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The weekly Ottumwa courier. [volume] (Ottumwa, Iowa) 1857-1872, February 19, 1857, Image 1

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Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn84027352/1857-02-19/ed-1/seq-1/

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8 .O Yi
"?f* jr. w.
'-•'.ft J. M. AOItttlN, Proprietor,
(i)tt«mlu Couvtrt
.is rnti.ifiiKn
of the lloueer.
Thy streams lire wide, thy
F. n !»I S:
Oli* ti.pv,|*£ year .. v. ji....t I,.V\
W mam h- $•£,:* within the
'fM'ttlori of tlrt- year.
Ten .... .% ..I*,'**.
1 Twenty .V. ,L. V4.k.
her. pin nietit is
not tnrftlr
In advance, #2,00 within
ear, Mid
ut the
.1. fhitwcriber* who .lo not
express notice to the
roiitrarv, »r« nmsiiliri'd as wishing to evntinne their
2. If siihseriher* order the dist-ofitinnitnre of their
periodical* flit- publisher may continue to send thetn
Bpt til nil arrearage* lire paid.
W 8. If Mihscritn-rs neirlcet or refuse to take
tin- oilier
I•• «lii. li they are directed,
I li- (jrekt l.l n -|M.n«H1.- till ttt«-y have settled the Mil,
(fxi rtnkre.l them ii8 litttii•-(.
4 If
"ulnri!!H r» remove to
other plaees without
fMildMicrs, mid tin* papers are sent to the
they nr.- livid responsible.
•li. The Courts have decided (hut refusing
to take
riodicals from the office, or removing mid leaving tli.'in
tlftialbd ft.r, 1* fn»*
evidollee of I lit (lit iotlil I
I'..*t masters n.-^'i-i-jipjr to Inform publisher*,
papers lire li* taken from the office, lay theiu
.Nvr* liable to pay the subscription.
Jt I." also their duty in Mich m»w, to notify the pnh
Utaith* papers
V are sent to,
net lakrn out h.v
and the reason why they r« Mi,
The West, the Went, the gulden West,
prairie* Tart,
Thy Fklrs Hre hronil and clear
And thou can.-t 1
«n«t of minen
of veaML
A rich Hud fruitful soil,
d&u^iilcrs fair, Hint noble tout,
Who.few not manly toil.
The Went, the West,
our own free Wcat,
Thy winter storms we hive.
Thy xinilinif Held* und siiiKinK Mr*,
Andtliv bright kiabove
ThereV he.-iuty in thy forest* l»rfc
heie hilvery Hre»iiileU
'JUvrt-'b freedom in thy rivers WMt
That through our vulUy*
l^t other* ho«i«t of granite hill#,
That ton er »tio\ e tile pluin-,
l.et other* s.iii(jif »e i-}!irt isi.s
Where xprin: ctermil reigns
Jtnt (five to me our own free West,
Ko uranlte tiill" or neiM»,
V. 'vi .t.iiii-ijij.' rills, and Uowery
iAi\elitr fur than these.
The sunny South ha* orange proves,
11,»: I'lootn the w hole ear lonjc
And llrd.« that warhle in their bougha
sw. et and pen.-he
Ilut their sweet soiir no power Mb
To foothe the aehinif breast,
AVlien every note in mingled 'lth
The (nroans of the ojpr*rs»ed.
Jn our free Went men do not or
lleueatli the driver's
tin track of liuiiiaii lle^li
Jtnt Kri edoniN voiee, on Kreedom'*
1« home up 11 uii *:»ves
'it., breer.ethat tloats around our home,
l.eiti-8 not the lii'eutli of fcl.n ea.
Tlk West, the Went, my rhlhlhood ljoine,
Wiriee dear thonart tome.
l.-itig may thy daughters live ta blcMl»
l.oiif may tli,i.
sons te
ufte oil up,- luill
roll imnjT,
fr.itii .irlli shall I .-l,
Ma\ ll I
/el.er iti.,|^ rle
o UUI pi ll ions est.
^tonj for fittlc C5ivls.
iMrt neein
to tee that
yon tfi ipuil-
n' your butmel, uiy deail" said Airs. Cai soi.,
astonished look at her daughter Nel
leaninp against Iter mother**
air.switifjiti^ by ila strings a piniDbut pret
pink velvet hat.
"It will not look much
if It is jam-
npd a little out of sliape," aiiswrreil the little
eirl poiitiusly. "I ihmM think I need fan* how
soon it is wont out at.d site hnUluil her
vords liy uu txtra tlo'imh of the despised
••YVowUJ my little girl b» ltappi«r after b»v
i ruined it, and feel that ahe deserved a b«t
•'Well Ma, 1 don't kn«v how I slionhl fee?,v
id Nellie, colorint wli^htly. and twisting the
rinps closer around her fingers. "I only
[. now I wish I haden' tgot
thing, it ianH
ludf so pretty as Alice Lawson'a that cost on
lv twenty shillings more than mine. I am
'•are 1 never wautto wear it again if 1 am not
have a feather on it and tlowers inside like
tiers, for I cannot look like a lady at all when
hers is by and indeed I never will walk with
Alice any more, or sit next her in Sunday
-ehool, now that she has so much the hand
noinest bonnet! She said only this morning
tliat it is a great shame I do not have finer
lothes, and that Mrs. Lnvinia told her Ma it
wis very strange yoti didn't know how to
make a better use of money, for nobody
would suspect, from anything we wore, «iat
I'a was the richest man in"—"Hush, Nellw!
interposed the astonished mother—"do you
what you are saving and doing?"
