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The River Falls journal. (River Falls, Pierce County, Wis.) 1857-1861, June 13, 1857, Image 1

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Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn86086437/1857-06-13/ed-1/seq-1/

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TjiltßlHß FALLS Mill,
r Is Published Weekly, by
L. A. & H. A. TAYLOR,
River Falls, Wisconsin,
And to single subscribers by mail or car
rier lv-
Invariably in advance.
ONE COLUMN one year. - - - $60.00
Half column, “ “ - - - • 36.00
One Fourth “ ••••-.-- 20.00
Ono T’ ir 4'. —nc yea T----- ft oo
One Inch, six months, ------ 4.00
One Inch, three months, - - - - 3.00
One Inch, one insertion, ----- 1.00
One Inch, three insertions. - - - - 2.00
Two Inches, one year, ------ 10.00
Three Inches, one year, ----- 14.00
Special Notices, at corresponding rates.
Leaded Notices, Fifty per cent, above ad
vertising rates.
The Journal Office is furnished with an en
tirely new and complete assortment of Job
Type, Material, and Stock: and is prepared to
execute Book, Pamphlet, Card, Circular, Bill-
Head, Handbill, Label, and all other kinds of
plain and fancy Letter Press Printing in as
good style and at as reasonable rates as any
office in the Northwest.
Orders, from a distance, for printing, ac
companied by cash, will be promptly attended
to, and work immediately sent by express or
mail as desired.
As shakes the canvass of a thousand ships,
Struck by a heavy land-breeze, far at sea.
Ruffle the thousai d broad sheets of the land,
Filled with the people’s breath of potency.
A thousand images the hour will take,
From him who strikes, who rules, who
speaks, who sings.
Many within the hour their grave to make.
Many to live, far in the heart of things.
A dark-dyed spirit he, who coins the time,
To virtue’s wrong, in base disloyal lies,
Who makes the morning’s breath, the evening’s
The utterer of his blighting forgeries.
How beautiful who scatters, wide and free,
The gold-bright seeds of loved and loving
By whose perpetual hand, each day supplied,
"Leaps to new life the empire’s heart of youth.
To know the instant and to speak it true.
Its passing lights of joy, its dark, sad cloud,
To fix upon the unnumbered gazers’ view,
Is to tnv ready Land’s rty»»wth al-
There is an inwrought life in every hour,
Fit to be chronicled at large and told;
•Tis thine to pluck its secret power,
And on the air its many-colored heart unfold.
The Matc hmaking Mother.
Mv married daughter, could you see,
I’m sure yon would be struck—
Mr daughters are all charming girls,
Few mothers have such luck.
Mv married one—my eldest child—
All hearts by magic wins;
And rov second so resembles her
Most people think them twins.
My -married daughter spoils her spouse;
She’s quite a pattern wife!
Ami he adores her—well he may.
Few men lead such a life!
She ne’er had married mortal man
Had not he won her heart;
And my second darling’s just the same;
They’re seldom known apart.
Her husband oft has pressed my hand,
While tears stood m his eyes,
And said, ‘-you brought my Susan up—
With you the honor lies.”
To make her a domestic wife,
I own was all my aim;
And my second is domestic too—
My system was the same.
Now, do you know, I’ve often thought
The eldest of the two,
(She’s married, I may speak out.)
Would just have suited you!
You never saw her—how shall I
My eldest girl portray?
O, mv second’s just her counterpart,
And her you’ll meet to-day.
Kissing no Bobbery.
"Oh! quit—"etout, now don’t you,
I really wish you would’nt;
Oh! quit—now will you! oh! get out-
You know you ought to shouldn’t.
‘■There now. you’ve got it—oh, be still!
You shan’t have any more!
You’ve got—oh, take your face away
What no man got before.
•‘Once more—mere That wai do—cat, don t,
You’ve rumpled up my hair;
If vou’ll but quit. I’Ll give you eno-
No—take it—there —there—there!’
I variety.
From the National Era.
I have s curious feeling when I think
of them. I say curious, not because that
is what I m an, but because no other
word seems to answer so well, lhe feel
ing is not r egret. It is certainly not
love. It is equally far from being ha
tred. It never comes when lam happy,
or busy, or gnv; nor when I am utterly
miserable or wretched. It is only when
I am in jvst such a mood as this, sitting
here by ny window, to-night. The sun
has gone town behind the pine trees, and
j the broad West is wrapped in a splendor
I of vermiii,n and <n>ld. Just where the
| light and larkness blend, twinkles the
| softened gfey o f tho evening star. I can
| see it thjourh this O ne little space on the
■ glass which p r ost forgot to touch,
| when he this way.
