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By &. H. RUNDLETT.
THE GAZETTE & UNION
I 8 PUBLISHED WEERLY, AT
No. 31 DANIEL STREET,
Gy PORTSMOUTH, N. H.
=Tzßus.—sl 50 per annum, IN ADVANCE—S 2 at the close
of the year. . : ? .
fi:?’gd,iw?qgntfl inserted at liberal rates.
Og o 8 Vorx executed with neatness'and despatch at this
g All communications must be addressed, postage paid, to
the publisher at Portsmouth.
A POETRY.
; :
.. From Gleason’s Pictorial Drawing-Room Companien.
The Last Night of the Year.
BY GEO. CANNING HILL.
The moon rode high in a cloudless sky,
-On the last night of the year,
Flinging off rays from her silver shield,
Far over a pure and snow-white field,
Where the squadron winds both charged and wheeled,
And coursed on their circuit drear.
The moon was bright, yet there gleamed a light
Through a distant latticed pane,
Burning, burning all brightly awhile,
Then fading away like a dying smile,
As if the moon could its gleam beguile,
Then steadily blazing again.
In a cabined room, where & cloud of gloom
- Half stifled all the air,
" Sat a pallid woman beside a child, ;
And while she kept stitching she faintly smiled
On the upturned face—so meek, so mild,
- As it were some angel there.
The werk must be done by the morrow’s sun !
: W&noweth it better than she ?
So her needle she plies with a sudden start,
In the hope but to finish her weary part,—
And she feels a pang in her widowed heart
Of . the deepest misery.
The angel-child hath once more smiled
In the face of her mother dear;
And her arms are thrown out for a close embrace,
As if she, poor child, could for once efface
The line on the heart that was left by the trace
“ OF a burning, burning tear.
By the morrow’s sun the work was done,
And through the latticed pane
There streamed a single goldeu ray,
Across the pallet where they yet lay ;
Mother and child had passed away
From the night to day again!
Riverside, Ct.. January, 1852.
An Hour before the Sunset.
BY CHARLES SWAIN.
An hour before the sunset,
. Upon a summer eve, :
I heard a mother answer— :
’ *You shouid not men believe I’
=+ 'Tis easy to make promises,
' And that the thoughtless find ;
But truthfulness and giddigess
Are never long combinc&:
If you'd have lovers woo you,
' i For neither land nor pelf,
- If you'd have men respeet you,
You must respect yourself'!
; ‘Men care not for the maiden
That any glance can strike;
Men care not for the sweet looks
Bestowed on all alike !-—
But there’s 2 maiden dignity
Which no one can deride ;
A sanctity of soul that makes
The ribald turn aside !
If vou’d have lovers woo you,
For neither land nor pelf ;
If you'd have men resvect you,
- _ You must respect yourself.
‘No charm more sweet than innocence
From angels could be brought ;
No shield so strong as modesty—
And purity of thought !
The heurt is jealous of its own,
2 And would not even prize
* A hundred glances. if displayed
. " Before a hundred eyes ;—
i K ion'd have lovers woo you,
To 'or neither land nor pelf;
" ¥ you'd have men respect you,
s, You must respect yourself '
YN
MISCELLANY.
From Arthur’s Home Gazette.
The Rich Farmer’'s Wife.
BY MRBS. CAROLINE ORNE. :
«] understand, Mr. Sinclair,” said Mrs. Windle,
addressing a neighbor who had called on business,
“that your daughter Mary bas golden prospects
before her.”
«How so ?”. asked Mr. Sinclair.
“Why, they tell me that John Mitchell, who,
now that his father is dead, is by far the richest
{armer in the county, has taken quite a fancy to
er.”
“Jt would not be strange if he has,” said Mr.
Sinclair, “for Mary, you know, is handsome—and,
what ishbetter, she is good.”
‘““lt would be a capital match,” said Mrs. Win
‘. : v
- #Jt would be so considered by most people, I
suppose.” : |
_ “By all, T should think.” |
"4No, not by all—as my wife and I, and Mary,‘
_are exceptions.” ‘
“Is it possible? Well, I wish my Sally could
have the offer of him—it would make me the
-proudest and happiest woman in the place. What
~you and your wife and daughter can have against
iobn”llitchell, I cannot imagine. He is remarka
bly good-looking, is well educated for a person in
his station, is addicted to no bad habits; ard
above all, as I have said before, is the richest farm
__erin the county,” &
_ “What you say-is true, yet I should much rather
Mary -won{d marry Philip Moreton.” )
" «This seems very strange to me, though I sup
pose you have some reason for your preference sat
- isfactory to_yourself.” b
%] have.” v ;
_ «Jf it is no secret, I should really like to know
. what it is.” ' g :
eTh namyly that I don’t wish to see my daughter
,mB i i i
. . “What can you mean, Mr, Sinclair ?”
.“] mean just as I say ; and by way of illustra
. tion, I.will, if you please, mention an instance
. mbich fell under my observation before I was mar.
.ried dnm a short residence in a rich farmer’s
1 Samuy, AN which _subsequent experience has
_shown me is by no means of rare occurrence:
i ad for several years had some little acquaint
ance with Mr. Cornish, whom I used often to see.