*ltif only the truth, Ma," persisted Nellie
•I would not have believed that my little
.laughter coult have had so unamiable a spir
it excited in ker, by foolish, unsuitable fineries^
I, A*tsh« could so far lay aside her love and
M^'pect for her mother as to speak so improp
*y, or be willing to repeat the criticisms of a
thoughtless woman. Are yon not always
neatly and becomingly dressed?"
"Well Ma," iaid Nellie, bursting into tears,
••Alice Lawson won't be eleven years old t'tl
iwo montl9 after I am, and flowers nre cer
tainly prettier inside a bennet than tnis ha'e
ftil down, besides it is just what the Blairs and
Allans wear, and their houses aie not half so
large as ours!"- "Give me the bonnet^ my
dear," and as Mrs. Carson put her arm around
Nellie to draw her close to her side, continued,
Do you remember how much warmer we
thought tlie down would make this open bon
net, and how inuch you admired its snowy
whiteness, and how pleased and grateful you
were at having what you thought was so pret
ty? Nellie was happy then, and almost en
nely because she
obedient, confiding
-pirit, that made her contented with whatever
her metlier thought was best for her. If the
leather and flowers were given her now, they
would no1, bring back that happy trusting spir
only strengthen her belief in her
,n superior judgment ami taste and what is
vont,ri**r, would
emahtti^n, and a desire to dress as well or bet
ter than any of her neighhors, and help her to
forget that the state of her heart is of so much
more consequence than the clothes she wears.
A vain, dissatisfied spirit has come up in her
heart, that has taken away her gratitude, and
not only spoiled her enjoyment of her love for
hfr mother, but has made h'-r disrespcctf d!"
"Oh, Ma!'" sobbed Nellie, did not mean to
be disrespectful, and I am sorry 1 was, but it
seems very strange that you ar« not willing I
should have as pretty things as other girls and
nothing in the world co-ild make ine happier
than the beautiful pink feather at Mrs. La
vinia's."' Dr. Carson, who knd been engaged
at his writing desk iring tlie above conversa
tion, looked up, and asked, "Is my daughter
so very confident about: that? Is she quite
sure? Thii.k, now. before speaking." "I
needn't //uiifc," said Nellie, half smiling, "I
know about it." "Very well, then, how much
money is wanted to make her happier than
anything in the World?" "Only twenty shil
lings. Pa." You shnll have them, then, if
you will promise not to spend them for a week!''
Nellie's countenance fell again at the thought
of such a postponenent of her darling wishes,
but she rave the promise as cheerfully as she
could, and. on receiving the sum, quickly left
the room, without ventming to look at her
mother, though not without thanking her fath
er, and takincr with her the despised bonnet,
now grown a little less odious.
The week of waiting was not yet over,
when Dr. Casor. invited Nellie to ride with
him one morning as be was going around to
some of his palient9. Nellie was only too
glad to go with her father, for he always had
some new thing to show her or teach her, and
sometimes he allowed her to hold the reins of
"Old Speedy," so they went jogging over the
smooth road So she dressed herself quickly,
*nd notwithstanding her bonnet was yet with
out its feather, her eyes were dancing with
joy dsshe tied its strings, and drew on her nice
mittens. In erotlier minute she hnd gaily i
kissed a good-by to her Miimrna. and was at
ttieside of Pspa, waiting to be lifted into the
carriage. The fresh cold air soon brightened
the roses rtn Nellie's cheeks, and
Old Speedy that he scampered oil" at such a
holiday pace as made the litlle girl almost
afraid to drivej but he seemed to kn w lhat
geutle hands held the reins, and carried his
head as proudly as though they had been the
queen's, and when he met cnrri iges, turned out
of his own accord, as much as to say, "I must
show her how lo guide!'* After passing through
several streets, they stopped at a house where
thf Tloctor left Nellie in the carriage to amuse
herself by watching objects in the street*—
Nothing especially attracted her attention,
however, till sla saw s little pale-looking,
bright-eyed gi-l of about her owu age come
quickly up the sidewalk, and go into a second
bai.d clothing store, nearly opposite Old Spee
dy's stand-post. H»*r interest was at once
awakened as o whether the object of this lit
tle girl's call was to buy or sell and she coun
ted the days when Fhe herself would go upon a
shopping excursion for the all-important faith-
Hie was sorry to see the little girl go in
to such a store, for she felt there would be
nothing pretty to buy there, and but a small
sum received for what might be sold. Not
withstanding the unfortunate state of mind in
which Nellie wss introduced to'the reader, she
had a truly kind, sympathetic heart, which
moved quickly at the siijht of suffering or sor
row and when she saw the little stranger come
out of the store, with a coarse handkerchief
upon her h*ad in place of the neat hood worr\
in, she exclaimed, "Indeed, what a pity!" But
it wan a circumstance full of mystery, howev
er, that the girl's face seemed to wear a happi
er expression under the handkerchief than
under the hood, and was evidently lighter
hearted as she rtm off down the street tipon
some other errand. The case was still being
pondered when the Doctor came out, to whom
Nellio told the story. "Borne poor child,
probably," said the Doctor, "who needs many
things more than a warm hood I wish I had
seen her." Away went Old Speedy again,
and Nellie had not ceased her speculations up
on the matter, when they stopped in front of
a building evidently containing many tene
ments for the poor. She was not particularly
pleased that her father wished her to go in
with him, hut she nevertheless silently follow
ed hi ii up two flights of stairs, where he tap
ped lightly at a door. The summons to enter
was very feeble, and when the door was open
ed, Nellie could see no one in the room. Some
old, faded chintz was hung across one corner
of the room, and partially concealed a bed
on which a feeble, emaciated woman was Ijr*
"Are you alone this morning, Mrs. Ford?"
