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Washington telegraph. [volume] (Washington, Ark.) 1839-1871, February 05, 1845, Image 1

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It was a dark and dismal night, and the
rain poured down in torrents. The winds
whistled around the corners, or shrieked
among the chimneys; the street lamp? Hared
dim; and even the watchman deserted his
post and shrank into a sheltered corner.
In an old. ricketty tenement, in one of the
narrowest lanes of London, sat a young
couple with their only child. The mother
was still young, scarcely eighteen, indeed,
but of unusual beauty; though sorrow had
lately began to make inroads on that fine
■ countenance. Her husband was some
years older, with a face of much character,
though not of decided beauty; but the lines
around the mouth, and the care-worn ex
pression of the brow, showed that he had
already warred with misfortune. In the
contrast to his face was the placid expres
sions of the child’s countenance, as it lay on
its mother’s lap, with the light of the lamp
falling shaded across it. A smile was on
its face as it slept. It seemed as if an angel
looked out from it.
Suddenly a knock was heard at the door.
The man gazed around on the bare and des
olate apartment,and did not stir. Ihe wile
seemed to read his thoughts.
“Go, dear James, ’’ said she. “M hat
matters our poor accommodations?” And
she tried to smile. ‘ Perhaps it is a bearer
of good news; surely no one else would
come on such a n'ght as this. How the
wind drives against the panes:”
The husband advanced to the door, and
opening it, a man in livery delivered him a
note. At sight of the green and gold of the
man’s dress, he started back, but the servant
leaving the missive in Lis hand, was. gone
“It’s from my father’s steward, said the
husband, with an excited voice, as he broke
the seai.
“God be praised!” said the wife; “he has
relented. 1 knew he would. Oh! we
shall yet see happy days, and she burst
into tears. Iler husband’s agitation was
scarcely less than her own, for his hand
trembled violently as he held the note to
the lamp.
His wife eagerly pursued his countenance
and she seemed to gather hope as he read.
At length he looked up.
“I must go, dearest,” were his words;
“my father is not expected to live over the
night. He relents, for he has sent for me.
God bless you, Mary, and our child,” and a
large tear rolled heavily ibwn his cheek.
“I thank thee. Heavenly Father,” sa d
the wife, clasping her hands and lifting her
swimming eyes on high, “my prayers have
been heard. Oh! my sweet babe,thou shalt
no longer want,” and she clasped the sleep
ing cherub in convulsive joy to her bosem.
The husband dashed tho tears hastily
from his eyes, kissed the mother and her
child fervently, and snatching up his hat and
cloak, and was rushing from the door.
“I will sit up f iryou, love,” said the wife.
The husband gave her a look of unutter
able fondness, and stepped out into the storm.
It was raining fiercely, and, at intervals,
the thunder shook the sky, an unusual oc
currence at that season of the year. While
he is making his way on tout, against the
driving tempest,to his lather s princely man
sion let us hurrv over the events which had
reduced him an’ I a lovely wife to penury.
Sir James Hengist was descended from
one of the most ancient families of England,
which had been great while the Normans
were still landless, and many of which still
remain among the gentry of Cheshire and
Lincolnshire, looking down with contempt
on the new nobility. In the course of gen
erations, however, the family had become
poor, and Sir James, to rebuild its fortunes
had married a lady of great wealth in the
city. Lady Hengist was as good as she
was rich, and won all hearts in her exalted
station. She lived to see her only son at
tain the age of twenty, and then died re- .
gretted by all, and none seemingly more
than her husband.
Lady Hengist had a niece, the daughter
of a favorite step-brother, whom she had
educated from a child, and whose union with I
her son had been a favorite project. She >
had long secretly entertained this idea, and 1
what then was her gratification when she
beheld a passion growing up for each other 1
in the young people’s bosom! Her niece I
was, at this time, but fifteen, yet already
ripening into womanhood, and one of the ■
most beautiful and accomplished of her sex.
Sir James appeared to enter into his wife’s .
plans, and no obstacle was placed in the
wav of the lovers, and so that for nearly a
year their lives passed away in that bright,
ness of all dreams, a first love sanctioned
by friends.