;}m the -village :where I. resided, in a
- -buggy, and the finest span of horses in that vicini
ty: =He ni-mfl:finm m&gafl‘mpm'
ympting by enteriaimng al
‘Dis 80 | » Xt J J 3]
S X mfimfiflflm wl bleial
i Tiear RN ‘ LR S Sl iann
S inet 4 APEE B bl ondilt
5 e W )3!l{7'—s'“?s‘" 'AAW “;2"’< ¢ %g"‘\gfi;
he could. ‘As nothing,’ he said, ‘contributed so
much to his enjoyment as to have a few friends to
chat with at table, he thought they might be willing
to occasionally gratify him.’ ’
“When I asked him if he could board me a few
months, (I was then preparing to enter college,
and thought I should prefer the quiet of the ~oun
try to our liftle bustling village,) he at once assent
ed—saying that he, for his part, should like to
board half-a-dozen young men, for his motto was,
‘The more the merrier” This was Saturday, and I
was to commence bearding in his family the next
Monday. Mr. Cornish said that he shoald be at
the village by sunrise, and would take me home
with him in his buggy. It was a lovely morning in
June, and when we arrived in sight of his band
some and commodious house, with its ample and
convenient out-buildings, surrounded by fields of
waving grass and grain and Indian corn, and of
orchards filled with every variety of fruit-trees then
in full bloom—ll thought to myself that the home of
Mr. Cornigh realized my idoal us a rural paradise,
A lad stood ready to take the horses from the bug
gy the moment we alighted ; Mr. Cornish remark
king with a smile, as he did so, that he had now
got to feel himself able to be waited on.
¢« ‘Please to walk into the house,’ he added, ‘for T
see by my watch that it lacks only five minutes of
breakfast-time, and [ always require my wife to be
punctual to a minute.’
“I shall never forget that breakfast and the pain
ful associations it calls up, were I to live a century.
As Mr. Cornish ushered me into a room where a
large table was laid for ten persons, a slender wo
man, bending under the weight of a hugh dish
viled high with wheat cakes hot from the cven, en
tered by an opposite door. A large dish of soft
toast, saturated with melted butter mixed with
cream, was nlready upon the table, together with a
broiled chicken, beef-steak, cold ham and cold
roast veal. Mrs. Cornish having placed the cakes
on the table, returned to the kitchen for something
more.
¢ ‘What is the woman about ?” said Mr. Cornish
impatiently, at the same time looking at his watch.
‘She knowshow wmuch I stand on punctuality.’
“The clork now commenced strikirg, and just as
the last stroke died away, Mrs. Cornish re-entered
the room with an air of hurry and trepidation, with
a dish of boiled potatoes in one haud and of baked
ones in the other. No less than seven sturdy
looking young farmers entered the room directly
after.
“Mr. Cornish had already seated himself at the
table and indicated the place which I was to occu
py ; but I waited till his over-tasked wife, in what
appeared to me a complete state of exhaustion,
sunk into her chair. While Mr. Cornish asked
a blessing, I thought that she must feel more thank
ful for the minute’s rest thus afforded her, than for
the prospect of partaking of the savory viands
which loaded the board. As she handed me a cup
of coffee, her Lusband eaid,
“ ‘How is this 2 Why is there no tea ? I thought
Bhat you understood that when a stranger was ex
pected to breakfast there should be both coffee and
tea.?
“ I can make it now—it won’t take me but a
minute,’” said Mrs. Cornish, moving back from the
table.
“But I interferred, and assured them that I pre
ferred coffee in the morning. This satisfied my
hospitable host, and with a genial glow irradiating
bis broad ruddy visage, and a sanny light scintil
lating in his small black eyes, he addressed himseif
to the pleasant task before him.
“He knew nothing of gastronomy as a science,
yet the most devoted of the disciples of the Epi
curean philesopher could not, with all the subtle
aids derived from the precepts of their master,
have enjoyed u repast with a gustomore lively and
intense than did Mr. Cornish his breakfast. It was
the same with the young men—a circumstance of
which be was fully advised, as was evident by the
look of complacency which every now and then he
cast round the table.
“There was only one person present whose com
fort or discomfort appeared to be a matter of utter
indifference to him, and that was his wife, And
yet this was not owing to any positive inhumanity
in his disposition—it was only because he was emi
nently selfish She had for more than twenty
years performed the household labor, the meanest
and hardest drudgery included ; and in his mind it
was a thing of course, that she should continue so
to do. He bad never marked the fearful ravages
wrought by failing health and by being constautly
overtasked, nor is it problible that the orders which
he daily issued with perfect nonchalance, to have
his meals plentiful, of great variety and first-rate in
quality, appeared to him at all bard or difficult 10
execute.