They cont tack to me now, the hap
py, happy da ■<_ j forget that lam here.
I 1 press my he cheek against the window,
Bnd do not fo} tfio cold; but when I
my Üb asv position, I see that I
have ruin-1 a '. a fo]ful fairy paW —only
(Tljp Ihbfr tfalu journal.
a few bold lines, a little delicate tracery,
left to tell of the vanished loveliness.—
More evanescent than the work of your
pencil, oh! Jack Frost, is the picture
which my fancy paints for me to-night.
Yours have lasted these four-and-twenty
hours; mine will fade with the paling
light of yonder sky, paling even now.—
Nay, the glow of the anthracite is ruddier
than the glow of the heavens, and then
I will read stories of the olden time. So
I loose the curtain from its fastenings.—
The heavy silken folds sweep rustliugly
to the floor, shutting out from me the
darkening sky, the throbbing stai-s, and i
the skill of Frost, the artist. To the j
broad arms of my beloved library chair, '
opened so invitingly, so benevolently, to i
receive me, I betake myself, thinking, ■
thinking, thinking of my lovers.
Not for “the wealth of Ormus or of '
Ind,” would I lisp to Mrs. Brown or Mrs. I
White, that William Green had “offered
himself” tome; but is it wicked, is it
treacherous, oh! kindly and sympathising
world, for me to think aloud to you.—
You surely will not betray my confidence.
You will not acuse me of boasting my
conquests, if, in this affectionate tete-a-tete,
I wax confidential and reminisce, half to
myself and half to you. I know that
Mrs. "Brown and Mrs. White aforesaid
think it an unpardonable sin to disclose
“affairs of the heart;” and sometimes
they are right. It is often but the tri
umph of vulgar mind.
My aunt Hetty even goes so far
as to say that there is never any necessity
for refusing offers —that a clear-headed
and true-hearted woman can always fore
see the evil, and hide herself. Perhaps
some women can, but it is equally certain
that some others cannot. Moreover, it is
occasionlly a positive duty, not only to
load a man to make an offer, but to dis
close the act after it is committed. There
are men who seem to look upon women
very much as they w-ould upon a flock of
turkeys, just before Thanksgiving. Their
only business is to “pick and choose.' —
The gay Lothario skips from Fanny to
Susey, from Susey to Bessy, from Bessy
to Jenny, sucking all the honey out of i
their foolish little hearts; and when the |
innocent things grow pale and sad, ho ;
wonders that girls will always so in earnest,
and, gracefully raising his lorgnette, he ;
gracefully skips to you, the fascinating I
creature! Now, you happen to be a
trifle too susceptible, and a trifle more i
spirited than the others. You don’t care |
a farthing for him; he sees it, and so he '
is piqued to make you care. The game j
goes on. played skillfully, but it is only a •
• f"* • .iuuCuv
better, knowing they are but cards. He |
has more at stake than you, consequently i
is more nervous, and begins to lose the
ground. Your stronger will and stouter
heart at length gain the victory. He
makes an unconditional surrender. Ho
is desperately in love. But, do not, mis- -
take. It is only a selfish and finical love, j
You arc bright and happy, and gloriously
indifferent, and he wants to pluck the jew
el, and wear it in his crown—that is all.
When he lays his dainty heart before
you, and you reject the gift, his mortifica
tion and chargrin aro infinite, but there
is no blight cast on his life; you know it,
and anon make known your victory. To
be sure you do. That was what you bad
in view all the while. Your chief object
was to avenge the Bessies and Susies,
and give him one salutary lesson, at least.
But, alas’! for you, ten to one, he gets
the sympathy, and you the blame and
name of a coquette. Never mind. You
are strong enough to bear it; and as for
him, ho is in no danger of immediate dis
solution. Nothing is wounded but his
self-love, and that not mortally. It will
be in full bloom again to-morrow.
Even whore there is no preconcerted
plan of action, vain offers will sometimes
be made you. True, there are some who
are always on the scent for them, and can
detect one in its most incipient stages; but
it seems to mo, that if a woman goes into
society with her heart open, considers and
treats all men as brothers, is frank, natu
ral, and trusting, self forgetful, and for
getful also of tbeubiquitious Mrs. Grundy,
she will occasionally stumble upon an offer
in a corner whore it was least expected. —
This is unfortunate; but surely less an
evil than would be an unceasing watch
upon words and actions, lest the germ of
rash proposals be hidden vnder an inno
cent appearing satin waist m?/, or lurking
amid me spotless folds >f a wiute cravau
Besides, how can a man or woman tell
whether they love each other or not, till
they have fried; and how can they try,
without some degree of intimacy; and
how can fallible mortals always adjust this
intimacy so that it shall exactly balance?
