The Southern journal., July 22, 1845, Image 1

About The Southern journal. (Monticello, Miss.) 184?-18??

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TH SOUTHERN JOURNAL.
BY COHEA & GOUVENEAUX.] MONTICELLO, MISSISSIPPI, JULY.22, 1845. ry0L. VI.—NO. 2.
TSWM
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BY G. J. COHEi't C. GOCVENEAUX.
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t it.
Faith in God.
BY THE REV. BISHOP HAWKS.
I knew a widow,very poor.
Who four small children had;
The oldest was but six years old—
A gentle, modest lad.
And very hard that widow toiled,
To feed her children four,
An honest pride the woman felt,
Though she was very poor.
To labor she would leave her home,
Four children must be fed;
And glad was she when she could buy
A shilling’s worth of bread.
And this was all the children had,
On any day to eat;
They drank their water, ate their bread
But never tasted meat.
One day the snow was falling fast,
And piercing was the air;
I thought that I would go and see
How these poor children were.
F,re long 1 reached their cheerless home,
’Twas searched by every breeze;
When going in, the eldest child,
I saw upon his knees.
I pauscij to listen to the hoy—
He never raised his head;
But still went on, and said “Give us
This day our daily bread.”
I waited till the child was done,
Still listening as he prayed—
And when lie rose, I asked him why
The Lord’s prayer lie had said?
“Why, sir,” said he, “this morning when
My mother went away,
She wept, because she said she had
No bread for us to-day
“She said we children now must starve
Our father being dead;
And then I told her not to cry,
For I could get some bread.
“Our Father, sir, the prayer begins;
Which makes me think that He
As we have no kind father here,
Would our kind Father be.
“And then, you know, the prayer too,
Asks God for bread each day;
So in the corner, sir, I went—
And that’s what made me pray.”
I quickly left that wretched room,
And went with hasty feet;
And very soon was back again,
With food enough to eat.
“1 thought God heard me,” said the boy>
1 answered with a nod—
I could not speak—but much I thought
Of that boy’s faith in God.
Anecdotes of the Late Rev.
Sidney Smith.
A writer in the Allas, giving some per
sonal recollections of this deceased wit and
scholar, relates the following anecdotes.
A hundred witty stories are told of him.
Edwin Landseer, the celebrated animal
painter, sent to ask him to sit for his por
trait. Mr. Smith, in reply, quoted the
Scripture, and said—
“Is thy servant a dog, that be should do
this thing?”
Indeed, he was rather fond of Scriptural
witticisms;and on the last occasion of my
ever seeing him, at his lodgings in Green
street, in London, I remember the conver
sation turned on the Pennsylvania letters,
which had then just appeared in the Morn
ing Chronicle. He was surrounded by a
circle of friends, one of whom, a young
man, made an observation, which was to
the effect, I think, that he envied him his
acquirements and lettered ease.
“Young gentleman,” said he, taking up
a bundle of Pennsylvania scrip, “I would
you were altogether as I am, except these
bonds. ”
Of course, there was a general roar.—
Whether such application of Scripture as
these were correct or not, in a grave and
reverend teacher, is left for others to de»
cide.
Referring to Charles Lamb and his ha
bits of intemperance, Smith one day re
marked—
“He draws so much beer, that no won
der he buff ions peoplc-^he must have a
butt to put it in.”
Southey undertook to pay Smith a visit,
! ntl/I iiroc mt tl.n lit...... n 1.. ....
| room full of old-fashioned furniture, where
j hooks, Parliamentary reports, pamphlets,
I and letters lay all about, in rpost admired
j confusion. “This is my work-shop,” he
i observed to Southey, “as black as any
smithy in Christendom.”
And the neat and precise Laureate secm
i ed to think so: for he looked cautiously
| about for a clean chair, folded up his coat*
! tails, and was preparing to sit down, when
j Smith, with a sly gravity, wiped, with his
handkerchief, (none of the cleanest,) the
: dust from an old folio edition of the works
j of one of the Fathers of the Church, and
! requested his friend 1o sit on it. Southey
! shrunk from the profanation, and respect
; fully removing the work, preferred thedus
! tv chair. He was perhaps mentally com
j paring, or rather contrasting, the appear
i ance of Smith’s library, with that of hi?
i own exquisitely neat one at Keswick.—
• Alas! ere long he would wander into that
earned retreat, there gaze for hours, with
an idiotic smile on a favorite volume, and
then submit himself, like a child, to the
guiding hand of an attendant, and be led
out—for in the days of his insanity, it was
a strange fact, that although fond of finding
his way into his belovedlibrary, lie never
could discover the way out of it.
At this time the question of the author
ship of that strange, but clever and learned
book, “The Doctor,” was a doubtful one,
and much mooted in literary circles. Many
. suspected, and indeed named Southey as
the writer; but he never either admitted
the fact of his being so. The conversation
turned on the subject, and Smith, with a
roguish twinkle in his eye, told Southey
he knew who was the author. Southey
calmly inquired the name, and the rever
end gentleman remarked—
“I remember, some years since, enjoying
i a conversation with one Robert Southey,
in which he used the exact words I find
here”—and he read from a page of the
“Doctor” a passage, and then said, “now,
Mr. Laureate, it needs no conjuror to con
vince any one of common sense that the
writer of the passage I have read, and the
utterer of those very words to me, seven
years since, are one and the same per
son.” Southey bit his lip, but said no
thing.