~ “Wher Mr. Cornish married his wife, she was a 1
“handsome girl of eighteen, full of hope and energy,
‘but with a form rather too slender for a farmer’s 1
} wife. Her health, however, was good, and for the
i first five or six years after their marriage her task
- was comparatively light,
~ “Mr. Cornish was a shrewd min, and by what at
‘that time proved the ruin of thousands, made a
great deal of money—by land speculations. As his
purse grew heavy, he began to think that he might
well afford to hire a part of the labor necessary to
be done on his farm, instead of performing it all
bimself. He consequently engaged a band by the
month, which while it lightened his own task, add
ed a good deal to that of his wife. He continued ro I
prosper moré and more, and by the time that five
boys were added to their family, he thought that he
could afford to hire two hands,
“Mrs. Cornish was already bending under ber
burden, and when she found that she was (o have
still another to cook and wash for, she ventured to\
say that she hardly knew how she should get along
without some assistance, ‘
* ‘Nonsense,’ said her husband. ‘All you will
‘have to dois 1o put a little more into the pot. T
have heard my mother say that she had as lief
‘¢ook for a dozen as for two, and we all know that u 1‘
‘hen can scratch for a dozen chickens s well as for
‘one. If girls would work for two shillings a week, }
as they used to when I was a youngster, it would
do to talk about hiring one’; but the extravagantl
wages they ask now would run away with all the
loose change I could rake and scrape. Come, Lu- ‘
cy,” he added, smiling, ‘rouse up a little and have
a little more resolution—it won't do for you 1o set |
up for a lady quite yet. %’
“Thus rebuked, his wife, who was proud spirit
ed, did not revive the subject; and probably niust
have failéd at once, bad it not been for her eldest
son, who stole every opportunity to assist his
mother, even at the risk of' being called idle and
lazy for not doing, on some occasions, what his
father thought a tair day’s work for a boy of his
age. : 2 =)
ag ] had entered the house with the keen appetite
| consequent on youth, vigorous health, and a three
‘miles’ drive in_the fresh morning air; but it was
‘entirely destroyed by the o,ight of the drooping,
‘over-tasked woman who, unable to eat herself, was
‘constantly emphyoé in waiting on others. 7
' wTo vir. Cormsh it was evident, by his self-satis
fied air, that everything was exactly as it should he;
and:the indigngtion caused by hin obtuseners 1 felt
burning on my cheeks, ag | recalled to mind 'the
solicitude hmmeflcmvfi-fia s horses,
wlich, ous his own lagusge, be tg%ggf
wgining to wyself. what be thought bis wife was
mdeofi: Shw sPe ey %@? b‘f B ;;:& Ly
"us deteraiined within myself to lesve at once,
notwithstinding tbe opinion of Mr. Cornish to the
PORTSMOUTH, N. H., TUESDAY MORNING, JANUARY 13, 1852,
flection, however, T decided to remain ; for having
once kept ‘bachellor’s hall,” T thought that I might
lighten instead of increasing her labor, during those
intervals of study which I had intended to devote
to rambling in the woods and fields. I, therefore,
at the risk of winning the opprobrious cognomen of
Henhussey or Bettyneedle, and of being thought
worthy of having a dishcloth pinned to my outer
garment as a badge of my office, addressed myseif
to the task of gathering and preparing vegetables,
bringing wood and water, tending the fireto keep
the kettles boiling and the meat roasting, besides
doing a variety of other things ‘too num?us to
mention.” As for Mr. Cornish, he was seldom in
the house except at his meals, and then he wore
the same jovial, smiling aspect by which h: ha
earned the reputation of being uncommonly vplefs
ant and goods-natared. This was particualarly
case whenever he succeeded in picking up a s
old friends to witness and partake of his hospitality
—unless, as it sometimes happened, he was & un
fortunate as to think of something whiclmight
have increased the luxury and variety of the re
past.
“He used, whken in his happier moods, to dwell
with considerable . ostentation on the shrewdness
and foresight which had contributed towards mak-|
ing him the greatest landholder in the country, and,
was accustomed to remark that he thought he had
a right to live at his ease and enjoy himself. Andi
he was not backward in availing himself of what
he considered his right in this respect. Every duy!
when the weather was fine, he took a drive in hig
buggy with his superb bays; besides which, Hare
foot—as he called the finegst saddle-horse I everl
saw—was regularly brought to the door after tea,
when he used to ride.eight or ten miles. '
“In addition to the air and exercise thus oby
tained, he daily walked over his fields, overlooking,
the labors of his sous and his hired men. He thus, !
by daily placing his oblations on the altar of
Hygea, enjoyed an exuberance of health and spir
its.
“One day, having gone to the village on some
errand, a woman cawe to the door and said to me,
‘T wish you wounld do me the favor to give my love
to Mrs. Cornish, and tell her that I expect a
few friends to take tea with me this afternoon, and
that I should be wmuch pleased to have her join
18 ’
“When T returned T delivered my message to
Mrs. Cornish, and could see that her wan, care
worn countenance brightened, The next moment,
however, she remarked that she did not think it
would be possible for her to leave home.
“After dinner I heard her ask Mr. Cornish if
he thought of going to the village that afternood.
¢‘[ probably shall, was his answer. ‘ls any
thing wanted ? Are we out of tea, coffee, or
sugdr ?’
** *No,” she replied, ‘but Mrs. Bright has sent me
an invitation to take tea with her this afternoon,
and I think T should like to zo.’
“ Poh I' he replied, ‘what would be the use of
that ? Yon know, Lucy, that if there is one thing
on earth which I despise more than another, it is
this gadding round from house to house, to talk
scandal over a dish of tea, which women practice so
much in our days. My mother vsed to say that a
woman’s place was at home, and I am exactly of
her mind. I thought you were above such things.
What think Tand the boys, and the hired men and
Mr. Sinclair, are to do for supper, if you go off to
a tea-drinking ? Besides,” be added, looking out
of the window, ‘the horses I zee are already har
negsed, and I cannot allow themn to be tormented
with the flies, waiting for you to dress up in your
frills and farbelows. It would take more Resh off
them than two bushels of oats would put on.’