Circumstances over which we have no
more control than the disinterested Mr.
Guppy, are constantly weaving around
us; and before we can open our eyes, or
“get out of the gangway,” pop! comes
the question, like a clap of thunder from
a clear sky, just as unexpected to the
popper as to the poppee. AU such in
structions as may be represented by a
maxim which I know to have been in
culcated upon at least one young lady,
“Never let a gentleman know that you
consider his company an honor,” seem to
me to be founded upon a wrong princi
ple, and to lead to wrong course of action.
I desire to speak modestly, and to be
open to conviction; but if a man’s
mind, attainments, and character, are
such, that it is an honor to bo in his com
pany, why seek to conceal it from him ?
I do not say, why not let him know it ?
But, rather, take *no thought whatever
about it. Let him know it, or not know
it, precisely as good taste would indicate
if he were a woman. Treat a man as a
rational being, not as a possible husband.
If he is not a fool, he will not mistake
vour honest pleasure for a desire “to «e-
’ cure an overture;” and if he is a fool, it
i is no matter if he does.
; Furthermore, there will generally bo
;no harm done. When a man wants to
1 marry a woman, he either loves her, or
ihe does not. If he does not, of course
! we sav, when he is rejected, “served him
j right.” If he does love her, tb.it love it
self is a reflexive blessing. Pure, holy,
unselfish, it will chasten, and refiue, and
elevate his soul. He will be a better
Christian, a better man, a better angel.—
The mere accident of success, or want of
success, the mere happiness of spending a
few brief years with her in this world, is
of small moment, compared with the val
ue of that new light which a generous
love will shed around his path. Steele
knew it, when be said oi Lady Hastings,
“to have loved her is a lib ial education.”
This, however, is certain; rhe true off?: of
a true man can always bo rejected by a
true woman, in such a way as shall in- ■
crease rather than demitush his self-re
spect and his respect for her.
lam a coquette. 1 may as well con
fess it boldly. I would not, however,
break a man’s heart for th • sake of showing
mv splendid steel hanim *r. I am only
so far a coquette, that I wish to be loved
and respected. When 1 meet a man in
tellectual, noble, manly, I desire to please
him. 1 desire to stand well in his opin- '
ion. lam glad if my society is agreea
ble to him—if there is a light on his face i
at my approach. It is a joy to feel the ■
self-consciouness of nobility which the
love of a noble nature cannot but inspire, j
There must be something in my being :
akin to his, or his soul would not be drawn .
out to mine. Still I may not wish to
bear his name, to cat my breakfast, and
dinner, and supper, with him through the
remainder of my natural life; therefore,
when he asks me to do it, I am forced to
sav no. lam sorry to give him pain—l
am sorry to disappoint him; but. if I mar
ried him, I certainly should disappoint
him; (though that is not the reason of
my refusal.) Sooner or later he would
surely find the golden fruit of Hesper
ides crumbling in his mouth to the dry
and bitter apples of S.<doin.
If there happen to be thfee or four
such, what shall you do'? Suppose you
are disposed to be compliant, you cannot
marry them all, as the laws now stand.— !
All but one must be disapp< 'inted. Which, ,
then, to return to my lovers, which shall I
marry ? Be so good as to rememl>or that
the question is simply hyp >therica!; and ;
bo so good, secondly, as to supply the j
humored, h'gli-spirii *d, generous, sensi
ble, intellegent, somewhat given to pun
ning, with a weakness, I am sorry to say,
for cigars, but, I am glad to say, only
of the best quality; can appreciate a glass 1
of old Maderia, but show, his bii by I
refraining, lest he make his brother to i
offend; is, in short, a dashing, charming i
off-hand rogue. Fritz is fit i. iy, too;'
writes now and then for the magazines. His I
articles are sometimes political, but with- ;
out vulgarity; or if satiric, without bitter- ’
ness; if didactic, without prolixity; if!
descriptive, without triteness; if poetical, I
without insipidity; and always readable, j
I actually caught him rhyming once, in i
the very act. He had called to see me :
while I was out; and being told that. I .
