he dtecontimml until all arrearage* are paid, unless at the option of the publisher. rr Single copies, four cents—f-r sale at the office, and at Stearns’ Periodical Depot, Centre Street. O' AH letters and communication* to he addressed post paid, to the Publisher, Bath, Me. S. M. Pbttkxgill A Co., Newspaper Advertising Agents, N«. 10 State Street, and V. B. Palmer, Scollay’s Building, Court Street, Boston, are Agents for this paper, and are authorized to receive Advertisements and Subscriptions for ns at the same rates as required at this office. Their re ceipts are regarded as payments. PULASKI. It was at the battle of Brandywine that Count Pulaski appeared in all his glory. As he rode charging there, into the thick est of the battle, he was a warrior to look up on but once and never forget. Mounted on a large black horse, whose j btrength and beauty of shape made you forget the plainness of his caparison, Pulaski, with a form si* feet in height, massive chest, and limbs of iron, was seen from alar relieved by the black cloud of battle. His face, grim with the ^cars of Poland, | was the fact of a man w ho had seen much ' trouble, endured much wrong. It was stamp ed with an expression of abiding melancholy. Bronzed in hue, lighted by large black eyes, with the lip darkened by a thick moustache, bis throat and chin were covered with a heavy beard, while his hair fell in raven masses from beneath his trooper’s cap, shielded with a ridge of glittering steel". His hair and beard were of the same hue. The sword that hung by his side, fashioned of tempered steel, with a hilt of iron, was one that a warrior alone could lift. It was in this array that he rode to battle, followed by a band of three hundred men, whose faces, burnt with the scorching of a tropical sun—or hardened by northern snows, bore the scars of many a battle. They were mostly Europeans—some Germans, some Po landers, some deserters from the British army. These were the men to fight. To be taken by^foe British would be death on the gibbet j therefore they fought their best, and fought to their last grasp, rather than mutter a word about ‘quarter.’ W'hen they charged, it was one man, their three hundred swords flashing over their heads against the cloud of battle. They came down upon the enemy in terrible silence, without a word spoken , not even a whisper. lou could near Inc tramp ot their steeds, you could hear the rattling of their scabbards, but that was all. As they closed with the British, you could hear a noise like the echo ■of a hundred hammers beating the h6t iron •on the anvil. You could see Pulaski himself, riding yonder in his white uniform—his black steed rearing aloft, he spoke to his men : * Forwarts, Brudern, Forwarts P It was but broken German, yet they under stood it, those three hundred men wilh sun burnt faces, wounds ami gashes. Willi one burst they rushed upon the enemy. For a Hew moments they used their swords and then the ground was covered with dead, while the living enemy scattered in panic before their path. It was on this battle day of Brandywine^ j that the Count was in his glory. He under stood but little English, so he spake what lie bad to say with the edge of the sword. It was a severe lexicon, but the British soon ** learned to read it, and to know it. All over the field, from yonder Quaker meeting house away to the top of Osborn's hill, the soldiers of the enemy saw Pulaski ■come, and learned to know his name by heart. The white uniform, that bronzed visage, that black horse with burning eyes and quiv ering- nostrils, they knew the warrior well, they trembled when they heard him say— ’ Forwarts, Brudern, Forwarts"!’ It was at the retreat of Brandywine th*t the Polander was most terrible. It was when the men bf Sullivan—badly armed, poorly fed, shabbily clothed—gave way, step by step, be fore the overwhelming discipline of the Brit ish host, that Pulaski lixAed like a battle fiend mounted on his demon steed. His cap had fallen from his brow. His broad head shone in an occasional cannon or rifle. His white uniform was rent aqd stained ; in fact, from head to foot, he was covered with dust and blood. Still his right arm was free ; still it rose .there, executing a British hireling when it fell.; still his voice was heard, hoarse and '■husky, but strong in every turn—‘ Forwarts, Brudern!’ - He beheld the division of Sullivan retreat ing from the field ; he saw the British yonder -stripping their coats from their backs, in the madness of pursuit. He looked at the South • -for Washington, who with the reserve under ^Greene, was hurrying to the rescue, but the American chief was not in view. Then Pulaski was convulsed with rage. He rode madly upon the bayonets of the '^pursuing British ; his sword gathering victim -after victim, even there, in f|^tot their whole army.; he flung his steed across the path of the retreating Americans, he besought them •in broken English to turn-and make one more effort; he shouted in hoarse tones that the day was not yet lost! They did not understand his words, but the tone in which he sprike thrilled their blood. That picture too, standing out from the clouds of battle—a warrior convulsed with , passion, covered with blood, leaning over the neck of his steed, while his eyes seemed turned to fire, and the muscles of his bronzed face, writhing like serpents—that picture, I say, filled many a heart with new courage, nerved ‘many a wounded arm to the fight again. These retreating men turned—they faced the enemy again—like the wolf at bay before the blood-hounds—they sprang upon the necks of the foe, and bore them down by one des perate charge. The people know but little of the character •of Washington, who terra the American Fa bius—that is, a General compounded of pru dence and caution, with but a spark of enter prise. American Fabius ! When will you •how me the Roman FabiuB that had a heart of fire, nerve* of steel, a eoul that hungered for the charge, and enterprise that rushed • from wilds like Skippock, upon anVrmy like that of the British at Germantown, or startled from ice and snow, like that which lay across , the Delaware, upon hordes like those of the Hessians at Trenton—then I will lower Wash ington down into Fabius. This comparison of our heroes with the barbarian demigods of Rome, only illustrates the poverty of the mind that makes it. . Compare Brutus, the assassin ofliis friend, with Washington, the deliverer of his people ! Cicero, the opponent of Oatalinc, with Hen ry the champion of a continent! What beg gary of thought! Let us learn to be a little independent, to know bur great men as they were, not by comparisons with tho tflhpian heroes of oid Roms. Let us learn that Washington was no neg • ative thing, hut all chivalry and genius. It was in the battle of Brandywine that this truth was made plain. He came rushing on to battle. He beheld his men hewn down by the British. He heard them shriek his name, and regardless of his personal safety, he rushed to join them. It was at this moment that Washington came rushing on once more into battle. Yes. it was in the dead havoc of retreat that Washington, lushing forward in the very mclce.was entangled in the enemy’s troops on the top of a high hill; southwest of the meet ing house, while Pulaski sweeping with his grim smile, to have one mo/e bout with the red coats. » Washington was in terrible danger—his troops were rushing to the south—the British troopers sweeping up the hill and around him ; while Pulaski, on a hill some hundred yards distant, was scattering a parting blessing among the hordes of Hanover. It was a glorious prize, this Misther Wash ington in the hearts of the British Army. Suddenly the Polander tu(»ed—his eye caught the sight of the iron gray and his r;d er. He turned to his troopers ; his wiskered lip was wreathed with a grim smile—he wav ed his sword—he pointed to the iron gray and his rider. ' 1 here was but one movement, With one impulse that iron band wheeled their war horses, and then a dark body* solid and compact, was'spMidiiig over the valley, like a thunder-bolt spe^ from the heavens— three hundred swortdHbtose glittering in a faint glimpse m sunlight-— and in front of the avalanche, with-his fctwLraiscd to his full height, a dark frown''un-lun brow, a fierce smile on his lip, rode Pufcjlti j ike a spirit roused ITlin tm-. the fWffiTCi'-ooTt He rode —his eyes were fixed on the iron gray and his rider—his band had hut one look, one will, one shout, Washington ! The British troops had encircled th*Amer ican leader—already the head of that traitor, \\ asbington, seemed to yawn upon the gates of London. But what trembling ot earth in the vallev yonder. What means it ? What terrible heating of hoofs, what doss it portend ? That •minous silence—and now that shout ; not of words or of name, but that half yell, half hurrah, which shrieks from the iron men as they scent their prey ! What means it all? Pulaski is on our track ! the terror of the British army is in our wake And on he cantc, he and his gallant hand. A moment and he had swept over the British ers—crushed, mangled, dead and dying, they strewed the grpen sod—he had passed over the hill, he had passed the form of Washing ton ! Another moment, and that iron band had wheeled—back to the same career of death they came, flouted, defeated, crushed, the red-coats flee from the hill, while the iron band swept round the form of George Wash ington—they encircle him with their forms of oak : their swords of steel; the shout ot his name shrieks through the air, and away to the American host they bear him in all a soldier's j“y * * * * # It was at Savannah that night came down upon Pulaski. - Yes, i see him now, under the gloom of night riding towards yonder rampart, his black steed rearing aloft, while two hundred of his own men fallow at his back. Right on, neither looking to the right or left he rides, his eye fixed upon the cannon of the British t his sword gleaming over his head ! For the first time they heard that war cry, ‘Forwarts, Brudern, Forwarts !’ Then they saw the black horse plunging forward, his fore feet resting on the cannon of the enemy ; while his rider rode in all the pride of his form, his faoc bathed in a flush of red light. The flash once gone, they saw’ Pulaski no more. But they found him ; yes, beneath the enemy's cannon, crushed by the same gun that killed his steed. YTs, they found him, the horse and rider, together in death, that noble face glaring in the midnight sky, with glassy eye. So in his glory he died. He died while America and Poland were yet in chains. He died in the stout hope that both one day would be free. With regard to America, his hopes have been fulfilled;' but Poland— | Tell me, shall not the day come when yon j der monument, erected by those warm South : ern hearts, near Savannah, will yield up its dead? hor Poland will yet be^free at last, as turt as God is just ; as sure as He governs the uni | verse. Then, when re-created Poland rears her eagle aloft again among the banners o the nations, will her children come to Savan nah to gather up the ashes of their hero, ant bear him home with the chant of priests, wit! . the thunder of cannon, with the tears of mil 1 lions, even as repentant -Franee bore home he 1 own Napoleon. Cite JStcni relief. 0 'O From the Portland Eclectic. MRS. GRANT IN A DILEMMA, Or Selfishness at the Bottom. ‘ What are you in such a flur#y for, my little Molly!’ said Mr. Grant to his wife, who was dispatching her toilet in the greatest possible hurry ; 1 Why, your face is as red as a beet.’ ‘Mrs..Right is in the parlor waiting for me. I don’t see what sent her here at this early hour. Do run down and entertain her a few minutes. I hope she won't stay long.— Tell her I'm engaged now, but will be in soon. Perhaps she will take the hint and go.’ ‘Oh! 1 forgot to tell you that she was in the store last week, and l invited her to visit you to-day. Now do forgive me for not tell ing you before, for I never thought of it from that moment, till I saw her husband in town this morning ; and I caught my hat and ran home to tell you the truth, and make a most humble confession. If you will only pardon me this once, I will never do so again as long as I live.’ ‘Oh! I know you too well, Harry Grant, to believe that story. There—it is so provok ing to have you do so; why, it's only last summer that yon invited her here in the very same way,—and if you wore not the best man j that ever lived, I would give you a good i scolding, and not let you see her face to-day. What have you ordered for dinner? We have nothing in the house that you would think nice enough to set before this-old friend of yours.’ “ 1 hadn't a minute to think of dinner; but any thing you say shall be sent. Will you have fish, flesh, or fowl ? - Say the word and 1 , will despatch John immediately.’ ‘ Whatever you please, or any thing that can be cooked in a short time ; for Uridget is preparing for company -this evening, and if she expends her strength on the dinner, she will be so cross this afternoon that I can't do any thing with her. You know we invited Mrs. Uland and Dora Florinda tlart here to take lea with us, and now what shall we do with Mrs. Right, if she. should stop till evening?’ ‘ Why, what do you want to do with her? 1 don't see-as she will take up anymore room i than any body else, and if you have no time to entertain her, I am sure I can, for we have a pretty good understanding, I believe, or had when we lived neighbors.’ ‘ Ycm Iimw, Harry, what i mean , alir- ia ao ■ country tied and odd in her ways, that Dora would be malting fun of her all the time, and I should feel in my heart just like helping; her, lor 1 suppose she has on that same old black alpacca dress that she has worn here the nine ty-ninth time, with a collar fudged on just so, and a cap that would better suit my grand mother than her little head.’ ‘ Come, Mary, you ought to he ashamed of yourself, to talk so about the best woman who claims your acquaintance; and 1 should think you would remember how kindly she enter tained ns a whole week last August, and then took care of the children when we went to the mountains. I thought you would like an op port unity to /ulurn eomu nt Itor iannr: 1 ‘ Well, 1 think the obligation all seemed to be on her side, for she did so nuicli lor us, and was so happy to have us there, that I really tjiink she felt quite honored with our company. I knew we had a delightful time, and I never felt better in my life. The children were so happy they didn't want to leave ; and every day now, they play ‘ go and see Willie Right’s chickens,’ and are teasing to know when they can really go again, and have such good plays. 1 wish we could send them out there to board next summer ; they would take them cheap for the sake of having our children, and she is so mother-like I should have no anxiety about them. It would leave me so much at liberty to enjoy myself—wouldn’t it bfTa nice plan? They would ho a good deal better off there, than at home, through the sickly" season Now I will speak to her about it to-day.’ ‘ 1 shouldn't think you would want them with such an old-fashioned thing as you think she is. I'm afraid you couldn't present them to your city friends after they had been romp ing a whole summer in the country. But arc you not almost ready to go down ? I am afraid Mrs. Right wilt think you are not treating her very well.. «. keep her waiting so long. I wish you w always receive your callers just as you are. This fixing up for them I do hate,—now run down and do your best for her ; don't put on airs and try to be just what I you are not.’ ‘ I know how to entertain your lady love. I will tell her that she is the dearest woman that ever lived,—that 1 am so glad to see her, and winder why she didn't come before ; and hope she won’t think of leaving (hr a whole week,—at least she must spend the night. Won t >hat be right ? Don’t I know how to do it? But if she should stop, I'm going to ask Mrs. Weeks to invite her in there to tea ; for I can't take care of her with that other company. But you run down first, for I must go to the kitchen to speak to Bridget— after I’m once in the parlor, I shan’t want to leave her, you know.’ Mr. Grant goes to the parlor to meet his old friend, not a little vexed in his heart at his wife's spirit in regard to her. He does wish she would bohave herself like a sensible woman. But what was his astonishment when he went into the room, to find, instead of Mrs. Right, only her card lying on the table. He called to his wife to come and take'a look at the old black dress that was jest passing down the street, telling her that she ^ould probably never be troubled with it again, for he supposed she must have received the full benefit of their conversation, or she would not have left so abruptly, lie was sufficiently ac ■ quainted with her to ltflow that ehe had too j much spirit to be an annoyance any where, and that she had taken herself uut of the way without troubling them to give her any hints, or sending her to their neighbors. ‘ Too bad,’ exclaimed Mrs. Grant, ‘ what shall I do? You know I didn’t mean half what I said ; but I suppose she will take it all in earnest. I should be,willing to make something of her for the sake of having such a nice place to run to vvhon the hot weather comes on. Then I really don’t want to hurt her feelings, after receiving so much kindness from her—it would seem so heathenish and cruel, to everybody ; and I suppose she will be so angryy that she won't spare me where ever she goes. Hut there ; I won't care for her, for who will think any the less of me for anything she will say?’ ‘ 1 shall, Mary, and so will every one who knows what a truthful, straight-forward kind of a woman she is, in her intercourse with all her friends ; and when she finds that she has taken to her heart that are not worthy of con fidence, she drops them so gently that they never feel that she is an enemy, but respect her all the more for her discernment.’ ‘ Well, really, I did'nt know what made .you like her so well before. 1 atn glad she is gone ; and I don’t see what you want her here for, it she has once cut your acquaintance.’ ‘ I didn’t say she had ; but you needn't have any fears that she will expose you, becoming acquainted as she has with your feelings in re gard to her, however unpleasant it may be to know how lightly you regard her friend ship, and how selfish you liavo been in secur ing it. Rut I should like to retain the good will of her husband in the way of business, for he paid me thirteen hundred dollars this morn ing, and left an order for eight hundred dollars worth of goods, which is of some consequence these hard times.; and when I am pressed for money,, he is ready to lend me any amount I want. Such a friend in need is worth making an*effort to keep. 1 should have slumped more than once, if it hadn't been for his good wili ; and it will be through the imprudent use of your tongue, if I lose it now. 1 hope it will teach you a good lesson,—one that you will profit by in future.’ ' W hat strange mortals arc we ! What deed is ever done, or not done, where selfishness docs not lie concealed in some corner of the heart, actuating it to assume the garb of an angel of light, that it may accomplish some cherished object, while the sun lies so nicely veiled that we are cheated into the belief that what seems to be, is truthfulness and purity? |$fisrriiii|7 Make the Best of Everything. An important lesson to leafh, and the earlier in lile it is learned the better, is to make the lust of everything. As the old adage says, ‘ there is no use in crying over spilt milk.’