But Lady Hengist hid been scarcely
three months in her grave before a marked
change came over Sir James in his demeanor
to his son. He was continually reproving
the young man, who could no longer do any |
thing to please him,and,being a high spirited [
youth, the heir was at length driven from the
paternal roof, by his constant annoyance. I
Toward the lovely Mary Crawl >rd, however
the conduct of Str James had been uu- ,
changed, even when she ventured to expos- |
tulate with him, as sho sometimes did, in •
behalf of his son. There were those, in- !
deed, who said she had interested motives ’
in this, and the truth of their suspicions be
came apparent after the son had sought a
home elsewhere. Mary was now sixteen,
in the full maturity of early English beauty;
and Sir James overlooked his tacit consent
that his son should marry her, and, forget,
ting the noble-hearted woman whom he had .
lately followed to the grave, determined to
make her his wife. He was still in the i
prime of life, and might have succeeded {
with others scarcely less beautiful than
Mary. But her heart was already another s
and she turned away in disgust from his
addresses. It was sometime before she
was aware of his intentions, for she would
not believe that he could be guilty of such
baseness, but when his attentions grew so
marked as to become the kitchen gossip,
she could no longer shut her eyes to them.
She made no effort now to conceal her re
pugnance. But Sir James was not to be
foiled. In his youth ho was a man of gal
lantry, and still piqued himself on his power
foofyingtoi ©elegrapl).
VOL. 5.
! over the sex. But he tried every art in vain. |
At length, however, it became impossible
for her to remain any longer under his roof;
and she would have left it before, only that
she knew not where to go, and besides she
indulged a hope that by remaining she might
bring a reconciliation between her lover
and his father.
Tho young heir had been for some time
aware es his and had urged '
Mary to elope with him, but as long as a
hope of reconciliation remained she had re
fused. Now, however, there was no alter
native. Ilengisl’s house was no longer a
I place for her: and, without a relative in the
world to who:-i she eould appeal, tho orphan
had no other resort but to throw herself into
her lover’s arm=. Accordingly the young
; couple were married. And now began
the : r sorrows.
The rage of Sir James, on hearing of this
union, almost killed him. His passions
I were always violent, but they now seemed
fiendish. He swore he would disinherit
his son, and immediately cut off the allow
ance he had hitherto allowed his heir.
The appeals of the offenders were in vain.
The father was inexorable. He wished to
see them starve to death, he said, and then
he could surrender life willingly. The let
ters which Mary, unknown to her husband,
wrote almost daily,were returned unopened.
Every one who might have assisted them,
1 was turned against them by tho powerful
influence of the angry father, and in less
than three months, the young heir found
himself literally starving in the heart of
London. His education, however, had not
been neglected, and he sought among the
bookseller for employment, determined not
to give up in despair. For a long time he
was unsuccessful, but finally found a paltry
job, on which 1* managed to live, until his
wife presented him with a lovely babe.
1 After this, all means of regular suhatetence
i deserted him. Aet he struggled on, en
deavoring, when in the presence of his wife,
■ to keep up a cheerful countenance, and al
; most consoled for his unavailing struggles
during the day, by her sweet welcome, and
, the smile of his babe at evening. But as
! winter approached, and his la-t guinea van
j ished, the iron began to enter his soul.
I Several times he made abortive attempts to
1 soften his father; and his wife also secretly
tried for aid in the same quarter, but in vain.
For more thau a week they mw subsisted
ob th- ir credit at a green grocer’s shop, but
this would o>t last long, and the alm ist
distracted hasbinl knew not where to turn
when, unexpectedly, this note arrived from
his lather.
His heart was full ofhigh hopes, mingled
with sorrowful feelings, as he hurried :
through the tempest. The knowledge that
his only parent was on his death-bed, awoke
all the associations of childhood, bringing
back the days when his iatherd rated on him.
The subsequent harshness of his parent
was forgotten; and with the glad hope that
he was going to receive and bestow tor
givencss. the son proceeded almost breath
less to bis early home.