was expected home every moment, he ’
concluded to wait for me. So, when I
came, I saw him sitting on the piazza,
, with his writing tablets, very much ab-
I sorbed. Deciding that whatever was on
I my premises belonged to me, 1 crept up
very softly, looked over his shoulder, and
“ Borne upon the ocean breezes, wailirg, wail
ing evermore.”
when he either hoard or saw me; and i
what do you suppose the abominable fel- !
lew did? lam absolutely ashamed to
say. Don’t you tell, will you ? Caimht i
my hands over his shoulders, and earned
me on his back, away across the piazza,
and back again. I evinced my sense of
the exceeding rudeness and impropriety
of his behavior, by screaming all the
time at the top of my voice; and when be
set me down, I inarched straightway into
the house, leaving him alone. I was not
greatly tnollified by Lis subsequent as
sertion, that his course in retaliation was
no worse than mine in provocation, and
was only appeased by his de< ’nring
that his sole reason for doing it was, that
I might, not see his blushing face; which
i i firmly believe to be a. falsehood, be
cause his face is so covered with heir,
that he might blush sky-blue, and you
would never know it. Fritz has not
much money, but he h's an inexhausti
ble fund of energy; and with his knowl
edge of the world, his skill in his profes
sion, and his unbend dig integrity, the
money will come fast enough by and by.
Well, as you may yidge, Fritz and I
were very intimate. We grew up to
gether. We walked, tn'k I, sung boated
rode and almost lived together; and I
should as soon have thought of my broth
er’s falling in love w?h mo as Fritz.—
But one day, we had been speaking
about distinguisned women, their domes
tic life, &c., and I said that I did not be
lieve Margaret Fuller would have married
Ossoli in the heyday .f life; that she
stooped to him. “Why,” said I, like
a little simpleton, it s ins to me now,
but I was so innocent then, “I don’t be
lieve she loved him so much ns I do you,
Fritz; and am sure I don’t- love you well
enough to marry yon.
“Don’t you ?” said he, quickly, “I do
you, plenty well enough.”
Now, lie might have said this twenty
times in his peculiar, careless way, and I
should have thought nothing of it; but
there was a something—a kind of eager
nervous quickness in Ins tones, that
made me look up suddenly; but I saw
that in his eyes that made me look down
again, as suddenly. I was sitting in an
old-fashioned, chintz-covered rocking
chair. He drew the piano stool almost
in. front of me, placing bis two hands on
the two arms of my chair, and fixed Ills
eyes aointensely on me, that for the first
time in my lite, for kor. 1 bhi hod scar
let, bat I would not let iny gaze droop
under his. .
“Mv dear child”— ho is only four
years older than I, and always before
called mo “Old L: ly,” Grandmother
Grey,” “Captain Prig,” and such undig
nified expletives; so I was quite over
whelmed by this sudden assumption of
paternity. My dear child, Ido love you
■well enough to in; cry you. Do you be-
“No Fritz, I don’tbolievea word of it.”
‘•But won’t you marry me, and prove
it?” .
“No, .1 won’t.”
“Now, now, you are wukod. Why
not ?’’
“Because, my dear, there aro insuper
able obstacles.”
“Nam? them, my dear.’’
“Well, first it is very foolish in you to
wish to many me. I don’t realty be
lieve you do. 1 think you aro in plav
all the while.”
“If ever I"
“Stop! My husband must bo a man
of wisdom an 1 good taste; and the very
fact of any man’s wanting mo for his
wife, would be irrefragable evidence that
he possessed neither.”
“Thon you can never marry at all.”
“Therefore I shall never marry at all.'’
I had worked myself into a violent
rocking, so that I might not be so very
near him, though I was neve: uncomfor
table in being near him before; but he
kept a firm hold of my chair, and would
not. let mo move.
“Be still, you gipsy, you, and tell mo
what is the next reason.”
“W-e-ll.” said I, covering my eyes,
and thinking very hard, fo~ I am fam to
confess that at that very mcmont it seem
ed the most natural and reas mable thing ;
in (he world that I should marry Fritz, :
and consequently the hardest thing was !
to discover any decent pretext for not do
ing so. “Well, the next reason— is
—that— you would lose a very good
friend and gain a very poor wife.’'
“1 deny both assertions, and demand
“Why, Fritz,” said I, rousing, “you
know as well as I how I have been
brought up; you know I can’t do any T
thing under the smi.”
“1 know you can do every! Ling. ’
•zfe.. none trnuj. ..t
“You can make me the happiest man
ou the face of this whol • earth.”