— Misfortunes that have already happened can not be prevented, and, therefore, the wise man, instead nf wasting his time in regrets, will set himself to work to recover his losses. The mistakes aod follies of the past may teach us to be more cautious for the future ; but they should never be allowed to paralyze our enemies or Cu rr„ ns to a-paL- rpitinlnos A millionaire of this city tells the story that, at one period* eijt’y in his career, he hud got almost to the verge of bankruptcy ; ‘ but,’ says lie, ‘ l ploughed a deep keel and kept my own counsel ;’ and by these means he soon re covered. Had this man given way to despair, had he set down to bewail his apparently im pending ruin, he might now have been old and poor, instead of a capitalist in a leading posi tion. lie adds that his charactercstic was that through life, in all circumstances, he did the best that be could, whatever tb it was, con suming no time in useless regrets over bad speculations. The rule holds good, not only in mercantile affairs, but in the whole conduct of life. The maq, who is born to indifferent circumstances, will never rise, if, abandoning himself to envy of those more blessed by fortune, he goes about sullenly complaining, instead of endeav oring to use to the best of bis ability what few advantages he lias. The patriot, deploring the decline of public and private morals, will never succeed in reforming the commonwealth, if he stickles for visionary or impracticable measures, rejecting those more moderate ones which are really attainable. The friend will soon have no intimates at all, il, making no allowance for the infirmities of human nature, h« judges too harshly the conduct of his ac quaintances. Many a matrimonial separation might be avoided, if husband and wife, instead of taking olfence at each other at slight prov ocation, would dwell rather on the good traits their partner displays. There are not a few statesmen, now living in retirement, who might have still gratified their ambition by serving the public, if they had understood, amid the intrigues and disappointment's of pub lic life, how to make the best of everything. Nations, as well as individuals, should cher ish this principle. The European revolutions of 1818 would not have ended so disastrously for liberty if the people had understood how to make more of the advantages they secured at first. The ultimate triumph of the monarchs is to be attributed chiefly to their obeying the golden maxim, which their subjects bad ne glected, of making the best of everything.— When the Emperor of Austria was a fugitive ; when Hungary, Bohemia and Italy were free, it would have required nothing but concert among the people to have established their rights on'a lasting foundation. But they suf fered jealousies ot race to arise, allowed them selves to be attacked in detail, and even assist ed the tyrants to subjugate, each other! In stead of making the best of things, they made the worst, and naturally, we had almost said deservedlyrlost their freedom. We never see a man bewailing his ill for tune without something of contempt for iiis weakness. No individual or nation ever rose to eminence, in any department, which pave itself up to this childish behavior. Greatness can only be achieved by being superior lo , misfortunes, and by returning again and again to the assault with renewed energy. And this it is which is truly making the best of every thing.—Philadelphia Ledger. Glass Eyes and their Manufacture. On the subject of the manufacture of glass eyes, there is but little known in this country, as most of these come from the manufactories of France and Germany. It is an operation of no little dexterity, care, labor, and ingenuity i to make a feature of tho ‘human face divine,’ and mnch more so that ol that ‘window of the soul,’ the eye—to give it the proper form, size, and that indescribable character which no two pairs of eyes ever have in common— for no two pairs are exactly alike. It may be I °f interest to speak of the process of manufac ture, by which a piece of senseless glass is made to imitate so nearly as to evade some times the strictest scrutiny and detection, the natural eye. There are several factories in ljurope where this is the chief subject of the work—and their workmanship fairly rivals nature. In the first place the glass is assorted, and only that of the clearest and purest kind chos en for the purpose. It is then fused with the priming or white, which is formed by the ad dition of some metallic substance, generally arsenic, to give the pearly opacity which is necessary. Sometimes slight traces of cobalt are mingled, to give the delicate blueish cast which the white portion of the healthy natu al eye has. This fieing done—and the ut most care is requsite in order that the fusion be so conducted that no part becomes more or less opake or more or less tinged than the rcst—the next point is the coloring of the iris ; and this is done with the metallic colors also —laid on the priming in the proper position, with a fine pencil, by an experienced artist, who, if the eye is made to order, must have an accurate description, or still better, an op portunity of seeing the eye*of the individual for whom it is to be made.. For the different shades and colors, as many different mixtures of metallic oxides are necessary—the ‘cerule an blue,’ and ‘azure,’ the ‘haze!,’ and ‘gray,’ the ‘jet black,’ and ‘chesnut brown,’ with their infinite varieties of shade, are all prepared on the porcelain pallctteot an eye-tinter. These once laid on, the fusion is again gone through with ; and now there remains the most difli —1« uf .11— .t,- r-rii •- be tent this purpose, the manufacturer uses a jet glossy black, and that it mky appear more nat ural, it must be so laid on that it may appear transparent, so that one can look into it, or. more properly, through it. And this is ac complished by sinking the pupil at first, w hile it is in a state of partial fusion, by pressure, and laying in the color, over which the small est fragment of clearest glass is laid, the heat increased, and the eye is complete—all ex cept the necessary smoothing and finishing that follow. This process of the manufacture of a single eye employs a large number of workmen, to each of whom a special depart ment of labor is allotted—one to sort thecrys i il olass, one to attend to the fusion, one to the color, etc. ; and to this fact it is uwiug that the art has advanced to so great perfec tion.—Country Gentleman. Renovating Apple Trees. On my farm there is an apple tree of very large size, standing by the side of the road, but some two rods within the lino of the lence, and in lands that have been cultivated regu larly. either in roots, grass or grains, till with in a period of twelve years, When a change in my field operations induced me to to turn it out to pasture. Some twenty years since— and about six years before I became acquainted with it—this tree rather abrubtly ceased bear ing. Its age at the time was unknown.— Thinking that it might be resuscitated, I com menced the undertaking by diggiug around the trunk to the distance of the longest limbs, and to the depth of one foot, inverting the sward, and placing it over the roots and in immediate contact with them. On this sward I sowed quick-lime, wood ashes and gypsum—one bushel of each being used—and covered it with chaffed oat straw to the depth of two inches, when compressed ; fine soil was then thrown on till the excavation was nearly filled ; after which ,a cartload of fine compost was dumped on and evenly spread over the.whole, i The dead limbs were next cut out, and the top reduced to one half its former size. The caviT ties caused by the falling off of the old and decayed limbs, (two cases extended nearly to tfie«centje of the trunk,) wero filled with ‘ Forsyth’s Cement;’ and all the limbs which could be reached, or safely got at in any way, were scraped and washed with suds. This work was performed in the spring of 1850. The next year the tree blossomed, and pro duced a few apples which matured. The next seasou, the bearing was abundant, anil since then, it has not ceased to produce a good crop. The apples are of inferior quality, and I shall now graft it, as it has produced fine wood for the I operation, care having been taken to remove ! all limbs which tended to destroy the symmetry of the top ; atf well as the old wood, as fast as it could be replaced by new.—Cor. German town Telegraph. A friend relates the following : —A mile or two from town he met a boy oo horseback, crying with cold. ‘ Why don’t you get down and lead liiin I that's the wav to keep warm.’ * No,’ said the lmy, ‘it'6 a hired boss, and I’ll ride him if 1 freeze.’ * ✓ » _ ‘ At length,’ said an unfortunate man w ho had been ruined by vexatious lawsuits, ‘ at length I have found Jjappiness, for I am re duced to necessity, and that is the only thing I know of which has i.o law ’ / Questions and Answers. Who was Baron Siaube ? Answer— Frederick William, Baron of Steu 'ben, Was a native of Prussia, and formerly aid de-camp of Frederick the Great,—the most warlike and distinguished monarch that erer sat upon the throne. The Baron was ope of the greatest military tacticians in Europe.— W hen the Revolutionary War broke out, he cheerfully relinquished all honors and prefei ments at home, came to this country, joined the revolutionary army was made a Major General, and rendered the most important services to the cause of American freedom. He introduced a new and thorough system of discipline into the American array, animated their hopes, in spired them with courage, and taught them to win victories with all the ease and rapidity of the most experienced veterans. He died full of honors, at Steubenville, N. Y., in 1791. Who was Baron MeKalb? A.—A brave and noble German martyr to liberty. lie was formerly « distinguished Brigadier General in the French army. When the war-cry of Liberty was sounded on this continent, he flew to the aid of our prostrate lathers, fought like a lioA in their defence; and cheerfully laid down his magnanimous life at the battle of Camden. Congress ordered a monument to be erected to his memory. He died that we might be free. Who was Lord Stirling? i A.—A noble-hearted Scotchman ; a Gener al in the American army who drove the British from Rhode Island, and never lost a battle Who was Paul Jones? A.