asked tho Doctor. "Just now I ain Betsey
has gone out to see if she cannot find some
errands to do, as she used b«fore I got so bad.
She says o ir pennies are almost gone, and wor
lies lest I may sutler. Poor child, my own
faith is weak sometimes, so I cannot wonder
that her trust in the promises of our Heavenly
Father is so often less than what we have
rea&on to expect of older persons!" "Yet which
too few persons either feel or see," said the
Nellie's intuitive delicacy prompted her to
look for a seat as far from the bed ss possible,
where she would attract no notice, and there
busied her thoughts on the picture of extreme
poverty before her. She had never before seen
it unaccompanied with untidiness and disor
der. The room so scantily furnished wan neat
ly arranged, and the few dishes upon the shelf
were nicely washed. *Who washed them
ami who was Betsey?" Very soon the door
was opened, and the little stranger iu the
coarse handkerchief stood before her—her
pale cheeks flushed by the frorty air, and Ler
eyes brighter than ever with satisfaction, as
she laid a little briwu paper patcel on the ta
bic near Nellie. The little git Is recognizee
each othei, and were ready of course to com
mence an acquaintance, bt^t neither seemed to
know precisely what to say till Nellie asked,
"Do you live here, and ai e you Betsey?"—
"Yes, I live here all alone with Ma, now that
my poor dear Pa is dead, and we couhl'nt stay
any more in the pretty house, and have nice
things," whispered little Betsey. "But who
takes care of you?'* "Oh, we take care of
each other Ma tells me what to do, and I do
it but our money that caine from the things
we sold is all gone now, and I don't know
what we shall do, now Ma is so sick, if I can
not pet more time to go on errands for the la
dies." "What did you do at the shop this
mornii'g?w asked Nellie. "Oh, I sold my hood
that a lady who lived at the American Hotel
gave me last winter fordoing errands. Ma
said yesterday if she eould only have a little
beef-soup she might re'ish it, and gain strength.
She doesn't know our money is gone, and I
canrot bear to tell her for fear she will ask
how I buy the bread, and feel troubled about
my selling my things she needs her things
more than I do mine, and I only got one er
rand to do this morning so I thought it would
be better to do without the hood if I
sell it, than th.it she should do without the
broth and I am so glad now I can make it for
her See, there is my meat (pointing to the
little parcel), nice, juicy beef!" And poor
Betsey's eye*, that hnd filled with tears at
mention of her father,
shone again with
pleasure. "Mow much did you get for yosr
howl?" "Only two shillings aud this )hand
kcrchief, and the man Baid he paid me more
than it
worth, and he should lose money
on it."
It all surprised Nellie, and as she dropped
her eyes in thought, she spied poor little Bet
sey's little red, half frozen toes peep'ng out at
the gap in her Shoe. Piiy and distress got the
better of her usual sense of propriety, and she
asked, "Are these your best si oes, Betsey
and have you no stockings?" The poor child
blushed as she auswered, "1 have a pair of
stockings for Sundays, but no better shoes."—
"But you cannot wear this handkerchief lo
church." "Oh, no, I don't expect to, but I
put on my stockings and clean clothes on Sun
day just because it is the Lord's day, and Ma
likes to see me better dressed." The Doctor
here interrupted the little girls' chat, as he
cnine fro/u behind the screeu ready to take
Nelly home. Seeing Betsey and the slice of
beef for the broth, he approvingly patted her,
and promised an early call to-moirow. They
were scarcely out of hearing of poor Betsey,
when Nellie commenced the history cf her
sacrifices, and besought her father to buy some
shoes and warm tlotheu for her. "Ihat,''
said the Doctor, "is more easily said than done.
