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v» T SOUTHERN JO ' BY CORE V 8c GOUVENEAUX.] MONTICELLO, MISSISSIPPI, JULY «, 1845. [VOL. V.—NO. 52. vua IS PDBLISHD EVERY TUESDAY EVENING Bl' G. J. COIIEA &. C. COUVEXEAUX. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION . $2 00, For one year in advance. $2 50 At the end of six months, or, $3 00 at the end of the year. No deduction jwhatcver will be made from the above prices. Those who pay within one month after the time ofsubscri bin g will be con sidered ashavingpaidin advance,but in every instance where payment is not made in that time, the terms stated above will be d. mantl ed. Unless otherwise previously directed, the subscription will be regarded as for the entire year. No paper discontinued, «nle=s at the option of the publisher, until all arrearages are paid. Weave thus explicit because we wish to avoid trouble anddisputein the collection ofour subscription money. We bog that all who subscribe for the Journal, will note the terms of the subesription. TERMS OF ADVERTISING. Advertisements will be inserted at ti)e rate * of$l per square,for the firtdinsertion,and 50 wi. cents for epph week t hereafter—ten lines or the hiss, constituting a square. The number of insertions required must be noted on the J". >t-. vin ofthe manuscript, or they will bt in J until forbid , and charged accordingly. Vertisements from a distance must be ac 0 companied with the CASH, or good referen ces in town. Personal advertisements will be charged double the above rates. Announcing candidates for State or District offices, $10; For County offices, $5. As the above rates are the same as those established in Natchez, Vicksburg, Grand Gulf, Yazoo City, and elsewhere in this state1 no deduction will be made from them in any case whatever. ALL JOB WORK MUST BE PAID FOR ON DELIVERY. (Pj* Letters on business must be postpaid or they will not be taken from the post office. Lines From an infant daughter in Heaven, to her bereaved mother, Mrs. F. F. H. on earth Dear ma, why flow those burning tears? Why look thine eyes so rod? Why heave thy hreas t with sighs and fears! Why restless on thy bed? Dear ms , for mo, oh do not weep: For me, oh do not grieve; No more let , now drown thy sleep, All’s v eil with me, believe. My days,indeed, on earth were few; Dut eat J\ is full of woe; And had 1. „ 1 with pa and you, I must have " ' it so. Dear ma, I’m safe from ev’ry harm— I’m with the Saviour now; lie often takes me on his arm, And wreathes my little brow. I wear a pretty crown of gold; Mv robe is spotless while; My tiny harp could you behold, „ ’ I’would fill you with delight. Cense to mourn, dear ma, for me, And dry up ev’ry tear; Oh seek the Lamb of Calvary— To him in faith draw near. A few more days, life will be o’er; Wc then again may meet, On happy Canaan’s peaceful shore, In fon.l embraces sweet. ' Thanks, mother dear, for all thy cave, A mother’s love was mine; May Cod reward each fallen tear, And each kind deed of thine. Tell pa, for me, that I am well, And free from ev’ry ill; Tell him to seek with me to dwell, Through Christ on Zion’s hill. Anecdote of the late Senator Porter. A correspondent of the N. Y. Spirit of the Times, writing from Attakapas, relates the following anecdote of the late lament ed Judge Porter, a man whose wit and presence of mind never deserted him on . any occasion. IVe give the story in the % words of the correspondent, who signs him 1 self “M.” f -Soti'c years since the judge was pro , secutiug an individual of most daring and * reckless character, for burning the gin and * ’ ,,/wise injuring and destroying the pro rhis client,and in the fearless and ll^e are aiii ent discharge of that duty it be F. MOi ossary to comment in strong terms -off' jmluct and habits of the defendant. 1__ evidence, however, was not sufficient ly strong to bring the facts directly home to him, and he was acquitted. In ihe evening, after the trial, the judge was sitting on the piazza of the tavern, en tertaining the court, the jury and the bar with some of his inexhaustible fund of anec dotes, when the defendant, looking as black as a thunder cloud ready to burst on his devoted head, requested a moment’s pri vate conversation with him. The judge, although fully aware of the nature of this conversation, instantly followed him to a retired spot, under the shade of some trees, when the substance of the following con versation occurred:— “Sir, you used such expressions to-day about mens no gentleman can stand, and I am determined to have an apology or take instant satisfaction!’’ “Why, sir,” said the judge, “my client instructed and paid me to say these things, and you had better see him,—and you ought to be satisfied that he did not prove them.” “Sir,your client is a pitiful, sneaking scoundrel,and I have thrashed him three j times, and I intend to thrasfi all the endor- j sers of his infernal lies!” “Well,” said the judge, “do you know j what you remind me of?” “No! and d—d if I we.nt to know!” r “But hear me-you have plenty of; time.” “Say on, then—be quick.” “Why, you remind me of a dog”—(here the defendant made an involuntary motion with his hand)—“of a dog who pursued and bit the stone that hit him, instead of the ; hand which threw it.” Defendant, scratching his head—“I wish I maybe shot if I don’t believe you are | | half right,” and turning away—“I must gO"j and whip that fellow again.” Benjamin Lincoln. The hero oT our present sketch was one of those men who, sans position, sans edit* cation, made themselves subjects for the pens of historians, and by their heroism and perseverance bought a place on the j pages of future history. On the 23d of January, 1733, he was born in Hingham, ■ i Massachusetts. Without any thing to ma | lerially mar the even tenor of his humble way, he followed the calling of a farmer ! until he was forty years of age, although ; he held a magistrate’s commission, and i was a representative of the people in the ' State Legislature. lie was a “whig” of j ° ° j that day, and having firmly espoused the , cause of his country as a whig, was in 1775, made a lieutenant-colonel of militia, and elected a member of the Provincial Con gress. He was also made one of the sec retaries of the latter body, and one of the ; corresponding committees. That body, if j jt did not possess much learning and cdu- i i cation, was honest, firm, and courageous. I I It was a Roman brotherhood, with Spartan i | determination. In the year 1770, Benjamin Lincoln was ! appointed a brigadier-general by the Coun cil of Massachusetts—then a major-gene' ral—and immediately betook himself to ■ i training the militia. In this business lie : displayed the great military talent which, unknown to himself, he possessed, and gave evidence of the future efficiency he would display in the service. He shortly joined the main army at New York, and being recommended to Congress by Gen. Washington, was, in 1777, made a major general on the continental establishment. Me was attached to the main army, under Wasliington, for several months, and j was in many situations of both peril and trust. Near Bound Brook, he had the command of about five hundred men. Mis patrols were neglectful, and allowed a body of the enemy to approach within two hundred yards of the quarters, undiscovered. Our hero was within a hair’s breadth of capture. He had barely time to escape from the house and mount his horse. The house was then surrounded. He led oil his troops in the face of the enemy, and es caped, leaving about sixty dead and wound ed on the field. His baggage, papers, with one of his aids, fell into the hands of the British, as did three small pieces of ar tillery. In July, Washington sent him to join Gates, who was opening the advance of Burgoyne. He took his station in Man chester (Vermont) to receive, form, and drill the New England militia, as they ar rived with all their verdancy. He ordered their march to the rear of the British army. Two months after hia arrival, he sent Col.' Brown with fjve hundred men to the land ing at St. George. On the 13th, these men surprised the enemy, took possession of two hundred batteaux, set at liberty about one hundred American prisoners, and captured two hundred and fifty of the red coats. A1I this they did with the small loss of three killed and five wounded.— The result seems almost incredible. This svent was considered (as it really deserved) ane of the most important occurrences of the day, and our hero received due credit for conceiving it. During the terrible conflict of the 7th October, Gen. Lincoln caminandcd within the American lines, and at one o’clock on the morning of the 8th marched, with his division, to relieve the troops that had been engaged, and to take charge of the^^le ground from which the enemy had raRat ed. While on this duty, he rode forward some distance to dispose of his troops and inspect the ground. He was separated I from his own troops when he unexpectedly j came upon a body of the enemy, and was I within musket shot. To the eternal dis grace of the enemy, they discharged a vol ley at Lincoln and his aids. The bones of his leg were badly broken, and he was carried ofi'the field in a dangerous situation. The wound was so dreadful that heapprc> bended the loss of the limb. He was con fined at Albany many months, during which time he suffered the most excrutiating agony. A large portion of the main bone of the injured limb was removed ere he -.1 4 „ L ■ 1_ T1 • WII I VM IV till) 1IUIIIV