The massive door strung open at his
knock, the well known servant Ushered him
in deferentially through the hail,a whispered
consultation was held at the sick man's
door, an.l be was desired to enter.
With a palpitating heart he had waited
during the delay, and now rushed in, all
eagerness to be reconciled to his dying
parent. He saw nothing but the form sup
ported on pillows, and the pale face of the ,
invalid, and in an instant he was on his '
knees beside the bed, and hail clasped the :
sick man’s hand in his, while tears gushed I
from him like rain; fi r in that moment, with
the recollections of childhood, had come
back ail its softness. But the hand was
rudely jerked back, and a scornful laugh |
’ met his ear.
‘•Ha! ha!—you have come, thinking I
; am about to make you my heir,” liegan the
1 sick man, “have you! And so you have
I began playing your part in this way! I have
I sent for you for another reason, as you shall
learn, you villain.”
The young heir started to his feet. He
! could scarcely believe his cars. Could
those brutal words, that scornful laugh, pro
i ceed from a dying man. and that man his
i parent! He stared incredulously at those
| around, and then at the face of the invalid,
but thought he read pity on the former, hate
distorted the latter. Again Lis parent
laughed sneeringly.
“So you come thinking I was alxmt ma
king you my heir, eh! Did your wife and
child, sir, come along, to exult in my balls ■
before I am cold?”
“Father—father—” said the young man, |
imploringly, as yet bewildered by this
strange scene.
“Don't call me father, you unnatural
child,” said the invalid, half rising in bed,
and shaking his clenched hands. “You 1
have brought me to this—you have, you
rascal. But I’ll have my revenge. You
shall starve, sir, starve —I hid hoped to live
to see it—but I’ll make it certain.”
“Sir James,” said the son, “I will go
rather than stay to hear these things. And
may God forgive me and you for ail that is
wrong between us.”
“Dare you. sir, talk of God forgiving you, 1
you villain?” shouted the sick man almost
teaming with passion. w bile the alarmed
attendants, not daring to interfere, stood
trembling, looking from father to son. “I
tell you he’ll lot you starve, and you can't I
help" it. I’ll make it sure. Yes! and I’ll
live to see it,” he exclaimed with a horrible
oath. “I won’t die—it’s all a lie of the
doctors. You and your paramour shall beg ;
l>efore my face, you shall.”
“Say what you will of mo. but forbear my wifr.**
exclaimed the young man, with flailing eyes,
“here I stay do longer,” and he moved toward the
' door, but three or four servants iuierpojed.
“Keep him in,” fiercely exclaimed (he invalid, 1
, “nnke him stay till the will is read and signed —
he shall see it nil,” and again there wa-’ a terrible
' oath.
' “I pray you. sir,*’ said the conveyancer now ud
vanciogj'ur the young man had not seen him before,
. “consider the place,” he added, imploringly. as he
saw the son ahnit to knock down tho servants w’.io
opposed hrs path:it shall be hastened as much as
IMpribleif you will only lie ar it,** lie wauqwsred.
The young heir, bitterly an he had bet u reviled? |
would not make his father’s dying room the ncens J
of a brawl, wo he bowed at this expostulation, and- ’
folding bin arms haughtily on hr* bo*m>, prepared *
to hear*ttie wdl. A lock of Liner trinmpfi
oyer the man’s face; it riccui d us if hw paeeoug had
transformed him into a fiend.
“Proceed, sir,” he noid, nodding to the convey
The mar unrolled his parchment and l>egan re
peating the formal language of the deed, und as
clause after clause was read, depriving the young
nrin of his rights, the eyes of uie invalid gloated
over the S£ony he was inflicting on his victim.—
The son, in spite of every exertion, felt that hi*
i feelings were be traying themselves in the convul
, sivc twitches of his face. How could he look un
‘ concerned wheu hi» last hopes were being crushed,
I and he saw inevitable beggary before his wife and
babe, with the horrors of u jail, in prospect for him
; self I But he clo.«il his mouth firmly, choked back
I his emotions, and gazed sternly on the man of the
I law, ashamed that tho lookers on should perceive
| his emotion.