Tommy and hit Teacher.—A teacher
had been explaining to his class the points
of the compass, and all were drawn up front
to the north.
“Now, what is before you, John?”
The north, sir.”
“And what behind you, Tommy?”
“My coat tail, sir,” said he, trying to
♦catch a glimpse of that same.
Two Remarkable Instances
Of Unjust Executions in Paris, on Cir
cumstantial Evidence.
A citizen had lost several silver forks;
he accused a maid servant; made his com
plaint, and gc.vc her up to justice. Justice
hanged her. The Corks were found six
months after under an old roof, behind a
heap of tiles, where a magpie had hid them.
It is well known that this bird, by an inex
plicable instinct, steals and collects uten
sils of gold and silver. An unusual mass
was founded at St. John en-gravc, for the
repose of this innocent soul. The souls of
the judges had more occasion for it.
About 17 years ago, a young woman
from the country, of a very agreeable per
sor, was servant to a man who had all the
vices attendant on the corruption of large
cities. Struck with her charms, he tried
all methods of seduction. She was virtuous;
she resisted. Her discretion only inflamed
the passions of her master, who, not being
able to prevail with her, devised the black
est and most abominable revenue. He
O
clandestinely put her into a box where she
kept her clothes, several things belonging
to himself,and marked with his name; he
then exclaimed that he was robbed; sent
for a constable, and made his deposition.
When the box was opened, the effects that
he claimed were known.
The poor girl being imprisoned, had only
tears for her defence, and all that she said
in answer to the interrogatories was, that
she was innocent.
Our criminal jurisprudence cannot be
sufficiently condemned, when we consider
that the Judges had no suspision of the
wickedness of the accuser, and that they
enforced the law in its utmost rigor—a ri~
gor that is extreme, and which ought to he
banished from our code, and give place to
a simple chastisement which would leave
few robberies unpunished.
Innocent as she was, she was condemned
to be hanged. She was unskilfully exe
cuted—it being the first essay of the hang
man’s son. A surgeon bought the body.
As he was preparing that evening to dis
sect it, he perceived some remains of
warmth, the knife dropped from his hands,
and he put into his bed her whom he was
going to anatomise!
His endeavors to restore her to life sue*
ceeded. At the same time he sent for un
ecclesiastic, with whose discretion and ex
perience he was well acquainted, as well to
consult him on this strange event, as to
make him a witness of his conduct.
At the moment when this unfortunate
girl opened her eyes, she thought herself
in another world; and seeing the figure of
the Priest, who had .a large head, and fea
tures strongly marked, (for I knew him,
and from him had this account.)—she
clasped her hands with terror, and 'ex
claimed—
E:ernal Father! you know my innocence ;
mercy on me!
She did not cease to invoke that eccle
siastic, thinking she saw God himself. It
was long before she could be convinced
that shO. Was nntrlpnrl_en rrx.-»t
--
of the punishment and death had impressed
her imagination. Nothing could be more
affecting, or more impressive, than this ex*
clamation of an innocent soul, to him whom
she considered as hersupreme Judge: and
without hen endearing beauty, this sight
alone was sufficient to interest strongly a
man of sensibility and observation. What
a picture for a Painter! What a nar
rative for a Philosopher! What a lesson
for a Lawyer!
The case was not re heard, as was said
in the Journal of Paris. The servant re
covered of her fright, and restored to life,
having discovered a mortal in him whom
she had adored, who made her transfer her
prayers totheonly adorable Being,quitted
that night the house of the surgeon, who
was doubly uneasy on her account and his
own. She went and concealed herself in
a distant village, dreading to meet her
judges, the guards, and the shocking
gallows, always present to her imagina
tion.
The horrible calumniator remained un
punished, because his crime, though mani
fested to private witnesses—vras not so
in the sight of the magistrates and the
| laws.
The people were acquainted with this
resurrection. They loaded the wicked au
\
thor of llie deed with reproaches. But in
the immence city the crime was soon for
gotten, and the monster, perhaps, still
breathes: at least, he has not suffered in this
world the punishment he deserves.
The Romance of Insect Life.
We take the following beautiful extract
from an Historical Lecture by Judge
Charlton of Ga.