Your mother has bought more than one suit of
warm clothes for poor girls, but if it has cotne
to he necessary for the happiness and good
behavior of our little girl to dress as expen
sively as those little misses whose Mammas
save no money to give away, I fear she shall
be obliged to deny herself the pleasure some
times now of dressit.g such little ones as Bet
sey." Poor Nellie hung her head in tsaiful
silence awhile,'but at last finding courage to
use her voice, began, "I didn't know, Papa,
how plonsant it would be to give away shoes
and stockings to a little girl who hadn't goi
them, and if you will forgive me this time, ami
take back the twenty shillings you gave me,
and spend them for poor Bet«ey, it would
make me a great deal happier thau two feath
eis could do and I would much rather wear
my bonnet as it U, whether Betsey has the
shoes or not.'*
"Spoken like my own dear Nellie," said the
Doctor, affectionately drawing the robe closer
around tier. **It shall be as you say but yov,
shall buy what you please and take it to Betsey
yourself." Nellie was quite beside herself as
she thought of Buying back again the pretty
hoi htul getting other warm clothing for poor
Betsey, and nourishing food for the dear tick
mamma but she thought she would rather
send tlnm by her father than take the gifts
herself to Betsey. And when the doctor lift
ed Nellie from the carriage at their own door,
he said, "I blame myself, my daughter, that
I have uot before helped you to discover that
the cheapest way of puichasing the greatest
amount of happiness, is in making little sacri
fices for the good of others." M. F.
1 i
The Queen is a woman ol thirty-five, who
will not grow old for a long her «m bon point
will preserve her. She has a powerful and
igorous constitution, backed by an iron health.
Her beauty, famous fifteen years ago, may
still be perceived, although delicacy has given
way to strength. Her face is full and smil
ing, but somewhat stiff and prim her look is
gracious, not affable. It would seem as
though she Bmiled provisionally, and that au
ger was not afar off. ller complexion is
slighly benightened in color, with a few im
perceptible red lines, which will never grow
pale. Nature has provided her with a remark
able appetite, and she takes four meals every
day, not to speak of sundry intermediate col
lations. One part of the day is devoted to
gaining strength, and the other in expending
it. In the morning the queen goes out into her
garden, either on foot or in a little carriage,
which she drives herself. She talks to the
gardeners she has trees cut down, branches
pruned, earth leveled. She takes almost as
much pleasure in makiug others move as in
moving herself, and she never has so good an
appetite as when the gardeners are hungry.—
After the mid-day repast3, and the following
siesta, the queen goes out riding, and gets over
a few leagues at a gallop to take the air. In
the summer she gets up at three in the morning,
to go down aud bathe in the sea of Palerum
she swiuui, without getting tired, for an hour
together. In the evening »he walks after sup
per, in her garden. In the ball season she
never miBseB a waltz or quadrille, and sh| nev«
er seems tired or satisfied.—Boston Post,
TW"*dHress" of the Ladies* Repotit«r,
talking about kissing, say:—"Kisses, like
tares ot philosophers, vary. Some are as hot
as lire some as sweet as honey, some mild as
milk, some tasteless as long drawn soda.—
Stolen kisses are said to have more nutmeg
ami cream than other sorts. As tq proposed
ki'ses, tbey are not like »t all. A stolen
kiss is the most agreeable. We have been
kissed a few time*, and as we are not very
old, w« hope to receive many more."—At
what hour may the lady be found in her office?
^arniijt ^rtospaprr—--Jlfbotrt to Hrlitjion, politics, !£ifrtatttrr, General anil' £ota{ Ifrfos, ^IrjrirnIturr. S'rmjrrranrt, (Eiturafioii, Jftarhrfs, &t.
Sir John Ross, the well knowi navigator, is
dead. He lived To be nearly eighty year of
age, and within the last five months, I heajd
him tell the story of his first Jove. Thus it
came about. We were wont to meet him at
the house of a mutual friend, where he was
always a welcome guest came and went as he
listed, and had his hammock swung in a cham
ber where the temperature suited him best, for
he loved a cold clear atmosphere. In a word,
he was the centre of as charming a household
group as shall be seen any day in the great
metropolis. Blooming faces shone upon him
merrv songs greeted him as he took his place
beside the cheery hearth in those cold even
ings, in Spring. One bright-haired creature
with rosy lips claimed him ever as her own,
seated him beside her on the velvet couch,
called him "her dear boy," which delighted
the ancient mariner beyond all things, and at
last drew from him the tale referred to.
I had been reminding him of a very old
friend now dead, and of whem we had heard
nothing for many yea/s. As I spoke, a tide of
enrly recollections swept up and filled the old
man's eyes with tears. "Ah,*' said he, "he
was a very kind friend to me. We had been
schoolmates, and then we went to sea together.
After a while we parted, and I entered t!e
royal navy. When I next saw O——, I was
commander on board the He was on the
quay at Greenock when I sailed in, and little
thought that the vessel carying a royal pen
nant was commanded by Johnnie Ross. I
landed and went up to him with a man who
knew us both.