« Mrs. Cordish made ne reply, buat meekly
turned away and commenced washing the dishes.
She looked out of the window when her husband
had left the house ; and as with a merry laugh and
& countenance indicative of the highest health and
spirits, be jumped into the buggy, at the same mo
ment giving rein to the prancing steeds, I saw her
lips quiver and tears start to her eyes. My own
thoughts were—and perhaps hers were not dissim
ilar—that though she was looked upon as the mis
tress of the princely establishment of the rich Mr.
Cornish, her real situation was no better than that
of a slave—while the labor she was obliged to per
form daily, was double that which any humane and
considerate master would require.
“The last week I boarded in the family, I tho’t
I could see that she was failing rapidly ; and
one day I said to her in the presence of Mr. Cor
nish, that I thought she did not look well.
“¢] don’t feel very well,” she replied, ‘and I
have had some thoughts,’ she continued, addressing
her husband, ‘of asking you if you were willing
that I should send for Hannah Williams to come
and assist me a week or two, so that I could get a
little rested.’
' “The countenance of Mr. Cornish changed. ‘lf
‘you ¢an’t get along with your work,’said he, ‘I must
‘let one of the boys help you, if it is harvest time. I
ldan’t set any value on what such a little flirt of a
thing as Hannah Williams can do, any more than
my mother did. She always said they were more
plague than profit. The women aint what they
were when I was a boy. My mother thought noth
’ ing of having a family of eighteen or twenty per
-soms to take care of, but now-a-days half that num
ber is thought to be a mighty affair. In my opin
;ion it is because the will is wanting. No, no,
’ Lucy, it won’t do to pay a girl a dollar a week for
'you to wait on, even thongh it would be thought a
littte more genteel by the neighbors.’
‘Mr. Cornish,’ said his wife, ‘you often refer to
your mother as an example worthy of imitation—
and not without cause. She was an excelient wo
man in every respect—very considerate and kind
hearted, as I bad good reason to know ; and being
blessed with almost perfect health, she was able to
accomplish a great deal. Yet, as you must remem
ber, she had an unmarried sister who always lived
in the family, and was mach better than any hired
girl_who eould bave been obtained.’
““Poh ! poh !~-that’s where you are mistaken.
Aunnt-Hitty did some chores, but mother was al
ways round seeing to things.’
“Here the conversation ended. I left on the
next Saturday, and early on Monday morning I
|saw Mr. Cornish at the village. Two gentlemen
from one of our large cities, with whom be had for
merly transacted some business, had been stopping
at the hotel a few days, and unfortunately Mr.
Cornish caught sight of them. Of course, as he al
ways did in such cases, he invited them to dine
with him ; and in reply to some excuse which they
attempted, assured them that he would not take no
for an answer, He spoke to me aside, and told
t ;ne, tlhat he was going to let them see how a farmer
fared, sl : ;
L “It may be unnecessary to attempt to relate how
‘Mrs. Cornish succeeded in getting through with the
task ‘of preparing a dinner which satisfied her hus
‘band, but which she could not find time to partake
of—a circuthstunce, a 8 Mr. Cornish neglected to
Jintroduce her, that caused the two city gentlemen
to ima Tneth‘&lp?*lfl “a kind of heud-servant
whom,geplthind,swii! bad been broken by some:
GPORE POTPOM. /i v wabsivi P it 08 5
. “The same day, about sunset, I saw Benjamin
Cornish.ride 8p to wmmq - Lewis, in great
SR e e e
T‘-'.'s'?’.:: :_X.gk:, ¥ , ;iagl, ¥ ~f~ & ; i”;
Jwflk'i* i,..‘, v fij 1 »E’ pHep 4%; s %‘v;. "«;‘ o Fouch L ¢ q
for supper. ; A fath g’ e f}g}%'gfi
sion with his two guests, whom he had madg gram=
ise to beturn-with him st spend the nighi..l did'nt
know but thet. be Bad. given orders to bave it de-
Se I e e e S U gT e
layed. At that moment, I thought I heard my
mother’s voice, and on going to her bedroom, I
found her lying on the bed, in a high fever Father
don’t much approve of physicians, but we were all
of us so frightened, we thought it would not do to
wait for his return in order to obtain s consent.’
“Dr. Lewis succeeded in subduing the fever, bat
it left her in a hopeless decline. ft was the last
day of September that she sunk under her burden,
and the sere leaves of November fell upon her
grave. Six months afterwards, Mr. Cornish mar
ried a young and pretty wife, whose health, as he !
soon ascertained, was so delicate, that he was,
obliged to purchase a saddle-horse, expressly for
her benefit.”
I don’t think,” said Mrs. Windle, when Mr,
Sinclair had finished his story, “that it would be
fair to judge all rich farmers by that Mr. Cornish.”
“Perbaps not ; yet, as far as my observation has
extended, no class of women in the counntry, work
80 hard as the wives of farmers who are compara
tively wealthy. A man who owns a liftle snug
farm, can, as a general thing, cultivate enough wiig'
his own hands to enable bim to procure all that is
necessary for the comfortable subsistence of him
self and family. It would not do tothink of hir
ing a hand, hence the wife's task is geldom so hard
but that she can perform it without injury to her
health; whereas, if the increasing’ possessions of
her husband would render it profitable to hire half’
a dozen hands, it would add to her labor two-fold.”
