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The Southern journal. (Monticello, Miss.) 184?-18??, July 08, 1845, Image 1

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T SOUTHERN JO
'
BY CORE V 8c GOUVENEAUX.] MONTICELLO, MISSISSIPPI, JULY «, 1845. [VOL. V.—NO. 52.
vua
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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.

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