I When the conveyancer had finished the deed, he
advanced to the bed -s» de with it .two servants carry
( ing Ismail table, on winch were writing materials.
“Give me a pen, quick, quick,*’ said the invalid,
rising unsupported in bed.
The conveyancer hastened to obey, the parch
. ment was spread out, an 1 the pen was in the in
valid's hands.
“Do you see this, sir?” he «ai<i, casting a lo«< of
triumphant malice at his sail, and he placed the pen
to the skin.
The storm, all the while, had lieen increasing in
fury, and vivid flashes of electricity had begun ot ,
late even to penetrate through the closed shutters
and heavy drapery of the windows. Just at this
instant a peal was heard,st inning every one in the
room, which seemed filled with a Minding light.
Several fell to she floor in fright, and the whole
house appeared to rock. For a second there was
breathless silence, and tbeu tie conveyancer spoke:
“Father in Heaven!” he tKclaimed, in a tunc ot
horror, and, advancing to the bed,he added solemnly,
••Sir Janies is dead.
Th< y rushed to his sid- and found it windeed |
so. The lightning had run down th«* wall at the ;
head of the bed, and in a s'jcond the soul of the
Imrunet was m eternity. Tne p trehm* nt was
slinvelicd and black; wild • the pen, knock' d three
| fe« t from the Lund, lay burning on the rich couu
• terpane.
A silence of horror chained every tongue. The
J death of the invalid, at that instant, se-eiiwd hkw a
Ntxuke es Providence.
At length the conveyancer tamed to the son. and
grasping his hand, said—
“As there is no will, Sir Jam s, you arc the eole
heir. And from* the bottom of my heart I con
gratulate you.”
There is no happier woman now (han the young
1 Lady Hengist, for she is blessed with a husband
who adores her, and surrounded with a family of
lovely children, who inherit the virtues of their
par i ats.
A Yankee Extravaganzx.
It was my Aunt Nabby's birth-day, and
she was bent upon having a stexved jroosc; ,
stewed unions, and with cabbage and salt
pork to match.
“I’oliijah,’’ said she to me, “be’at we '
got a goose ’bout the linn!’’
“No,” said I; “we eat the old gander a '
Christmas, ami he Has the last of the pat
Aunt Nahby went down to Sue, who was
getting breakfast.
“Susanna,” said she, “the l»oy tells how
we be’nt got a gousc in creation; now what
shall we d<»?”
“Go without,” replied Susanna with that
amoible tone which father said had worn
off her teeth to the gums.
Aunt Nabby, however, was l>cnt upon a ■
goose, and when such a straight and stiff
person gets bent upon any thing, you may
Consider the matter settled; and I saw that
a goose of s me kind would be had at some
rate or other.
“Here, you critter,” cried Aunt Nabby,
to the little black specimen of the human fam
ily, that was digging p itatocs in the garden,
“here I want you to go along to tho neigh
bor- and I'torry a goose.”
Cato laid down his hoc, got over the
fence, and shoveled olTon his broad pedes
tals to get a goose.
The first luniso Cato came to, was that ■
of Sain Soup, into the shop went the Yan
kee fired negro, and making a b>w to Mr. ;
Strap, who sat like a Hindoo idol, busily
employed in patching an old blue coat with
still older brown rags, and humming most
mournfully the air of
“Ye banks anti braes of bonny Duon."
“Mr Soap,” says Cato, “you (mint got
no goose, nor nothin, ha ini ye, for Aunt
Soap was a literal (not a literary man,)
and so he called to bis daugh’er Propriety, |
who having but one eye, was likewise call
ed Justice—that is, by some who were
classical, “Priety,” says ’he “gin Cato my
’Priety, like a good girl, took the bread
flat-iron off the shelf, and telling Cato to
lie as “careful as everlasting not to get it
wet,” she wrap(>ed it in a paper and away
went the web-fooled mortal to deliver his
charge t<vSu*auna. . „
“My gracious,” sai.l “if that
arc nigger haint got tnc an iron goose to
But nevertheless, as her business was to
stew the goose and ask no questions, at it '
she went, and pretty soon the tailor’s trea- 1
sure was simmering among onions, and car- I
rots, and cabbages, and turnips, and spices; I
all as nice as need be. After* breaKfas'. I
Aunt Nabby, had gone abroad to a«k in
the neighlxtrs, and whoir she came homoj’
went of course directly to the kitchen
to see ho'.vrhe goose camo on,
‘’is it tea for, Susanna?’’ said sho. Su
sanna s"n led so sweetly, that the old house
j clock in th t comer, next the clipboard, stop- '
ped. and hold up its hands.