“But if a farmer is able to pay balf a dozen
hands, he can certainly afford to hire a good strong
gir! to assist his wife,” said Mrs. Windle.
“That is true, yet I have found comparatively ‘
few men in that station of life (there are honora
ble exceptions I know) who seem perfectly willing
to do it, and most women possessing a common share
of sensibility, prefer doing the whole of their work
themselves, at the expenee of much physical suf
fering, rather than to be almost daily reminded of
the great expense of giving a girl board and wa
ges, for doing a little work about house, which, af
iter all, amounts to nothing. I can, at this very mo
ment, recall to mind no less than five instances
‘where the wives of farmers, who, as the phrase is,
had got to be above board, literally working them
selves to death. There was Mrs. Elwyn, for in
stance. I recollect when I was told that she was
dead that I very naturally inquired the nature of
the malady which bad caused her premature death,
for she bad left four children, the eldest of whom
wus only six.—*Q, she killed herseif with hard
work,” was the careless reply.”
#To confess the truth, I can remember similar
ins\ances myself, but I always thought that the
women were quite as much to blame as their hus.
bands. When they became aware that they were 1
injuring themselves by over-exertion, they should
have nrged the necessity of having some assistance.”
“TLe truth is, such women as Mrs. Elwyn, and
others 1 could mention, preferred physical to men
tal suffering. They could not bear to be constant
ly reminded, that a farmer could not expect to get
along in the world when there was ‘“‘a poor inuer
door,” and of hearing women quoted as examples,
who were “wives worth having.”
“There is something in that,l know, but a wo
man of seunse should be above minding anything of
that kind.”
“It would be well, if thev could rize above it,but
[ am convinced that it is not always possible, and
for that reason I shall never feel willing for my
daughter to marry a man, whose edacation has not
been of a kind to give him such liberal and expan
ded views us will enable him to resist the harrow
ing influence of avarice,
“You may be right,” sard Mre. Windle, as Mr,
Sinclair rose to take leave, “but I hope that my
Sally will never fare worse than to be the wife of
John Mitehell.”
“If she should,” said Mr. Sinclair, “I hope that
he will not prove to be a second Mr, Cornish.”
A “SpuNkY” OxE.—A correspondent of the
Charleston News, traveling on the Eastern Shore
of Virginia, gives the following in one of his let
ters :
“We turned aside from our path for a space, to
visit an object of some curiosity, which is one of
“the lions” of “the Eastern Shore.” This is an
ancient vault, belonging to a member of the “Cus
tis” family, a branch of the same stock with which
Washington intermarried. It lies upon a fine old
farmstead, looking out upon “the Bay,” and occu
pies the centre of a large field, the only prominent
object ; sheltered by some old trees. The vault is
of white marble elaborately carved in London, in a
state of partial dilapidation, The curious feature
about it consists in 118 inscription, which runs thus:
“Under this marble tomb lies the body of the
Hox. Joux Custis, Esq.,
of the city of Williamsburg and Parish of Burton;
formerly of Hunger’s parish, on the Eastern Shore
of Virginia, and county of Northampton, aged 71
i years, and yet lived but seven years, which was the
space of time he kept a BACHELOR’S HOME at Ar
lington, on the Kastern Shore of Virginia.” :
This inscription, we are told by another on the
opposite side, “was put on the tomb by bis own
positive order.” The gist of it, a 8 our lady read
ers will be pleased to perceive, eonsist in the lines
we have italicised ; the force of which will be bet
ter felt and undersiood from the additional fact,
which does not appear, that this bachelor, who lived
only in his bachelor condition, was actually mar
ried three times, His experience, if* we are able
to believe his epitaph, was greatly adverse to the
idea of any happiness in the married state: yet
how strange that he should have ventured thrice
upou it! The natural conclusion is that the Hon.
John Custis was a singularly just and conscientious
man, who, unwilling to do the sex any wrong by a
premature jadgment, gave them a full and fair trial,
at the expense of his own happiness, and pronoun
ced judgment only after repeated experiments.—
Tradition has preserved some anecdotes of the sort
of experience which he enjoyed in the married
state, one of which I will relate.
It appears that be was driving out in his ancient
coach with one of his-wives, (and todo him jus
tice, we must assure the reader that he had but one
at & time,) and in the neighborhood of the very
spot upon which we ourselves are standing, Cape
Charles a matrimonial discussion ensued between
the pair, which warmed as they proceeded. The
lord grew angry, the lady vociferous, ‘lt was a
idinmond,' said one—and ‘[ insist,” quoth the other,
“that it was a club” “You will drive me mud !
‘cried John Custis. *I should call that admirable
-drivirg I' retorted the wife. ‘By ——l" he ex
‘elaimed, ‘I you eay another word I will drive you
down into the sea” They were even then upon
‘the beach. ‘Another word !' screamed the lady.—
‘Drive where you please,’ she added—‘into the sea,
I can go as deep zs you dare go,any day ! He
became furions, took her at her word, and drove
‘the horses and chariot into the oceun. They be
gan to swim. He held in, looked Into her face and
she laughed in his. ‘Why do you stop ?’ she de
‘manded exultingly, not a whit alarmed. ‘You are
a devil I" S’ufu‘é’{fimw; fiiuinf- the horses about,
‘and making for the shore with a lexpedition, ‘Pooh!