“Perhaps so for tw ' days; but if you
depended on me, you would infallibly
starve on the third, an ■ c hat good would
your happiness do you ' I coul l not g‘t
a dinner, Fritz, if th: ia\e of th? nation
hung on it. I don’t k ; ~">v mutton from ,
chicken, unless I see them running. If ■
you were rich, it wo-.-id not make so
much difference; but you are not, and
you want a wife who understands house- ,
keeping and domestic economy, and can !
husband your resources-, till”
“Just you let me husband you, anti ■
“resources may go to < he —take care ot i
I never knew Fritz to come so near
using profane language, but I made al
lowance for the exciting natin ? of the cir
cumstances; so I only ?’--cned my eyes at
him a moment, and'w ut on—
“I should not know m the least how to
order a kitchen, or take the supervision
of a house; and as for doing any work
myself, the sole article of food I know
how to prepare is a hasty -pudding, and
that I learned by accident.”
“Young woman,” said he, solemnly,
“if you will marry me, I don’t care it
you servo up a dish-cloth for dinner.'
1 had heard a great deal about “love
in a cottage,” and always, wficn thinking
of wife-hood had con.- ?led myself for be
ing such a little good-for-nothing by say
ing, “I will make my darling so happy,
that he shall fancy him- ‘lf dining off am
brosia and nectar;” 1 ut it is different m
the concrete; and the idea ? the real,
live, fastidious Fritz sifting meekly down
i to a dinner of broiled disu-clotli, was too
much for my gravity. 1 laughed out
right, and asked whiiher he would lia»>e
. it. a. ragout, or fricasseed.
Then-Fritz was ;?? "7. Y<s I sorry
to say, he lost his ti iopcr. tie jumped
i up as if i had pricked him with a pm,
i though I hadn’t, and walk? 1 twice or
! thrice across the floor in ’. v. iy tragic
‘ way. I think he was re-lly unhappy,
’ and I was just considering whether, see-
I ing I must thwart him in t ie chief matter,
i it -would not be well to humor him m the
I minor points, and coax him. back; and
I had concluded, on the whole, it would
i not, when he resumed his seat, exclaim
i ing, “I won’t marry you, at all events,
■ you hateful little vixet ! but I should like
i to know the next reason.”
i “The next reason ? Let me sec. —
■ What was the last? You frightened me
! so, I lost the run of them;” and I began
to count my fingers. “Oh! the next is,
: that you are too near my own age, too
I funny, too much of a companion for me.
I love you dearly to frolic with, but I
never could promise to obey you, because
iny way would likc-1. enough be better
{ than yours. I must h: ve a person of
: great maturity and experience—one
j whom I should be afraid of, and who
! would take care of me.”
I “My dear, I will take such care of you,
i the winds of heaven shall not visit your
! face too roughly: and I’ll reform. I’ll
: never smile after you are mv wife: and if
i that is not enough, I will have a horse
i whip suspended from the ceiling nil the
i time.”
1 “And another thing is, I must marry
a rich man, and you are as poor as you
can be.”
“But I am going to be rich one day,”
he interupted.
“Yes, but not till after wo should be too
old to enjoy it. I want it now, while I
am young and strong, and can enjoy
travelling. I want to go to Europe. I
have been inflamed with a desire to go to
Europe and Palestine ever since I was
born, and that is the sole reason why I
! shall never be married. If 1 am to be
poor always, I would rather be so alone
than in company. I can support, myself
now, and you can’t do any more than sup
port me. You xv ill have to work hard
all your fife: and if I marry you, I shall
have io do the same. Where’s the lun
i in that, I b g to know?’’
! “You are not saying in the least what.
I vou think,” said Fritz. “You are telling
lies as fast as you can. Do you know
it ?”
“Yes, I know it. But, seriously, Fritz
—why can’t we live on always just as
we do now ? I don’t love you well
enough to marry you myself, but 1 love
you as much as this: that 1 can’t bear to
have you marry any one else.”
“I will marry some one else! I’ll go
straight and marry Julia Dillon to-mor
“Well, run along.’’
We sat silent for a few moments. "He '
held my hand.
“We’ve been very happy the past ■
year, liavn’t we, Fritz ?” I said.