j ‘'Oh, ma’am " replied Sn«anna, “it’s so
ten for that J g tess it wont be no more ten
. Jer arier bein’ bile!.”
“And fat?”
i Lie-s *e! it’s so broad across the
J back!”
My aurjt’s mouth waterc-I so that she wa~
force I to 1 ok at Saaanna to correct the
agreeable impres-fon.
M ell. noon came, and tho neighbors lie
gan to drop in. First cam- the parson,
who being a .na i of vast punctuality, tookjout
his watch as soon us he came in, mid for
the purpose of seeing how it chimed, ns he '
said, with the old <?!. c’t, walked int > the
i kitchen. !>a !e Miss Su anna good day. hoped '
j she continued well :n body, and snuffed up
tho sweet flavors of th • preparing sac c •
with expanded nostrils. Next to the m ti
isteremne tho squire; he opened the front
door, and seeing no one bitt me.
“Pul: jalt,” h.■ sail, “when'll that arc ■
goose be done! 'cause I’m overlastin basy, |
settlin that hay mow case, and I'd like to
know.” •'
“Ready n w, squire,” answered the par
son, opening the kitchen door, “mi l I guess ,
it's an uncommon line goose, too, so waik
in and let ns have a little chat.”
Tho s-piire en’ere 1. and he and the min
ister had a considerable sj.c’.l of cunversa
: lion about the hay niuw case. This case
was as follows:
Abijah B -ggs g t leave to carry his hay
across the wid u-.- Stokes’s field to the roa 1.
■ V, ell, this bay mjw had dropped off the
poles, and widow Stokes claimed it as n
waif and s ray.
“Now,” s the squire, “I conceit th”
chief pint in the case is this here—has the ,
widow Stokes a right to the hay! Now
] this'll depend, ye we, ’p.»n t’other point, to
; wit: videlieit—docs the hay lielong to ’Bi '
’ jah? Now the widow savs, s:ns she, “eve- .
rj man in this couiitrj-’s free, mid therefore
every man in this c ■ intrv's a king, jisl as
fur as his firm gon ;; n w Iho king, all al
low, has a right to waifs and strays, and
so,” gays the w idow, “that are Lay's mine."
“But,” says ’Hijab—and by jinks >t’s acute
argument—“but.” says he, “though every
man in this land of liberty’s a free man yet I
that doc-n't prove that every woman is; I
and per contra, we know that w< man don't
vote, and of course aim free,” says he, “the
widow Stokes aint a king, so,” says ho,
“the hay aint hern.” But its a puzzling
case, aint it!”
“Well, now,” answered the minister, “it '
strikes me that the hay aint astray.”
“Well,” said the squire, “that’s a pint I 1
never thinked of.”
| Just then in came the deacon, and after I
i him the sexton, and so on, till pretty much
i all the aristocratic d-moemts ot’ the viilage «
had assembled. An.l tli ntn bustled aunt
1 Nabby awful fine, I tellxoii; and then Su
' sanna and Cato began to bring in dinner,
and while they were doing that, the cbm
! pany all took a stiff g!a -s of grog by the j
I way of appetite, and then strokc<l down ,
: their faces, and looked at tho table, an I
there was a pig roasted and stuiied and a
j fine leg of veal, and two old hens, and an
, everlastin sight ofall kinds of sarcc,nndpies, 1
; an ! puddens, and doughnuts, an 1 cider, and
I above all, at the head of the table, the dish
in which lay the hero of the day, “that are
goose,” smothered in onions, and utterly I
I hid lieneath the load of carrot, and cab- 1
I bages. The seat next to the gouse was
assigned to the tuiauler, and ah i down,
i Tho squire flourished his fi>rk,a'id pwwitwd
upon the pig; the deacon tackleii to al the
i veal, while the sexton went seriously to
' work, to exhume a piece of pork ftom amid
.an avalanche of beaus. The uiiuistoc, with
a spoon, gently stirred away a few carrnte j
| and onious in hopes of thus coaling at llie
. “It smells rc.iHirkably l.ao, says he to
. aunt Nabby.