‘pooh !’ laughed his tormenter. ‘Learn from this
that there is no place where yon dare go, where [
cannot _accompany _ you.’ &wfi to b—ll be
with o chokle—!there my-dera; L leave you: She
o i
:W:w B m m»% p«,fi»s : J :
| Good goalities, like great abilities, are ine mprehen
i e e 'i’g"\i"’"';?f:? i %a« upm oas o
eo B e ddel S AR o PLB B
Kossuth and the Ladies.
The following are passages from Kossath’s address
to the ladiss of New York, at Triplgr Hali : |
It is Eastern blood which runs in my wveins, and T
come from the East. I have, acco%l_ingly,mmewhu of
Eastern fatalism in my disposition. but it is the fatalism
of a christian who trusts with unwavering faith in the |
boundless goodness of a Divin; Providence. But j
amoung all these different feelings) and thoughts thar |
come npon me in the hour of my farewell, one thing is |
almost indispensable to me and thit is, the assuranae ]
that the sympathy I have met with |here will not pass |
away like the cheers which a warblipg girl receives on |
the stage—that it will be preserved as a principle, and 3
that when the emotion subsides the talmiess reflection |
will but strengthen it, because it is & principle. This
consolation I wanted, and this consolation 1 have, be
cause, ladies, I place itin your hands—l bestow on |
vour motherly and sisterly cares, the hopes of Earope’s
oppressed nations—the hopes of civil, political. social
anzi)l:elligious liberty. Ay <:§ 24
: 't entre ‘with the brief.and stammer
fim?t&z\i;r Whm&;}’gé‘fmd with Eiotion
and with sorrowful cares—llct me entreat’ you, ladies,
to be watehful of the sympathy of your people, like the |
wother over the cradle of her child. It is worthy of your |
watchful care, because it is the cradle of regenerated |
humanity. Especially in regard to my poor father-land,
I have particular claims on the fairer and better half of |
the humanity, which yon are. The first of thess claims |
is, that there is not, perhaps, on the face of the earth, a
nation which in its institations has shown more chival- |
ric regard for ladies than the Hungarians. It is a ’
praiseworthy trait of the Oriental character. You |
know that it was the Moorish race in Spain, ho were |
the founders of the chivalric era in Euarope. so full ofi
personal virtue so full of noble deeds, so devoted to
the service of ladies, to heroism and the protection of
the oppressed, You are told that the ladics of the East 1‘
are aimost degraded to less than a human condition, |
being secluded from all social life, and pent up within
the harem’s walls. And soitis. But yom must not
judge the East by the the measures of European civi
lization. They bave their own civilization quite differ
ent from ours in views, inclinations affections, and
thoughts—Eastern mankind is traditional—the very |
scil retains the stamp of traditional antiquity.
When you walk upon that old soil, with the Old
Testament in your hand, and read the patriarchs on
the very spot whare they lived and walked, you are
astonished to find that nature is as it was five thousand
years ago, and that the cedars still grow on Lebanon,
under the shadow of which the patriarchs were protect
ed You sce the well jost as Jacob saw it, when
Rachel gave drink to him and his camels. Everything
—the a-pect of nature, the habits, the customs the so
‘cial life of the people is mensured, not by centuries.
but by thousand of years 'T'he women of the East
live as they lived in the time of the parriarchs,
‘and they feel happy. Let them remain so; who can
wish them more on earth than happiness. Noihing is
| more ridieulous than to pity those who feel happy.—
| But such is ihe fact, that there is almost & religious re
gard paid to women in the East. No man dares to
injure or offend a woman there. He who would do so,
wouid be despised by alllike a dog. That respect goes
80 far, that the lord does not dare to raise the carpet of
his harem’s door, still less enter it, where a pair of
slippers before the door, tells him a lady is in the room.
[Applanse ]
Reuspect and reverence for women is the characteristic
of the Orient. The Mapyars are of Eastern stock,
cast in Europe. We found all the blessings of civiliza
tion in our Jadies ; but we conserved for them the
t reverence and regard of oor Oriental character. Nay.