lit imiy- | ham. The surgical operations were so j painful, at many times, that some of the' spectators were obliged to leave the room; and yet to those who remained he would relate amusing anecdotes, and crack the most ludicrous jokes, so that his hearers were obliged to laugh heartily. This con duct certainly evinced a lion heart, and tremendous nerve! The wound was ul cerated for years. The removal of the bone shortened the limb, and Lincoln was quite lame for the remainder of his days, lie did not witness the capitulation of J3ur goyne, although he contributed much to bring the circumstance about. Though his recovery was not complete, he repaired to his head-quarters, and was joyfully re ceived by Gen. Washington. 1778, Lincoln went to Charleston, where he engaged in the most arduous duties ex perienced during the Revolution. In 1779, he was at the assault made upon Savannah) and fought at the side of the gallant Pole, Pulaski, who there fell mortally wounded. In 1780, lie endured the scige of Charles ton, and was, ns all readers familiar with the American War know, signally defeat ed, though no fault of his own. He was censured by many for making the seige; hut the majority of the people did not con sider that misfortune a fault. One of the chronicles of that time says: . jr'Pi. -_a ._ _j r . t .i i. UV muinco tiiiw iHiiuiwa luui ed Gen. Lincoln rather to risk a seige than to evacuate Charleston, were most honor able to him as a man and soldier. There was such a balance of reasons on thetpies tion, as under the existing circumstances should exempt his decision from blame or distrust. He could not calculate on the despondence and inactivity of the people who should come to his succour. The sus pense and anxiety, the toil and hazard at tending the seige, gave the fullest scope to his wisdom, patience and valor. His ex ertions were incessant. He was on the lines night and day, and for the last fort night never undressed to sleep.” Notwith standing this unfortunate termination of his command, so established was the spot less reputation of the vanquished general, that he continued to enjoy the undiminish ed respect and confidence of the Congress, the army, and the commander.in-chief.— ■‘Great praise is due to Gen. Lincoln,” says Dr. Ramsay, “for his judicious and spirited conduct in baffling for three months \ the greatly superior force of Sir Henry ! Clinton and Admiral Arbuthnot. Though Charleston and the southern army were lost, yet, by their long protracted defence, [he British plans were not only retarded, out deranged; and North Carolina was sav« *d for the remainder of the year 1780.” The English gave Lincoln his parole.— tie was soon exchanged for one Major Cieneral Phillips, a prisoner of theconven ion of Saratoga. Lincoln was under Wash-1 ington at the battle of Yorktown, and en joyed his share of the brilliant result of that engagement. He was in a viriety of formidable battles until the year 1787. when he was elected Lieutenant-Governor of his native State. President Washington appointed him Collector of the Port of Bos ton, while at the same time, (1789,) he was made a member of the federal con vention for ratifying the Constitution. He retained the office of Collector until old age and thrj infirmities consequent admon ished hirs^o resign, which he did about two years before his dissolution. In 1793, he was one of the commission ers appointed ’to effect a peace with the western Indians. He died on 9th of May, 1810; mourn ed by all who had known him, and regretted by every lover of the country. Truth and Poetry.—The following little pffusion is attributed to Jesse E. Dow, of the U. S. Journal. “Dow, J,,” never said any thing more truthful: “He that in the world would rise, Must take the papers and advertise.” Speech of Lot Doolittle, Esq., Member of the Legislature from New Jerusalem, Huckelbury county, Vermont, on the bill for the protection of Henroosts. Mislur Speaker:—I’ve sot here in my seat, and heered the opponents of this great nashunnl measure argify and expcc larate agin it till I’m purty nigh busted with the indigent commotions of my lacer ated sensibilities. Mr. Speaker, arc it possible that men can be so infatuated as to vote agin the bill? Mr. Speaker, 1 blush to say that it am. Mr. Speaker, al low me to pictur to your excited and de nuded imaginations, some of the heart ren ding evils which rise from the wantofpur tcction to henroosts in my vicinity, among my constituents. Mr. Speaker, we will suppose it to be the awful and melancholy hour of midnight—all natur am hushed in repose—the solemn wind softly moans through the waving branches of the trees, and nought is hcered to break the solem choly stillness save an occasional grunt in the Hog Pen! I will now carry you in iimgination to that devoted lien House. Behold its paceful and happv inmates gent ly declining in balmy slumbers on their elevated and majestic roosts! Look at that aged and venerable and highly res pected rooster, as he keeps his silent vi gils wilh paternal and unmitigated watch fulness over those innocent, helpless and virtuous Hens and Pullets! Just let your eye glance around, and behold that digni fied and matronly lien, who watches with tender solitude and paternal congratula.