*'0 said the latter, "do you remember
little Johnnie Ross?M
"Well," answered O———*aod ft pTKiost
little scamp he was!**
"On this," observed Sir John, "we shook
hands, and renewed oue acquaintance, and I
had reason to be glad of it, for.'* he repeated,
"O— was very kind to me."
"Now about Margaret,** said the bonny
creature beside him.
"Ah!" she was a noble girl! When I fir«t
knew her she was ten, and I about twelve
years old. We used to walk home together
from the school, and at first were very happv.
but before long the children began to watch
us, and we were obliged to make signs to one
another about meeting. I minu well how
shamefaced we were when the other caught
tis making signals before breaking up and one
day the master saw us, and it was oti that
occasion Margaret showed such spirit and
courage as made me never forget her.
"I had got out of school,*' he continued^
after a short pause, "and was waiting for her,
never heeding the children laughing at me, as
I stood watching for the sight of her bonny
face, for she was very fair." 1 can by no
meatus describe the pathos of the old man's
tone as heshid this. "When I began to think
she was in trouble, and 'kept in, I hid myself
till the place was clear of other folk, and
then I creept round and peeped in at the
window of a side-room where scholars in
disgrace were put sometime. Poor Margaret
was indeed there, sitting upon a box, very
forlorn, and crying bitte»ly. She brightened
up at seeing my face in the window-pane, and
smiled when I told her 1 bad waiting for her.
Then I declared I would be revenged on our
master, and went at once to the school-room
to carrying out my plan thia was easy for
there was no one there.
"Just over the master's deck was a shelf, on
which stood a large ink-bottle, and near to
this again was the hat with which the dominie
a ways crowned himself when he assumed the
authoiity. I mounted the desk, took a piece
of string from my pocket, tied the ink-jar and
hat together, then, descending from my perch
left the room, and ran around to the side win
dow to prepare Margaret for the result of my
device. Then I ran home to dinner, and re
turned to school in the afternoon.
I was late. All the children were in tke
room and at the master's desk stood Mar
garet, with triumphant eyes, just rrceiving the
last blow of the leathern strap on her open
hand. The punishment of my mischievous
revenge had been visited upon her. Streams
of ink discolored the master's face and book»
and desks, on which last lay the broken ink-jar
were saturated with it. The master himself
was furious and the more so that Margaret
had borne th« infliction like a heroine, in
perfect silence, resolutely refusing to give up
the name of the delinquent, whose accomplice
she was accused of being. She looked at me
as she moved defiantly away, and the expres
sion of her eye warned me not to speak. It
was, indeed, too late. I hurried from the
room before I was observed Margaret walked
proudly after me and for the last tune we took
our way home together from the school."
I cannot do justice to this story, as told 1T
the old navigator. Nearly seventy years bad
passed away, and yet the memory of his child
love was still the green spot in his heart.
He and Margaret met but twice afterwards.
He dwelt most on the first of these meetings.
"I was travelling," he said, "in Scotland,
when the coach stopped to take up a passen
ger. The moment the door opened, 1 knew
her at once, but—she did not remember me
he sighed as be said this "Then," he contin
ued, "I told her who I was, and reminded her
of old times, thirty years before, and of that
story of the Ink-bottle and the beating she had
got for my sake. She had almost forgotten
it, but I never bad." Margaret, the mother
of a large family, is now an aged woman, and
probably thought little of Johnnie Ross after
parting with him in childhood while he, litera
lly voyaged from pole to pole, and having but
a passing glimpse of her from time to time,
may be said to have carried the memoty of hi*
child-love to the grave.
Among other pleasant records of my life
will rest ihe memory of "many an ancient
story," told in his eightieth year, by Sir
John Ross. Some modern ones there were,
too, in which pathos and bathos were ex
quisitely blended. Theie was one of the dis
covery at sea, by the Isabella, of himself and
his shipmates. He had once commanded this
ship, and knew her immediately, hftlf Mind
with weakness and starvation as he was and
there was another of his meeting in London
with his son, who, though good report and
evil report, had "nevergiven him up." These
might find a place in these pages, but that I
think it would be unfair to trench upon the
domain of whosoever shall be selected as edi
tor of the autobiography which Sir John was
occupied in compiling up to the last few weeks
of his eventful life.
sctTEAor nam ram
On our return from the General Confer
ence in Baltimore, in 1820. in the month of
June, which was very warm, and we having
to travel on horseback, it may be supposed
that our journey in this way for a thousand
miles was very fatiguing. When we got to
Knoxville, East Tennessee, the following in
cident in substance occurred
Brother Walker and myself had started ear
ly in the morning, had traveled about 22 miles,
and reached Knoxville at noon. We rode up
to a tavern with a view of dining, but finding
a great crowd of noisy, drinking, and drunken
persons there, I said to brother Walker, "This
is a poor place for weary travelers, and we
won't stop." We then rode to another tavern
but it was worse than the first, for here they
were in a bully fight. I then proposed to
brother Walker that we should go on, and
said we would soon find a house of private en
tertainment, where we could be quiet, so on
we went. Presently we came to a house witll
a sign-over the door of "Private Entertain
ment aud Jiew Cider."