more than that, we carried these views into our institu
[tinnu and into laws. With us the widow remains the
l head of the familv. as the father was. As long as she
lives, she i 3 the mistress of the property of her deceased
hashand. The chivalroas spirit of the nation supposes
she will provide with motherly care, for the wants of
her children, and she remains in possession sc long as
she bears her decesrsed husband's name. The old
{ constitution of Hucgary, which we reformed apon a
l democratic basis—it having been aristoeratic—~under
that instrament the widow of a lord had the right
to send a representative to the parliament, and in the
county elections to public functionaries, widows had a
right of vote alike with the men. Perhaps this chival
ric character of my nation, so full of regard to the fair
gex, may somewhat commend my missicn to the ladies
of America,
~ In the name of that ocean of bloody tears which the
sacrilegious hand of the txrant wrung from the eves of
‘the childiess mothers, of the brides who beheld the
hangman’s sword hetween them and their wedding day
—in the name of ali those mothers, wives. brides
‘daughters and sisters, who, by thousands of thousands
waep over the graves of Magvars so dear to their
hearts, and weep the bloody tears of a patriot (as they
all are) over the face of their beloved native land—in
the name of all those torturing stripes with which the
Aflogzing hand of Austrian tyrants dared to outrage hu
manity in the woman kind of my native land—in the
‘name of that daily curse against Austria, with which
‘even the prayers of our women are mixed, in the name
of the nameless sufferings of my own dear wife (here
the whole audience rose and cheered vehemently)—the
faithful companion of my life—of her who for months
and weeks was hunted by my couantry’s tyranis, like a
noble deer, not having for months, a moment’s rest to
repose her wearied head in safety, and no hope, no
sapport, no protection but at the humble threshold of
! the hard working people, as noble and generous as
Ithay are poor—(applanse)—in the name of my poor
little children, who. so young, are searcely conscions of
their life, had already to learn what an Austrian prison
is—in the name of all this, and what is still worse, in
the name of down trodden liberty, I claim, ladies of
New York. your protecting sympathy for my country’s
canse. Nobody ean do more for it than you. The
heart of man is as soft wax in vour tender hands.—
Mould it ladies, mould it inte the form of generouns
compassion for my country’s wrongs, inspire it with
the noble feelings of your own hearts, inspire it with
the conseiousness of your country’s power. dignity aud
might. You are the framers of man’s character.
Whatever be the fate of man, one stamp he always
bears on his brow—that which the mother’s hand im
pressed upon the soul of ‘her child. The smile of your
lips can make a hero ont of the coward—(applanse)—
and a generous man out of the egotist, one word from
you inspires the youth to noble resolutions; the lustre
of your eyes is the fairest reward for the toils of life.
“You can even blow up the feeble spark of energy in
the breast of broken age, that once more it may blaze
up in a noble, & generons deed before it died. Al this
power you have. Use it, ladies, use it in behalf of
your country’s glory, and for the benefit of oppressed
hamanity ; and when you meet acold calculator. who
thinks by arithmetic when he is ealled to feel the
wrongs of oppressed nations, convert him, ladies, —
Your smiles are commands, and the truth which pours
forth instinctively from your hearts, is mightier than
the logic articulated by any scholar. The Peri excla
ded from Paradise, brought many generous gifts to
heaven in order to regain it. She brought the dying
sigh of a patriot ; the kiss of a faithful girl, imprinted
‘upon the lips of her hridegroom, distorted by the ven
‘om of the plague. She bronght with her many other
fair gifts, but the doors of Paradise opened before her
‘only when she brought with her the first praver of a
man converted to charity and brotherly love for his op
pressed brethren and humanity. iy o
lam told that one.of the newspapers, with a kind
and genevous intention, has deelared that the cau-e ]
which 1 have the honor to plead, has pointed out that
there is a committee who are about to raise money for
‘the purpose of revolutionizing Europe. I perfectly
understand the kind intentien of the generous friend
who wrote these words ; but I beg leave to remark that
it is not m+ intention to get any people whatever to aid
in the revolation of Enrope. My axiom is that of the
Trish poet, * Who would be free, themselves must strike
the blow.” (Applause.) All that I claim is fair play—
‘and that is the aim for which I claim the United States
to become the executive {oflr of th laws of nature
and of natare's God. The revolutions in Europe will
‘be made by the nations of Europe j but that they sha
fiave fair play is what the nations .of Europe expect
gt oy oS Sow . 0 1
conldymho, wonld. refasn when the melody of sour
pressed. nasive land |e s T
Now 1B gßTst S B b
VOIC XCVIII-'-NO- 3;
New York” New York ! that word will forever make
shrill every string of my hesrt. Tam like a wandering
bird—l am worse than a wandering bird ¢ he may re
turn 1o his summer bome—l have no lome @, earth,
Here 1 felt almost at home—bhu: “Fareveli” is my eall,
and 1T mu-t part I part with the bope that the SYmpa
thy which T have met Lere is the tramypet sound of res
urrection to my native 'and 3 I'part with the hope that,
aaving foand here a short transitory Lome. wi'l bring
me yet back ro mv&gwn b loved home. that my ashes
may yet mix with the dust of my native soil !
NAPOLEON AND THE REVOLUTION OF THE
18T BrUMAIRE. —Reference has of late been
made to the revolution of the ISth Bromaire ; but
we have rot noticed any account of the way in
which it was effected, in any of the newspapers. A
most vivid description of it was given by Sir Wal
ter Scott, in his Life of Napoleon. We extract
from it a few paragraphs. Napoleon, who was in
Fg_vrpt. at!htb: head I,of the French army, immediate
-8 tumow~ L. 1 term
o phacing himself at the heda oMk (515 pine
Wikous ashing leave of absence, he departed for
the French capital, and made his appearance in
Paris. Ile was received with great rejoicing, and
introduced to the Council of Five Hundred, deter
mined to abolished that body, as weli as that of the
Ancients. and assume the character of Dictator.
After a good many preliminary steps, he entered
the hall of the Legislature, wheun the following
scene transpired :—[N. ¥. Atlas,]
He was received with loud murmurs. “What !
drawn weapons, armed men, soldiers in the sanctu
ary of the laws !” exclaimed the members, whose
courage seemed to rise against the display of foree’
with which they were menaced. All the deputies
arose ; some rushed upon Bonaparte and seized
him by the collar ; others called out, “Outlawry—
outlawry— let him be proclaimed a traitorl” It ig
said that Arena,a native of Corsica like himself,
aimed a dagger at his breast, which was only avert
ed by the interposition of one of the grenadiers.