“Too happy,” he replied, in such a
melancholy tone, that I began to feel
mennncLoly too; but I thought it would
never do to yield to it, so I began to laugh
—that is, I meant.io laugh, but it was a
very weak, faint little laugh when it start
ed from my heart; and somewhere on its
passage out, it turned itself into a cry, and
by the time it came to my lips, it was an
unm stakeable sob. Then Fritz was so
sorry he had made mo unhappy, that he
kissed me; and I was so sorry I had made
him unhappy that I kissed him, and I be
lieve I put my arms around his neck,
which convulsive tenderness I have a very
indistinct impression was returned, &c.,
&e., &c.; all very imprudent and improp
er, no doubt, but I would do the same
again, under similar circumstances; for it
seemed to comfort him wonder! ally—so
much so, that I began to be afraid he
would think I was changing my mind;
so I took the first opportunity to whisper
in his ear—“lt’s all in fun, Fritz; I ain’t
a-going to marry you.”
“I kn-'W it,” said he; and, after a pause
lie continued —“not now, but 1 shall not
‘d- _ th" .Ar •- 1 -• ■ ’• ’’ -
“Ob ! dear,” said I raising r>y head,
“we haven’t got to go over all this again,
have we?” ■
“No, mv dear; not the whole of it, I
hope. But I think you don’t understand
vour own heart. You have not thought
of this before, and it’s very natural y->u
should not be posted up. I think, if you ;
will only examine very closely, yon will
find you do love me a little. lam sure
it, must be so, or I should not love you,
oh! how much!”
Doos this not seem silly to you, sensi
ble reader ? It was not at all so to me.
It made me terribly sober.
“1 shall not urge you. I am going
away to-morrow. I shall never see you
any more, unless you express a desire
that I should.”
This was a fib, for I knew he would
strike a bee-line for my house by sunrise.
“But wherever I go, you will always
go with me, whither you will or not. I
have sot you as a seal upon my heart.
Good nif’ht”—and he was gone.
What’did I dothen? First, I went I
up stairs and had a good cry. I never
i can do anything till I have had my cry,
not. because I can’t help it, but because I
i don’t want to help it. It is easier to cry
| than not to cry. and I generally feel bet
-1 ter after it. I did not go to bed that
1 night. The moonlight streamed through
the window, and lay in groat patches on
! the floor. I sat down on the wmdow-sill,
with mv feet on the roof of the piazza.
i The soft, south wind, came to mo whisper
ing shrough the fluttering leaves of the
! o-rap G-vin- —whispering of Fritz —of his
past kink less, and his present love. —-
Shall I tell you just how it happened ?
Don’t laugh at me. I think I was right;
■ that very f ?elmg for him had been only
friendship; but it seemed just as if a little
se'-d had been dropped into my heart, as
we s. t together in the twilight, and all that.
i summer night my tears fell upon it and
i -watered it; and the moonlight shone upon
■ it and eave it warmth, and the south
: wtind brought it freshness and perfume,
I and it grew; and when the sunrise flush-
I cd along the morning sky, my whole
! heart was full of a great- love for f rftz.
Then I rose, and went down, an I out
■ to nice! him along the path lie used to
to come. I knew he would come. , I
longed to see him, and yet I fremoied
with just that kind of afraid that 1 always
expected to have for my nusband, bu.
which I should not have dreamed I could
i feel towards Fritz. Presently he came,
ns I kn-w he would. He d I not seem
i sm-prisedto meet me: but he was very,
' very i.~To took niy ir uotli
“Well, my dear? ’
“Yes, mv dear.”
I did not think what his question meant
or whether it meant anything; nor did
! I mean anything by my reply, only to !
! exnrc-ss the general feeling oi “ye-s, m
I exposition to yesterday’s general feeling
of “no.”
“Have you done what I wished you,
my dear
“Yes, sir.”
“Was I right, or you ?”
“I think you were right,” I sa .1, meek- •
Iv, but k>..king at him all the fin. . ; and I |
was glad I did. for such a flash came over i
his face for a moment, that it seemed
1 transformed into the face of an angel.—
What was I, that I should have such
power ? .
Wo sat a great while under the shad
ow of the trees—calm and still. I had
no doubt then, I have never bad any
since; only, it seems so strange that it can
be Fritz.
It is to be to-morrow.