Saic, I, Here is the place, and if we can
get some good light bread and new cider, it
will be dinnei enough for me."
Brother Walker said, "That is exactly
what 1 want."
We accordingly hailed. The oM gentle
man came out. I inquired if we could get our
horses fed, and some light bread and new ci
O yes," said the landlord, alight for I
suspect you are two Methodist preachers that
have been to Baltimore to the general confer
We replie I that we were. Our horses were
quickly taken and well fed. A large loaf of
good light bread and a pitcher of new cider
Were quickly set before us. This gentleman
was an Otterbiau Methodist. His wife was
very sick, and sent from the other room for
ns to pray for her. Xe did so, and then re
turned to take our bread and cider dinner.
The weather was very warm, and we were
very thirstv, and began to lay iu the bread
and cider at a very liberal rate. It, however,
seemed to me that our cider was not oidy new
ider, but something more, and I began to rein
up iny appetite. Brother Walker laid on very
liberally, and at length I said to him—•
You had better stop, brother, for there is
something more thsn cider here."
I reckon not," said he.
But, as I was not in the habit of usiug any
spirits at all, 1 knew that a very little would
keel me up, so i forbore but with all my for
bearance, pre«ently 1 began to feel lighthead
ed. I instantly ordered our horses, fearing
that we were snapped fur once.
I called for our bill the old brother would
have nothing. We mounted and started on
our journey. When we bad rode about a mile,
being in the rear, I saw brother Walker was
nodding at a mighty rate. After riding on
some distance in this way, I suddenly rode up
to brother Walker and cried out, "Wake up!
wake up!" He raised up, his eyes watering
freely. I believe, said I, we ire both
drunk. Let us turn out of the road, and lie
down and take a nap until we get sober.
But we rode on without stopping.
We were not drunk, but we both evidently
felt it flying into our heads, and I have thought
proper, in all candor, to name it with a view
to put others on their guard.
The NewYork correspondent of the Charles
ton News gives the following amusing ac
count of what would be considered rather a
bad snap," in which a would-be Lothario
was caught by his neglected wife:—
Snow has been falling since 5 o'clock, aud
the sleighing is glorious. Many last night,
fearful that it weuld not last, took time by
the forelock, aud by 12 o'clock the Fifth Av
enue, the Bloemingdale road, and the road to
Highbridge were resonant with the pleasant
jingle of bells, the hay, hay ho 1 of the dri
vers, and the jolly laughter of the merry sleigh
ers Your correspondent, too, caught the in
fection, and could not resist the temptation of
a ruu to Macomb's dam, and a good supper.—
While at the Dam I learned the particulars of
a little affair over which "our party chuck
led mightily. One of our fast men, who lives
iu an elegant freestone front, und who is
the husband of a very pretty Wife, upon whose
peace of mind "the green-eyed monster*' has
made dreadful inroads, left his cozy parlor
about 10 o'clock, and having, as he thought,
thrown dirt into the eye9 of his spouse, by tell
ing her that he had an appointment at the Club,
proceeded to a livery stable in Fouith street,
and engaging there the prettiest pony he
could procure, and filling it with nice warm
robes, drove to the residence of a lady, of
whom his wife had good cause to be jealous,
and started out for Mocomb's Dam for a
good old fahioned sleigh ride and a jolly lark."
His wife, however, suspected his appoin'ment
was all sham, and after a tear or two, a pat or
two of her little foot upon the royal medal
lion" carpet, made up her mind that she
would stand it ho longer," so muffling her
self up as warmly as she could, she started in
company of the coachman, and procuring a
sleigh, went in pursuit of her liege lord.
She drove first to 'Burhaui's' and sending
the coachman into the bar-room, heard that
her smart spouse had left five minutes before
for 'Jones'.' To JoneB' she went as fast as
the horses could 'put in,' and arrived there
just as the truant was leaviug for Lbfi
whither she proceeded, and getting out of the
i sleigh was shown into the 'ladies' parlor.'—
She sen* the coachman out to reconnoitre, and
he soon returned with the information that
her husband and Miss C. had ordered supper,
and were then iu the pirlor awaiting its pre
paration. Under the instructions of the wife,
the coachman peeped into the back parlor,
and finding the lady alone, the gentlemrn hav
ing gone to the bar to take a 'nip,' told Misa
C. that there was the d—1 to pay, and that to
avoid a scene she had better take a seat in the
sleigh he had come in and go quickly back.—
Miss C., fearful of a row, and exposure, and all
that, complied, and after seeing her off through
the window, the wife rung for the servant and
requested to be shown into the room where
Mr. H., her husband, had ordered supper to
be served. She was accordingly conducted
to the room, where, in a short time, Mr. H.,
after having looked in the parlor for his lady
love, finding her missing, and thinking she had
already gone to supper, made his appearance.