The fact seems extremely doubtful, though it is
certain that Bonaparte was scized by two or three
members, while others exclaimed, “Was it for this
you gained so many victories ¥’ aud loaded him
with reproaches. At thiserisis a party of grena
diers rushed into the hall with drawn swords, and
extricating Bonaparte from the Deputies, bore him
off in their arms, breathless with the scufile.
It was probably at this crisis that Augerean’s
hitherto unshaken faith in bis ancient general’s
fortunes began to totter, and his revolutionary prin
ciples to gain an ascendance over his miilitary de
votion. ‘A fine situation vou kave brought your
self into,” he said to Bonaparte ; who answered
sternly, “Augereau, things were worse at Arcola—
teke mv advice—remain quiet—in a short time all
this will change.” Auvgereau, whose active assist
ance and co-operation might have been, at this crit
ical period, of the greatest consequence to the
Council, took the hint and continued passive.—
Jourdan and Bernadotte, who were ready to act
on the popular side had the soldiers shown the least
hesitation in yielding obedience to Bonaparte, per
ceived no opening of which to avail themselves.
The Council remained in the hishest state of
commotion, the general voice accosing Bonaparte
of having nusurped the supreme authority—calling
for a sentence of outlawry, or devianding that he
shoald be brought to the bar. «Cuan you ask me to
put the outlawry of my own brothe® ta the vore 27
gaid Lucien. But this appeal to his personal situa
tion and feelings, made no impression upon the
Assembly, who continued chuvorously to demand
the question. At length Lucien fluno on the desk
his hat, scarf, and other paris of his official dress.
“Let me rather be heard,” he suid, “as the advocate
of him whom vou falsely and rasily accuse.” Bat
this request only added #o the tumult. At this
moment a small body of grenadiers, sent by Na
poleon to his brother’s assistance, marched into the
hall.
They were at first recerved with applanse—for
the Council, accusiomed to sce the trivmph of dem
ocratical opinions among the military, did not doubt
that they were deserting their General to "range
theiuselves on the side of the deputies. Their ap
pearance was but momentary—they instantly left
the hall, carrying Lucien in the centre of the de
tachment,
Maiters were now come to extremity on either
side. The Council, thrown into the greatest disor
der by these repeated military incursions, remained
in violent agitation—tfuriouns against Bonaparte,
but without the calmness necessary to adopt decis
ive measures.
Meantime the sight of Napoleon, almost breath
less and bearing the marks of personal violence,
excited to the highest the indignation of rhe milita
ry. In broken words he told thewm that when he
wished to show them the road to lead the country to
victory and fame, “they had answered him with
dapgers.”
Cries of resentment arose from the soldiery, aug
mented when the party sent to extricate the Presi
dent brought him to the ranks as to a sanctuary.
Lucien, who seconded his brother admirably, or
rather who led the way in this perilous adventure,
mounted on horseback instantly and called out, in
a voice naturally deep and sonorous, “General, and
you, soldiers ! The President of the Council of
Five Hondred proclaims to you that factious men,
with drawn daggers, have interrupted the delibera
tions of the Assembly. He anthorizes vou to em
ploy force agninst these disturbers. The Assem~
bly of Five Hondred is dissolved I”
Murat, deputed by Bonuparte to execute the
commands of Lucien, entered the Orangerie with
drums beating, at the bead ot a detachment with
fixed bayonets. He summoned the Deputies to
disperse on their peril, while an officer of the con
stitutional guard called out that he could be no
longer answerable for their safety. Cries of fear
becanie now mingled with vociferations of rage,
execrations of abhorrence, and shouts of” Vive la
Republique ! An officer then wounied the Presi
dent’s seat, and summoned the representatives to
retire. “The General,” said he, “has given or
ders I”
Some of the deputies and epectators began now
to leave the hall ; the greater part continuned firm,
and sustained the shouts by which they reprobated
this military intrusion. The drums at length struck:
up, and drowned further remonstrance.
“Forward, grenadiers,” said the officer who com
manded the party. They levelled their muskets,
and advanced as if to the charge. The deputies
seemed hitherto to have retained a lingering hope
that their persons would be regarded ss inviolable.
They now fled on sll sides, most of them jumping
from the windows of the Orangerie, and leaving
bebind them their official caps, scarfs, and gowns.
In a very few minutes the apartments were entirely
clear ; and thus, furnishing, at its conclusion, a
striking parallel to the scene which ended the Long
Parliament of Charles the First’s time, terminated
the last democratical assembly of France.
REMARKABLE PREMONITION.— A letter from
Ms. John Dix, in Sowerset county, Maryland,
says:
“On the 25th of November, a femsle of tem
years old died suddenly in my school. She asked
permission to retire a few minutes before 10 A. M.
After having recited her lessons, as usual, and after:
walking a few paces from the door, she fiintedy On
being immediately tukeu up, and i softly down
in the schoolbouse, she expired. VWihat 18 most
remarkable, when she awoke that Woriing, She
told her mother she dreamed she went to s¢hool an&
died, and was-carried to her aunt's, WAIFSSENEIE
igr _;‘ |!fi‘ R R TTEE R
: ; TT oW ,vr“::v:‘ ;-s;;@ o e ! fii":‘