Well, here I am, sure enough; but not
in the least where I expected to be when
I began. Have you noticed any incon
gruity, deftr, patient reader, who have
gone with me so tar ? I r cst explain.—
' Grcourso, this is all a “nmde up” story,
j for never a fever had I irt fey life. When
' I commenced, niv pd.Csg'rtis to “make be
lieve” J had ha/ three er four, and de
scrilx them tofyou, and ask your opinion
as to which I should take—not really
i 'ifeaning to take any; but, unfortunately,
before I had dispatched the first one, I
was hopelessly in love with him, and could
not bear ta leave him in “doleful dump.-;”
so, instead Vs “eradicating his image from
my ’art,” I married him, and lived happy
all the rest of mv life, in true romantic
style. Th: yof course, plays witch-work
withmysto|y, making the title, and the
moralizing, end the defending, entirely in
appropiate arnl adsurd. It is with feel
ings of the deepest regret that I view this
chaos: but Allah wills if, and I will be re
One thitig more, now that I am in the
mood for confessing. AV hen I said it was
all a mada-up story, I told a little fib.—
It is partly true, and partly not. If
you desir4 to know which is which, why
—you may ask Fritz!
I conclude in the stirring yet pathetic
words ot Aristotle.
‘•Needles and pins! needles and pins!
When a man marries, his trouble begins.”
j’rom (lie Pliladelphia Times.
First CKaief Justice of the U. S.
R. IL TANEY, Hie Present
Chief Justice.
Every schoolboy if familiar with the
“clarz'in ct venerabile nomen' of John
Jay. Every lawyer cherishes the pro
found ?st deference for the learning and
authority of him who was selected by
Washington to be the first Chief Justice
of the United States. Every citizen of the
Republic is proud of the illustrious fame of
him spotless private life
shed lustre upon his splendid public ca
reer. John Jay wvs one of the very pure-
Ms. ••b’r«L ar.d wisest, of the fathers of
the Revolution and of the earlier days of
the Constitution. He was the intimate
personal friend and the trusted confi
dential adviser of AVashington. The
dignity, integrity, and legal erudition of
his Chief Justiceship has never been
excelled, even by the powerful genius of
the venerable John Marshall, or the va
rious culture of the gentle and lamented
Story. Chief Justice Jay was the fit
compeer of President Washington. But
it wore superfluous to prolong eulogy of
him whose name and life is“one of the
most golden chapters of our history, and
one of the grandest inheritances left to the
It is therefore with no ordinary pride
and gratification that we lay before our
readers a letter of John Jay, vhich, al
though written years ago, effectually dis
poses of Mr. Justice Taney and his associ
ates on the bench.
This letter, as its date shows, was writ
ten during the controversy which termin
ated in the Missouri Compromise. But
it happens to hit the, very point misdeci
ded by the Judges of the present court. —
They have given their opinion that Con
gress cannot control the subject of Sla
very in the Territories. John Jay consid
ers that the authority of Congress to do so
it They have also
given the revolting opinion that negroes
have no rights which white men are
bound to respect, and that our fathers
thought so. Judge Taney quotes the
Declaration of Independence —the very
clause of it cited in Judge Jay’s letter—as
a proof of this calumny up ;n the fathers.
Mark how John Jay refers to this clause.
But to the letter.
“BEDroRD, Westcjiester Co., N. Y.,
I'tth November, 1819.
“Dear Sir: I have recieved the copy
of a circular letter, which, as chairman of
the committee appointed by the late pub
lic meeting at Trenton, respecting Slavery,
you were pleased to direct to me on the
sth inst.
“Little can be added to what has been
said and written on the subject of Slavery.
I concur in the opinion that it ought not
to be introduced nor permitted in any of
the nt : u> States, and that it ought to be
gradually diminished and finally abolish
ed in all of them.
“To me, the constitutional authority
of the Congress to prohibit the migra
tion and importation of slaves into any
of the States, does not appear questiona
“The first article of the Constitution
specifies the legislative powers committed
to the Congress. The ninth section of
that article has those words: -The miyrca
tion or importation ot such persons as
any of the now existing States Shall think
proper to admit, shall not bo prohibited
by the Congress prior to the year 1808,
but a tax or duty may be imposed on such
importation, not exceeding ten dollars tor
each person.’
“I understand the sense and meaning
of this clause to be, that the power of the
Congress, although competent to prohibit
such migration and importation, v as. not
to be exercised with respect to the then, ex
isting States, and then only, until the year
1808; Lt’.f that tho Congress were at lib
erty to make such prohibition as to any
I new State which might in the yntfan time
|be established. And, fur:in r, that from
! and after that period, they were auth r
i izcd to make such prohibition as to all
i the States, whether new or old.