It is not necessary to tell the rest of the sto
ry you can easily 'phancy the pheelinks' of
Mr. H. on finding that his own wife was his
vis-a-vi* and the scene which followed. Suf
fice it to say tha* Mr. and Mrs. H. returned iu
the sleigh, and that the face of Mr. H. had
lengthened considerably since the time of his
arrival at the Dam. It is to be hoped that it
will prove a lesson to Lim.
Paris Corre*pondono of the N. Y. Expre««.
In one of the nirrowest and dirtiest streets
of Paris, on the ground floor of a crumbling
old house, is the shop of a Monsieur Thomas,
a rag merchant. In the back part of this shop
is a sort of glass office, in which an exceeding
ly pretty iri not long since transacted th bu
siness of the establish meet. This girl was
Mademoiselle Julie, old Thomas' daughter.
Not a great while ago, an elegant looking
young gentleman, chancing to pass through
this dirty street, observed the pretty bird in
the glass cage, and involuntarily halted to ad
mire her. The next day lie came ag iin. but
it was not chance that brought him this time
for after pausing in the street as before, he en
tered the shop, under pretext of asking his
way, but in reality to approach nearer the ob
ject of hissuddsn admiration. A very few
words sufficed to confirm and fasten first im
pressions, und he was about to go away in a
very disconsolate frame of mind, when, amidst
the old junk which the shop contained, he ob
served a pile of second hand books. Seizing
upon this excuse to prolong his stay, the young
man turned over the tattered refuse, and pur
chased several of the books, promising the
fair saleswoman that he would from time to
time, replenish his "library" at her establish
ment. He must have been very studious that
day, for. early the next morning he returned
and obtained another supply. So, too, the
next and the next—until, at last, troubling
himself no longer about the old books, he came
and passed much of his time in soft conversa
tion, at 'he window of the glass cage, and final
ly wound up bv asking M. Thomas to give
him his daughter in marriage.
As the old fellow, without being seen had
witnessed all that had transpired, and liked
the youth's appearance, he at once granted his
prayer, on conditio* that the demand should
be made officially by the gallant's father.—
Here was the difficulty. Tne father of the
lover, M. Georges, was a dry goods merchaut,
having a handsome store in one of the most
brilliant quarters of the city, and looked for
something better for his son than a rag-mer
chants caughter. However, as there was
nothing else for it, the young man broached
the subject to his parents. At first he was
laughed at but as ho frequently returned to
the charge, the father and mother, in the hope
of diverting him by other means from his made
project, finally invited old Thomas ai\d his
daughter to a family dinner, in order to talk
the matter over. It was hoped that the ridic
ulous figure that the old man would cut, and
his inability to give his daughter a respecta
ble marriage portion, would put an end to the
affair. The invitation was accepted and the
parties came. At the desert, the merchant
endeavored to jest with old Thomas and turn
him into ridicule. That didn't seetn to work
particularly well, and nothing remained but to
try the financial question. This was Madame
Georges' part, and she commenced by asking
Thomas what amount he intended to give his
daughter on the day of her marriage.
Oh, pray, mother," cried youug Georges,
who saw the trap, dont talk about that.
Another time
"Not at all, young man," interposed Mons.
Thomas, "Let us talk of it at once, since your
mother wishes it. A little ready money does
a newly married couple no harm, certainly.—
If Madame will state how murh it is proposed
to give her son, I will to furnish a like sum."
'•We intend," Baid Madame Georges, with
a superb air, "Lo give our £ou filly tkousaud
francs, sir.**
"Well, well,** said Thomas with a shrug,
"I must say, 1 expecttd better than that for
my little girl's husband but, as the young peo
ple like each other, 1 will throw no obstacle
in the way. Julie is my own child, and, on
the day of her marriage, I shall give
her four hundred thousand francs, money
It mar readily he imagined that the Geore
es, "changed their gait," iu a hurry, about
this time. But now came another difficulty.
Expecting to frighten old Thomas off, Madame
Georges had rather stretched the truth, in
naming f0,000 francs as her son's wedding
present, and both she and her husband were
now very anxious to see the sou so richly mar
lied, sacrifices were made
and loans negotiated
in order to get together the sum mentioned.—
Things went on in this way for some time, and
the day of the ceremony had been several
times postponed, when, one morning the mer
chant received a package, containing fifty
bank notes, for a thousand francs each, and
these few words:
"Sia—I see where the shoe pinches, as, for
a trifle, 1 wouu't have thug* drag oaauy
longer. I tend you the 'needful.' Another
oi.n sr.niKS. roi..«, wo. si.
'l'i:it.ns |1S0 In Advance*
time, be more candid with your friends, and
don't put on any more airs with poor people.
On the 15th of next month, the wedding."
Yoti remember nn" of Shakspeare's moet
celebrated apothegems—"All's not gold that
glttters"might it not be well to add—"the
purest gold often doe* not shine at all!"