< tion, over those little juvenile chickens, who crowd around their respected progen itor, and nestle under her circumambient win or s. Now, I ask, Mr. Speaker, am there to be found a wretch, so lost and abandoned as will enter that peaceful and happy a bode, and tear those interesting and inno cent little biddies from their agonized and heartbroken parents? Mr. Speaker I an swer in thunder tones that there am!— Are there any thing so mean and sneak ing as such a robber? No, there are not! You may search the wide universe from the natives who repose in solitary gran der and superlative majesty under the shades of the tall cedars which grow upon the tops of tho Ilimmalch mountains, in the island of Jehosophat, down to the de graded and barbarous savages who com pose in obscurity in their miserable wig» warns on the Rock of Gibraltcr in the Gulf of Mexico, and then you will be as much puzzled to find anything so mean, as you would be to see the arth revolve a round the sun twice in twenty-four hours, \ without the aid of a telescope. Mr. Speaker, 1 feel that I have said e nough on this subject to convince the most' obdurate member of the unapproachable necessity of a law which shall forever and everlastingly put a slop to these fowl pro ceedings: and I proposes that every con victed offender shall suffer the penalty of the law as foliers: For the first offence, he shall be obli ged to suck twelve rotten eggs without no salt on ’em. For the second offence, be shall be obli . ' jr ged to set on twenty rotten eggs until he hatches ’em. Mr. Speaker, all I want is for every member to act on this subject accordin’ to his conscientiousness. him do this and he will be remembered for everlas tingly by a grateful posterity. Mr. Speak er, I’ve done. Where’s my bat. The eloquent gentleman here donned his sealskin cap and sat down apparently much exhausted. How the Mountain Blacksmith was Converted. The scene is laid in the mountainous regions ol Georgia. Mr. Forgeron, a black smith, had a great antipathy against all ministers, and Methodist ministers espe cially. His shop was in a narrow itioun* tain pass, and he declared his determina-> tion to whip every Methodist preacher that passed his shop. This threat he had so often executed, that the circuit was dread ed by the preachers, and it was with some difficulty that one was found to fill it.— The Rev. Mr. Stubbleworth, however, readily consented to go there, and the fol lowing describes bis first ride through the mountains. Forgeron had heard of his new victim, and rejoiced that his size and appearance furnished a betier subject for his vengeance than the attenuated frame of the late par son. Oh. what a nice beating he would have! He had heard, too. thnt snmp Mpi tliodist ministers were rather spirited, and hoped that this one might prove so, that he might provoke him to fight. Knowing that the clergyman must pass on Saturday in the afternoon, he gave his striker a hol« iday, and reclining on a bench, regaled himself on the beauties of Tom Paine, a» waiting the approach of the preacher. It was not over an hour before he heard the words. “IIow happy are they who their Saviour obey, And have laid up their treasures above.” sung in a full, clear voice; and soon the Vucalist turning the angle of the rock, rode up with a contented smile on his face. ^ “IIow are you old slabsides? Get off of your horse and join in my devotion,” said the blacksmith. “I have many miles to ride,” answered the preacher, “and I haven’t time my friend; I'll call as I return.” “Your name is Stubbleworth, and you are the trifling bypocrito the Methodists have sent here to preach eh?” “My name is Stubbleworth,” he replied meekly. “Didn’t you know my uaine was Ned Forgcron, the blacksmith, what whips ev ery Meihodist preacher that goes through this gap?” was asked with an audacious look—“and how dare you come here?” The preacher replied, that he had heard , rorgeron’s name, but presumed he did not , molest well behaved travellers. “You presume so! Yes, you are the most presumptuous people, you Methodists that ever trod shoe leather, any how.