“It's particular fat and tender,” sho re
i plied, I picked it my-elf fruoia whole heap.
, And still.the minister (Mike l, till at last
i the spoon grated upon a su;:a o.
. “A. skewer, I guess,” and plunging his
fork into the onion mass, be slrugg.ed to
raise the iron haudle, with which be had ,
joined issue.
“Bless me,” cried aunt Nabby, “what’s
that are!”
“I should jixlge,” said the squire, “that
are was an old goose.”
“Gracious me!’’ cxclahn id the de;icon.
Still the minister struggled, and still ihe
i goose resisted —aunt Nabbj grew nervous,
and the more the minuter struggled, the 1
nine the goose wouldn't come. 1 saw my
•lutil’s eye dilating, her hand inuveibugly
and then—pounce, just when the minis er
thought he had conquered the enemy, my
; aunt's claw drove through the onions, and
dragging forth the tailor's goose, hold it at
i arm’s length before the company: the .quire
had just raised the pig upon his dirk, when |
seeing my aunt's di^hpverj, be droppa I it, |
an.! tho dish wat knitted ail to smash.—
The sexton l>aJ diaw n LU beans to .be edge
iff the table, another pull as he saw the
; guo«e, and over it went. My aunt dropped
I the cause of all this qvil, aud there went ■
I another pkitc. The company dined raise- |
where, und next Sunday the inimster derali
ned preaching on account of a “domestic i
I misfortin.” My aunt Nabby died soon us- *
, ter. and the sexton buried her, observing as
he did so, that “she departed, poor critter,
in consequence of an iron goose and broken
-STATB of the Moo.v,—The observa
tions made upon the surface of the moon
by telescopes, tend strongly to support the ,
hypothesis as to ail the bodies of space be- ,
ing composed of similar matters, subject
to certain variations. It does not appear 1
luat our satellite is provided with that gas
eous envelope which on earth performs so
many important functions. Neither is there
am ftjqrcaranee of wa'er upon the surfice;
yet that surface i», like that of our globe,
marked by inequalities and the appearance |
of volcanic operations. These incquali- ■
ties and volcanic operations are upon a
scale tar greater than any which now exist
upon the earth’s surface. Although, from
the greater force of gravitation upon its
exterior, the mountains, uthercircumstances
lieing equal, might have been expected tu
be much smaller than ours, they are in
many instances equal in height to nearly
the highest of our Andes. They arc gene-
- ra.iy <»t extreme steepness, and sliarp of
out.iue; a peculiarity which might be look
ed for in a planet deficient in water and at
mosphcre, seeing that these are, the agents
■ which wear down ruggedness on the sur
face ot the earth. The volcanic operations
are on a stupendous scale. They are the.
cause of the bright spots of the moon; while
the want of them is u hat distingiri.-hes the
duller p .rtiuus—usually, but erroneously,
calle 1 .»e.z«. In sogie parts, bright volcan
ic r: u:er, besides covering one large patch,
rud ates out in large streams, which appear
s u I led with subordinate f<>ci ofthc same
kind ot energy. Other objects of a most
remarkable character are ring-mountains—
mounts like those of the craters or earthly
volcanoes, surrounded hum • Lately by vast
and profound circular pits, hollowed under
the g -neral surface; these again being sur
roun ied by a circular wall of mountain, ri
sing far ulxr.e the central one; and in the
, inside of which are terraces about the
sanr’ .a .-h: as the inner eminence. The
well-known bright spot in the South cast
quarter, called by a«tron<>mts Turk ), and
which can lie rea lily distinguished by the
i naked eye, is one of these ring-mountains.