—A native of Scotland—a gallant ‘sea king’—captain of the Ranger, and afterward of the Bon Homme Richard. He fought more , battles, gained more victories on the ocean, arid displayed more valor than any sea-warrior that ever existed, befuie or after him, with the same limited means, lie was the first man who taught our growing republic the lesson, that with a small armament she might easily cover herself with naval glory, and dispute the empire of the ocean with the greatest maritime power on the fare ofjbe globe. His many daring exploits filled Europe* with astonish ment. lit died at Paris in 1792. W ho was Richard Montgomery? A.—A noble-hearted Irishman; a Major General of the American Army of the Revolu tion. He was a bold and intrepid leader in the brilliant action which resulted in the capture of Montreal^ and fell gallantly fighting at the storming of Quebec in 1775. His remains were removed Irom that place a few years in wit. «.r itic cem eleries of New York citv, where his monument even now seems to frown indignantly upon the ivnnw winnings. Who was John Witherspoon ? A. — A native of Scotland, anil a most distin guished clergyman of that country. He came to America in 1768, and accepted the Presiden of Princeton College. With patriotic zeal and ardor he fully entered into the views ayd feel ings of the American Colonies in their struggle for Independence, lie was elected a Represen tative to Congress in 1776, and signed the De claration of Independence. He saw his adop ted country free, and spent the residue uf his highly useful and patriotic life in calm tran quility in presiding over the far-famed ‘Seat nl me mow..* Hw JI-J D.j„ 1791 W ho was Button Gwinneth? i A.—A patriotic Englishman, who cspousec the cause uf the Revolution. He catnc frmr England tu South Carolina in 1770; and sour after removed In Georgia. He was a incmbei of the famous Congress of 1776, and one of the singers of the Declaration of Independence.— We regret to sav that he was killed in a duel in 1777, before the close of the Revolutionary War. Who was Charles Lee? A.—A native of Wales, and a Major Gen eral and Commander of the Southern detach ment of General Washington's army. The services which he rendered to the case of Free dom were great and invaluable. According to 1 the stern rules of military discipline, he was censured for disobedience of orders, in neglec ting to bring up the reserve in the memorable battle of Monmouth. He was cashiered, and suspended from command. Would to God that Washington had known what a noble and chivalrous heart heal in his bosom ! He would have suspended the rules of w*ar in Lee's favor. For subsequent developments have fully proved that General Lee's mistake was nut the result of cowardice, hut of a misunderstanding , uf the orders of the Cotnmander-in-Chief, which were conveyed in the heat and din uf battle, and not distinctly heard and understood hy the brave Welchman. We will love the memory ufLee still, and shall ever regard him as being numbered among the bravest of Freedom s worthies. He died of a broken heart, in 1782. —Litchfield Republican. A Change of Mind. The Boston Journal relates the following anecdote of Hon. Jeremiah Mason, the distin guished lawyer. Mr. Mason was something of a giant in ]>hysical as well as mental proportions, and in youth must have possessed a powerful frame. In a sitting position, he did not, however, ap pear above ordinary stature, not only from great length of limb, but from a habit of stoop ing which he acquired. While in the Ggor and strength of early manhood, Mr. Mason happened one very cold day to be driving along a ruad in the country, half buried up under warm buffalo robes, and looking rather insig nificant to the casual observer ;—at least, so he appeared to an impudent teamster who ap proached in an opposite direction, occupying so large a portion of the road with his team, 1 that passing was a difficult matter lor another vehicle. As they neared each other, Mr. M. courleousely requested the teamster to turn out and give him room ; but the saucy varlet, | with an impudent look at the apparently small --|T ■■ - -B1T--I * aeoolt nub Sob printing. Haring recently inaJt ettenltvi addilfilan, (# _ _ variety of fAAUSl AS32) rAfttftf. JOB tPYPE, JMfeSE srsaah t - • * firoumr.. Btll-h lil.-iult.. »‘rii(siniuiiH'a, Sl,„^ l:iff finlxU. Anoicou and Mnn.t Hill*. .V (■., Xp. I-i, Particular atleuUon paid to ism©srsis All work entrust.-,1 to a. trill he perform*.! h tU LH manner, and as Idle as cm be qffbrdcd. Orders «..Prit.,l anil promptly aWswertil (JKO. E. NEWMAN. youth, peremptorily refused, and told him iff turn out himself. Mr. Mason, who instantly perceived there was but one course to pursue, quietly stopped his horse, laid the fftihS over the dasher, and slowly began tt> roll down tha robes, at the same time drawing up his legs and gradually rising from his seat. 1 he teamster silently watched these mo | tions, but as the legs obtained a foundation, and foot after foot of Mr. Mason's mammoth proportions came into vie*, a look of aston ishment, like a circle in the water, spread ovef his hitherto calm face, and with a deprecating gesture he presently exclaimed, ‘That’ll do, stranger—don’t rise an , more, I’ll turn out.’ Mr. Mason soon had the traqk (o himself, and our bewildered teamster drote 6ff at a brisk pace. ‘Creation P said he, as he touched up the leader with his whip; ‘I wonder ho* high that critter would have gone if I hadn't stopped him !’ Casting a ‘ devil’ out of Church. We are indebted to our friehd, f. M. Eellaj of Marietta, Ohio, for the following graphic sketch. We are assured that the feels tran spired Substantially as narrated : ’ ‘ A Methodist clergyman who has beeh la boring in this ticinity, was not long since, preaching to his hearers on the miraculous power of the apostles over the demoniac spirits of the day. Ashe was pursuing his thentej the audience was suddenly startled by a voice from the Congregation demanding' in a half querulous, half aulhorativCi lone • \Vhy tfont 1 preachers do such things now-n-dsys I In art , instant every eye was upon the individual whs lind the effrontery thus to invade the sacrednesa of their sanctuary. The speaker paused for a moment and fixed his penetrating gaze upon the face of the ques tioner. There was an interval of silence, bro ken at last by the speaker resuming his dis course. He had not proceeded far ere he was again interrupted by the same impprtinent in quiry. Again the speaker paused and again result ed his subject.' Not content with silent rebuke, mgr redoubtable questioner again de manded ‘ Why donl the preachers do such things n.uv-a-daysJ ’and-curling his lip with a sneer of self-complacency drew himself up pompously in his seat. Our reverend frietri|^^B«j by the way is a young man power,) calmly left his desk and pew where the interrogator sat, a^^P^tiing one hand firmly upon his co.it collar, the other on the waist hands of his ‘unmentionables’ lifted him square .>ui i.f lila at ax ami taitKil lilili OUWH tVTO «1MB to the entrance. I’attsing a moment he turned to the audience, and, in a clear full voice, said: ‘ And they cast out the devil in the form of a distiller,’ and suiting the action to the word, out went the knight of the mash tub a la leap frog fashion into the street. * The good pastor returned to his desk and completed his discourse. After closing the services, as he was passing nut, the outcast distiller, w ith an officer of the law, escorted our clerical friend to the '.fiice of a magistrate, to answer for an assault upon the person of said distiller. After hearing the case the magis trate dismissed the clergyman, and afie? round ly reprimanding the complainant, fined him for molesting the services of the sanctuary. Since tlidt day we believe he never h r a ran tneui u..uWJ >1™ MetlujJisl preacher* to cast out tlevils, at least within the limits of the Ohio conference.’—Exchange. Had a Winning Way with Her. A wayward son of the Emerald Isle, • left ■ lie bed and board* which lie and his wife Mar garet had occupied for a long while, and spent his time around rum shops, where he was al ways on hand to count himself ‘ in' w henever any body should ‘ stand treat.’ Margaret was dissatisfied with this slate of things, and en deavored to gel her husband b»ek again. We shall see how she succeded :— ‘ Now, Patrick, toy honey-, Will ye come back?’ ‘ No Margaret, I won’t come hack !’ ‘ An’ won't von come hack for the love of - ! the chi Id hers !’ ‘ The devil a hit will I come-, at all, at all. Not for the love of the cliildhers, Margaret.' }- ‘ Will you come back for the love of roe self I ‘ Niver at all ; way wid ve.’ ‘ An Patrick won’t the love of the church , bring yt hack ?’ * No Margaret thought she would try another in ' document. Taking a pint buttle of whiskey j from her pocket, and holding it up to her tru ant husband', she said— ‘ Will ye come home for the drap of whis key ?’ ‘ Ah, me chrlint,’ answered Patrick, unable to withstand such temptation, * It's yerself ^ that’ll always bring me home agin, ye has such a winiiiii' way wid ye. 111 come home, Margaret.’ Margaret declares that Patriclt was reclaim ed by moral suasion .' , * Perseverance,’ said a lady, very earnestly, to a servant, * is the only way to accomplish great things.’ One day eight dumplings were sent down stairs, and they all disappeared.— ‘ Sally* where are all Ihose dumplings?’ * I managed to get through them ma'am.’ ‘Why how on earth did you contrive tu eat so many dumplings ?’ ‘ By perseverance, ma'aut,’ said Sally. ‘ Peter, what are you doing to that boy ?’ said a schoolmaster. ‘ He wanted to know if you take ten from seventeen, how many will remain ; so I took ten of his apples to show him, and now he wants I should give ’em back.’ ‘ Well, why don't you do it •’ ' ’Cos, sir, he would forget how many ii left.' Is it not seasonable to suppose that when a young lady offers to hetn cambric handkerchiefs for a rich bachelor, she means tu sow in order that she may reap ?