About seven miles north of Hopkinsville,
Kentucky, is a remarkable spot. A solitary
post oak stands in the barrens, in the forks of
the roads, and has obtained universally, the
name of the •'Lonesome Post Oak." In the
early settlement of the country—this was the
only tree to be seen for many miles round, and
henee obtained its name. It was then tftll,
green, and flourishipg it is now, however, if
it yet stands, a leaflets, branchless, thumiar*
riven, shattered trunk, sending up its shaftitM
straight as the mainmast of a ship of warw»—
Superstition has long guarded the spot. The
tree is looked upon with something like the
same veneration with which the Egyptian
gards his pyramids, those grim sentinels Mtf
The place is remarkable for a very severe
battle fought by Harpe and Davis. The Big
Harp, and Little Harp, his brother, were the
terror of the surrounding country in those ear
ly times. Two more execrable monsters nev
er disgraced humanity. They lived with two
women as bad as themselves, in a cave abo*t
twenty miles from'his tree. Blood and mass
acre were their delight. It was their custom
to sally forth, and, without any reason, to mur
der, without distinction, all the men, women
and children they could find. As the countsy
filled up, the people could no longer submit to
their horrid depredations. Men and dogscel
lected, and took the pursuit. They came «o
the two Harpes in a narrow valley, at abwt
two miles from this tree. They immediately
mounted their horses and dashed off in the 4b*
rection of their cave. In going about five
miles, Davis, whose horse was very fleet, had
left his companions, and caught up with Big
Harpe, he having previously separated trom
Jiis brother, the Little Harp.
Here were two powerful men, armed wi|||
rifles, butcher knives and tomahawks, by thef&>
selves, far from help, and bent on death. Da
vis well knew that if overpowered he would
certainly be killed ami Harpe had detenni*.
ed to die rather than be taken a'ive. They
passed and re-passed each other, frequently
making blows without effect, each dreauing to
fire for fear of missing, and thereby placi^£
himself at the mercy of his antagonis'. Finally
the horse of Big Harpe fell, and threw his
der, then rose and galloppet? off. Harp sprang
to his feet, and fired at Davis' hoise, which
reared and fell. They were no# not more
than ten yards apart. Harpe, w hose sagacity
was equal to his courage and villainy, k«pt
dodging and springing from side to side, ap
proaching Davis, however, by imperceptible
degrees, Davis, discovering he would soea
loose the benefit of his gun, now fired in hie
turn but without efiect. Each man now drew
his knife, and they closed in mortal struggle*
Very soon they fell, side by side but, at ttyp
juncture a large wolf dog of Davis' came'if
his master's assistance, and seized Harpe by
the throat. This produced a diversion in fa
vor of Davis, who immediately recovered hi**
self and stabbed Harpe to the heart. The hid
eous yell which the wretch sent up, is said still
to be heard on dark nights, ringing wildly along
the heath. Some of Davis' friends soon join
ed him they dug a hole and buried Harpe
the foot of the Lonesome Post Oak.
Little Harpe escaped went down the Mo
sissipi, and joined the celebrated Mason and
his gang at Stack Island. Soon after Harp*
joined him, Mason attacked a flat boat from
Cincinnati, and killed all the hands. For this
a large reward was offered for Mason, to ah*
taiu which little Harpe decoyed him to Net*
chez, and there informed against and betray
ed him. On Mason's trial, Harpe himself WM
recognized, was tried and found guilty and
on the same day that Mason was hung, he al
so expiated his crimes on the gallows. Mason
was a very remarkable and extraordinary mea.
He was distinguished by a strong double row
of under and upper teeth that clenched togeth
er with the energy aud tenacity of a steel trap.
That we should intend the glory of Godj
every action we do, is expressed by St. Pa®
When we observe this rule, every action he
comes religious, and every meal an act gg
worship, and shall have its reward in proper*
'ion as well as an act of prayer. With purity:
of iufention, the most common act of life U
sanctified but without it, even our devotion*
are imperfect and vicious. For he that pray
ed for custom, or gives alms for prais^or faaU
to be accounted religious, is but a pharisea in
his devotion, a beggar in his alms, and hipo
crite in his fast. If a man visits his sick
frieud, and watches at his pillow for charity'e
sake, and because of his old affection, we ap
prove it but if he does it in hopes of a legacy,
he is a vulture, and only watches for the car
cass. The same things are honest and dishon»
est the manner of doing them, and the tie
sign make the difference.
Holy intention is to the actiona of
that which the soul is to the body, or form ie
to matter, or the root to the tree, or the sun
to the world, or the fountan to a river, or the
base to a pillar for w ithont tiiese, th«j body
is a dead trunk, the matter ia sluggish, the tree
is a block, the world is darkness, the river
quickly dry, the pillar falls into ruin and the
action is sinful, unprofitable, and vain. The
poor farmer who guve a dish of cold water to
Artaxerxes was rewarded with a golden gob
let and he that gives the *ame to a disciple,
shall have a crown -, but if he give water, in
despite, when the disciple needs wine or cor
dial, his p'ward shall be, want that water
to cool his tongue.—Bishop Taylor.
(jjr The Albany Journal «aya: "A ftp*.
mer had his eheeks frozen on his way to town,
and covered them with snow to extricate the
froet. In a short time they aotupUg PffetaglPte
ciuting intense pain.**

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