I here is cne 200 miles in diameter, with a
pit 22.000 feet deep—that is, twice the
I height of .Etna. It is remarkable, that the
I map given by Humboldt of a volcanic dis
trict in South America, and one illustrative
of the formerly volcanic district of Auvergne
in 1 rance, present features strikingly like
ii'.any parts of the moon's surface, as seco
through a good glass.
A Goon Joke.—The Hartford Times
j mentions the following amusing iocident as
i occurring at the p st office in that town:
“Louder! ’ —A colored man lately went
to the p -st office, and p ittiiig his nose close
' up to the delivery box, cried out, “Louder!”
Tho clerk, supposing the negro to be deaf,
and that hi- was making a request of him
lo speak louder, so that be could hear, as
ked him, in a very loud ti ne, the name of'
the per on fir whom he wan ed the letter. !
“Ixiuder!” cried the negro.
' “What name!” yelled the clerk.
“Louder!” again bawled the negro, who !
n c.v supposed the clerk to be deaf.
Th.- e’e !. to >k a long breath, and with
a!! his might bellowed out in the negro’s !
fiico the same question—“ What name?” 1
This was dono in so lou 1 a tone that the i
. echo seemed to return from the tar-oH’hiils.
Tlu negro started back in alarm, shout- i
ing tl; • v y top of hi* big lungs, “Louder, '
sir—!. rider! I tole you Louder! mj‘name •
j is n ithing else!”
“Oh, ah! • h, h i!” said tho clerk; “your '
name is Louder, ch! Didn't tli.nk of that
—here’s your letter; Mr. Louder, here’s ;
your letter!”
From the N. O. Picayune.
The ruin >us depreciation in the value of'
one of our great staples, Cutton, tho sud
denness won which tho decline Las taken '
place, and the dreary prospect of a re-action
that the future presents, have given birth
to various suggestions designed io foster the
idea that a combination might be brought
aliout on this sidb ofthc Atlantic, of an ex
, tout and potency equal to sustaining prices
at a point that would remunerate the pro
ducer. The plans shallowed forth of eficct
ing this-object are, many of them, so wild i
I and impracticable, as to betray their ori
' gin—a depressed and disappointed state of
mind produced by disasters that have come
upon a large class of citizens with a rapidi
ty that allowed brief preparation for a crisis
so overwhelming, ’t his decline seems to
have been owing to natural causes, as every
speculation that has been entered into to
arrest it Las resulted in losses to the par
ties concerned. Now that over production
has worked its legitimate consequence, it '
is curious to reilect upon the intatuation I
ibat urgea the great b sly of Southern plan
ters upon a catartrophe that a moderate
| degree of sagacity and caution must have
.'•■niseen. Um us prices receded, the plan
ter strive to moke up thu didereace in in
-1 crcasej crops—ths very policy that was j
1 sure to aggravate the evil.
Amongst the numerous remedies pro-
I posed tor the existing state ot'things, ucon
vention of Cotton Planters has lieen sug
; gested. The object of this liody will he io !
i devise means for reducing the quantity of i
staple produced. Il is much to be feared
that such a convention could not come to
any definite arrangement either in respect
to the ratio cl decrease or the inodes o(
I effecting it. It would have, in the first
place, to determine the amount of crop to
be raised; it would be necessary to appor
tion this amount among the cotton growing
■ States, and then again amongst individual
planters. Any general rule of reduction
would bear so heavily upon certain dis
tricts as would make it oppressive. Say,
for instance, that it should fie determined
that the crop is one-third too large, and to
reduce it with the limits agreed upon it
should be further decided that every plan
ter should reduce the production on his es
tate one-third, by planting one-third less
acres in cotton. AVould not this lie an
onerous condition for the young planter
who has just begun the business with a
force disproportionately large in comparison
with the number of acres he has prepared
for cultivation! Or should any other arbi
trary measure be adopted, the instances of
hardship under it would make it unpopular.