“It will, I presume, bo admitted fl.at
slaves were the persons inteir.ted. 7he
word slaves was avoided, prouably, on.
account of the existing toleration of Sla
very, and its discordancy with the prin
ciples of the Resolution, and from a
conciousness of its being repugnant to
the following positions in the Declara
tion. of Independence:
“ ‘We hold these truths to be self-evi
dent: that all n’fii are created equal;
that they are endowed by their Creator
with certain unalienable rights; that
amotTu 11 * i m liT;.*<- r 'j—o. ;. V’ o*
suit of happiness?
“As to my taklag an active part in
‘organizing a plan of co-oporation,’ the
state of my health has long been such as
not to admit of it.
“Be pleased to assut«<he committee of
my best wishes' for their success, and per
mit me to assure you of the esteem a-.ti
regard with which I am, dear sir, your
obedient and faithful servant,
John Jay.
“7b the Hon. Elias Boudiiiot.”
This letter is a precious relic of the
venerable past. It is “addressed to one
who was himself one of the purest and
noblest of the sages and early
The words in italics we re so emphasi
zed by Jay himself. The letter is an ex
quisite specimen of the clear, transparent,
exact, direct, and luminous intellect of the
first Chief Justice, and of the simple,
humane, and Christian character of the
bosom friend of Washington.
Country Papers.
Pump Carpenter is a live men, and
says a great many true things about oth
er subjects, than Earstowism and the
“forty thoives.” He has ever been a
true friend to the country press and ;he
“Patriot” owes much of iu interest io its
liberal extracts from the 100 1 papers.—
The following article which we clip from
the columns of the “Patriot” will'be found
instructive both to Editors and business
We are glad to see the local presamf
the State claim for itself the merit which
has long been its due; and from the view
which link recently been taken of the sub
ject by most of the State, "a letter day
seems drawing for our local journals.
have-given the subject but I’tT,:- c-ntion,
,biit little of aid can by r^Spectod; but
there are-those who’ are interested in
building up the favorite locality, or are
desirous of developing the, ; recourscß of a
certain section of country, or have busi
ness arrangements of such a nature, that
publicity alone insures the profits, and
this class should never forgot that upon
the local press depends their permanent
success. If these classes r.s.-.cetiv *]y v :r-|
form their duties in a b?-omi'-
there are hundreds of tr/ s- w'r' 11 ■ o up-1
on the current of pm ' • ■_•• • >n, win. v, 1J
bo rcaly to yield a willing - . ■
But we think the country p ■> gen J
orally are negligent of ih ■ te J
Aside from the profits, .i ■ there’:
is always more or 1.-;? .-re..: y., i
own in which is pm, • : •? ,■> u.-nv- •?r
of any note, and noth. s .<• -wc-obd.te
to the inhabitants thereof as v. s'e the
columns of their paper filled v.i ' e.tete.s
of town interest, of the mextete-- ■ 1 ‘be day
as they occur, of the opening of ; ’vl
-or the success and pr-gross of old,
the changes which are every day occui
ingin the landed, mercat til; and trading
interests generally; with such incki'nts of
the social world, and personal matters of
the locality as would render the paper
eagerly sought for by the best society of
the place. A newspaper that, fulfills its
whole duty in this respect, will have but
little room for the dry and uninteresting
stuff which is too often sought after for
“copy,” and will not fail to possess that
interest which commands support.
Strangers are looking for locations,
emigrants are seeking homes, busjna&u
men and mechanics wish homes Zii our
State for themselves
ny are the times when we have beep call
ed on for extra Patriots containing ex
tracts from certain local papers of the
State, by those who me “prospectbig”
and looking for suitable places for settle
ment. The Country papers fail in their
duty to their respecthe localities and the
State at large, if they arc och. filled with
facts, figures and incidents of interest at.
home, and worthy of being copied by rhe
city press as evidence of our progress and
prosperity as a State.
Appropos to this subject w’e cut the fol
lowing from the Mineral Point Tribune,
just received:
“The newspaper, is a kite index to the
prosperity of a village or city. Men of
capital and enterprise in the Eastern
States, desiring to seek a location in the
West, are governed more by the public
schools and the. newspapers of western
villages, in seeking a place to locate, than
by any other cause. If our business men
in the’West would study their own inter
ests, they would s<-' to it that neither of
them are suffered to be discontinued or
compelled to beg for a living.”
Ma, docs na kiss you because he loves
you so? inquired a lidie anxious plug of
his mother.
“To be sure, my son; but why did you
ask that question ?”
“Well, guess he loves the kitchen girl,
too, for I seen him kiss her rnor’n foi ty
times, last Sunday, when you was gone
to church.”
There was a fuss iu that family.

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