— Well, what’ll you do, you beef headed dis ciple you?” Mr. stnbbleworth professed his willing ness to do any thing reasonable to avoid such penance. “Well, there’s three things you. have to do, or I’ll maul you into a jelly. The first is you are to quit preaching; the second is, you must wear this last will and testament of Thomas Paine next to your heart, read it every day, and believe every word you read: and the third is, that you are to curse the Methodists in every crowd you get in to,”—and the blacksmith “shucked” him self, rolled up his sleeves, and took a quid of tobacco. The preacher looked on during these novel preparations, without a line of his face moving, and at the end replied that he would not submit to them. ‘Well, you have got a whaling to submit to then. I'll tear you into doll rags cor* ner ways! Get down, you cussed long* faced hypocrite!’ The preacher remonstrated, and Forger-; on, walking up to his horse, threatened to tear him off if he did not dismount; where upon, the worthy man made a virtue of ne cessity, and alighted. “1 have but one request to make, my ; friend, that is you won’t beat me with this 1 overcoat oil; it was a present from the la-: y dies of my last circuit, and I do not wish to have it torn. % “Off with it and that suddenly, you ba* sin-faced imp you!” The Methodist preacher slowly drew off his overcoat, as the blacksmith contim jcd his tirade of abuse on himself and bis sect, and throwing the garment behind liim, he dealt Mr. Fogeron a tremen dous blow between the eyes, which laid that person at full length on the ground with the testament of Tom Paine beside him. The Rev. Mr. Stubbleworth with tho tact of » cuuuoissew in such matters, did no wait for his adversary to rise, but mounted him with the quickness of a cat and bestowed his blows with a courteous hand on the stomach and face of the black smith, continuing his song where he had left off on his arrival at the smithey— “Tongue cannot express the sweet com fort and peace Of a soul in the earliest love.” until Forgeron, from having experienced ‘first love,’or some other sensation equally new to him, responded “’nough’./nough? lake him off!” But unfortunately there was no one by to perform that kind office, except the preacher’s old roan, and he maunched a bunch of grass, and looked on as quietly as if his master was happy at a camp meeting. “Now,” said Mr. Stubbleworth, “there are three things you must promise me be* fore I let you up.” “Whatare they!” asked Forgeron, eagerly. “The 6rst is, that you will never molest a Methodist preacher again.” “Here Ned’s pride rose, and he hesita* ted;—and the reverend gentleman, with his usual benign smile on his face, renew ed his blows, and sung— “I rode on the sky, freely justified 1, And the moon it was under my feet.” This oriental language overcame the blacksmith. Such bold figures, or some" thing else, caused him to sing out, “well I’ll do it—I’ll do it.” “You are getting on. very well.” said Mr. Stubbleworth,” I think I can make a decent man of you yet, and perhaps a Christian.” Ned groaned. “The second thing I require of you is to go to Pumpkin creek meeting-house and here me preach to-morrow.” Ned attemptedjto stammer some excuse “I—I—that is-” When the divine resumed his devotional hymn, and kept time with the music, strik ing him over the face with the fleshy part of his hand— “My soul mounted higher in a chariot of fire. uiu envy £siijiui Ills seal. Ned’s promise of punctuality caused the parson’s exercise to cease, and the words redolent of gorgeous imagery died a away in echoes from the adjacent crags. “Now, the third and last demand is pe remptory.” Ned was all attention to know what was to come next. “You are to promise to seek religion, day and night, and never rest unil you obtain it at the hands of a merciful redeemer.” The fallen man looked at the declining sun and then at the parson, and knew not what to say, when that latter individual raised his voice in the sQng once more, and Ned knew what would come next. “I’ll do my best,” lie said, in an humble voice. “Well, that’s a man,” said Stubbletvorth —“now get up and go down to the spring and wash your face, and tear up Tom Paine’s testament, and turn your thoughts on high.” Ned rose with feelings he had never ex perienced before, and went to obey the la vatory injunction of the preacher, when that gentleman mounted his horse, took Ned by the hand, and said, “Now keep your promise, and I’ll keep your counsel. Good evening Mr. Forgeron—I’ll look for you to-morrow—and off he rode, with the same imperturable countenance, sing, ing so loud as to scare the eagles from their eyrie in the overhanging rocks. ell,” thought Ned, “this is a nice business w hat would people say if they mew Edward Forgernon was whipt before us own door in the gap, and that too by a Methodist preacher. But his musings vere more in sorrow than in anger.