Suppose it was agreed that no more than a
certain numlier of’bales should be raised to
the hand, how would this effect the cultiva
tion of uplands? The tillers of the rich
bottom soils would lie the only sufferers;
the reduction would fall on them exclusive
ly. It is almost if not quite impossible to
devise any rule or measure that will not
work uuequally, when applied to such an
extent of country, to such a variety of soil
aud modes of cultivation. Besides, were
a convention to agree to any fixed measure,
that promised success if iaithfully carried
out, what sanctions could it give of enfor
cing acquiescence in its mandates? The
decrees of the.cunvention would be binding
only upon those who were members of it, or
who sent delegates to represent them in
that l>ody. The obligation of even these
would lie merely a moral one—such as the
•upright and honorable would fill with scru
pulous fidelity. But many would not. Tho
planters might denounce such, and justly
too, as recreant members of society, and
ostracise them from all fellowship—yet de
nunciations of this sort would have little
weight with those whose sense of honor
would not keep them within terms of their
engagement. And then again the large
numbers who would not agree to be repre
si n.ed in the convention, could scarcely bo
held amenable to its decrees.
Is there then no remedy? Although wo
doubt tuc power of conventions to furnish
one, we think the good sense of the planter
may—and this too will be done, if done, at
all, without any combination or concerted
action. Self-interest should long ago have
done that which sell-defence will soon
make necessary to be done. When it is
known that a crop of seventeen hundred
thousand bales will fetch more money than
one of twenty-foui hundred, it seems strange
that planters do not employ their labor in
raising other products than cotton. That
the smaller crop would sell for more actual
money than the larger one, needs no other
demonstration than the commercial history
of the past year. Just twelve months ago
the impression was very general that the
’cropin the United Slates vould fall short
us that of the preceding by six hundred
thousand bales. The effect of this belief
was to raise prices to a point nearly 100
per cent, above what they rule now—this,
too, ia the lace of the large surpluses of
previous years. Besides the difference in
the actual returns of specie, the planters
also are great losers in the extra expense
of getting the largo crop to market. This
item alone, which appears insignificant in
company with the huge statistics of a cot
ton crop, will make the planters rich in a
few years, in projiortion to the bulk of
the crop, freights and other charges in the
mere handling and transportation of it in
crease not only upon the excess but upon
the entire production. We are within
bounds when we say that the expenses of
getting a crop of two million four hundred
thousand bales to the markets of the world
over those of distributing one of one million
seven hundred thousand bales, taking into
consideration the advance in freights and
other charges produced by the former, can
not lie less than SS,OOJ,OOO. This is a
round sum that the planters pay for the pri.
vliege of raising m ire cotton than the spin
uingjennles and power looms of Christen
dom can convert into cloth. The loss, it
will lie seen, is not confident to the differ
ence in price. In every way a large crop
is injurious to the planter—bringing less
in 'tiey and costing him more.
The remedy up- n this presentation of the
case is palpable, that if the planters do not
it of their own accord, it would seem
useless, to call a convention to compel them
to do so. But one planter says he can’t
reduce his crop unless others adopt
the same course. This reasoning is quite
falecious. Let others do as they like, that
planter will do well who converts his estate
into a farm, pr iperly so called, producing
every thing that he needs at home, and sen
ding to ma diet only the surpluses raised up
on it. The produce sent to market should
represent the net gain of agriculture. No
agricultural country can prosper, where the
producers buy all they use and sell all they
rais •■ The bulky nature of agricultural
products makes the cost of carriage a for
midable an 1 wasting charge upon commo
dities used or sold. Suppose that the ex
tra labor employed in raising a large crop
were directed to other productions—the
planters .would gain by the enhanced price
<if the staple, tho reduced expense of send
ing his crop to market and the value of what
ever Commodities the lub «r so diverted
might produce. Though one individual
cannot aticct a vast market by singly chan
ging the mode of agriculture heretofore
pur lie 1, yet he can diminish his own char
ges and supply his own wants better by be
ginning a system which would become gen
eral if any considerable numlier of persons
were to set the example. He would him
self experience the advantage of the reform
and thrive in the midst ot those who do not.
There are many other matters that might
lie introduced in s upport of the views vze
have, disiuint rdly enough, brought liefore
our readers; bul tho length of this article
admonishes us of the necessity of defeuin ■
them to another time.
AO. 21.

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