“The earth taems with mysteries—the
skv shines with them—they float in the
air—they swim in the deep—they flash
from the dark-robed clouds they whisper
in the gentle tones of the summer wind—
they speak in trumpet tongues—in the
voice of the tempest and the thunder.—
Cease thy longings for the ancient days,
oh dreamer! Close thy book and look
about thee, upon the volume of Nature.—
See there, before thee, is a tiny insect
that thou canst scarce distinguish from the
grains of sand that surround it—watch it
it moves on with an energy and instinct
that enables it to overcome or avoid nil
obstacles. See—it has seized upon some
object larger than itself, and still it
goes bravely on—nothing daunts it—noth
ing stops it—tread it under foot (if thou
canst have the heart to attempt such a
murder) and it will rise up again beneath
the ocean ol sand and turn once more to
its labor. Dost thou know it? It is
the ant, that lion-hearted ant, toiling
amid the heat of summer; and though
the season’s brightness and its warmth are
bringing up &. producing ten thousand en
joyments for the little traveller, lie is busy
gathering together iiis provender for the
long winter time, when frost and snow,
_.1.111111 i t • >
«iiu Biiau iittvc luciveu up me grana"
rics of nature. Thou wilt tell me, that 1
am mocking thee; that thou canst see this
daily and hourly; and is this a mystery
therefore? If thcu hadst read in those an
cient legends before thee, of an insect so
courageous, that it would attack an animal
of ten thousand times its magnitude; of
industry so indefatigable, that it would
climb houses and mountains to pursue its
course, of perseverance so unflagging,
that though repulsed a thousand times it
would still return and overcome the obsta
cle that impeded it, thy eyes would have
sparkled with interest and amazement, it
is constantly before thee—because it
belongs to the present time—that thou
lookest so distainfully upon it. When
did the Knights Errants of thy heart do
half so much? When did their bosoms
beat as high with valor and determination
as this poor insect? ‘But it has no loves
—no burning jealousies—no blood-stained
victories.’ How knowest thou that? 1
warrant then, even that thy tiny breast has
grown gentler for some fond one that lived
with its little world; that its blood has flow
ed quicker when some Andonis ant has
flirted around the little coquette, that its
path has been stained by the trophies of
its mimic battles. But thou wilt say why
dost thou lure me from my glowing page,
to point me to this moving atom? Why
'vast my time with a topic so insignificant?
----- iiii-i-mucMm. x
point thfie there to one of the smallest of
Earth’s creatures, to ask thee if the atoms
contain such wonders how much more the
noble and lofty works of Nature ? Follow
ine, if thou wilt. Let us drive into cav
erns of the Earth, and mark the scuptur
ed halls—the rockv avenues stretching
miles and miles below the busy haunts of
men. Let us plunge into the deep, and
see the huge leviathan sporting amid the
waters; or, the rainbow-hued dolphin, as
she flings bright rays of the glorious sun.
Let us climb into the air, and behold the
eagle with his untiring wing, and his un
flinching eyes, the noble image of indom
itable perseverance and of brilliant gen
ius, soaring proudly and gazing fixedly to
ward Heaven’s brightest luminary! Oh,
dreamer! if the moments of thy life were
multiplied by the sands of the desert, they
would be all .too short to unravel these
mysteries that are around thee and above
thee.’
The Two Pictures.
Contrast the happiness of a family, in
whose circle o£,love the monster Intem
temperance never made his terrific appear*
ance with the misery of one whose peace
is disturbed by the frightful and distorted
visage of the victim of Alcohol—and then
pass judgment on the two, and say, which
possesses most power to charm the hours
of life, and soften down the sharp asperi
ties of fortune—which has superior claims
to the love of a rational man—which ought
to be cherished- -which shunned—which
ought to be the chosen lot of those who
covet honor, yearn lor peace, desire health
or aspire for fame?—Now gaze on the two
pictures, and decide.
Wo stricken is the abode of the Drunk
ard. Love has deserted it. Peace has
fled from it. Comfort and abundance
have abandoned it. Gloom and melancho
ly reign in its doors. Despair and an
guish howl in its chambers. The cheek
of the wife is wet with tears. Her bos
om ever heaves with sighs—her voice is
choked with sobs. The child on her bos
om looks aged wilh premature woe. In
stead of dimples, wrinkled of sadness mar
its joyless cheeks. It has imbibed woe
from the breast, that ought to have given
it joy along wilh nourishment. But the
“spoiler” alcohol, has been there, and all
is blighted. Wo! to that unhpppy mother.
And behold the misery and destitution
that surrouud her. The house has been
stripped of its comforts to minister to the
appetite of the infatuated inebriate.—
Piece after piece, every article of furni
ture has been dragged to the pawnbro
ker’s to afford him the means of intoxica
tion—as if a plague, or a fire, had ravaged
the dwelling of that hapless wife,—who
sits in cheerless gloom wilh no hope in
her heart, and no prospect of peace but the
grave.
Now turn your gaze to yon bright and
cheerful dwelling, where Temperance a~
bide! Listen to the light laughter of the
I I on nu oUllrl.mn on tknin ni 1 I _
I I J - "J — -•
in sweet melody in their parent’s ears.—
Hark! the happy mother too, sings a blithe
some song, and all is innocence, hilarity
aud peace—each facyadiant with smiles,
and every feature dimpled by a gesture of
joy. What an air of comfort breathes on
all around! How snug the little rooms—
well filled with decent furniture, and all so
clean and neat. The mother’s cheek rud
dy with health, and the “baby," so full of
healthful rapture, that its eyes of love
flash with the love joy. And yonder too,
returns the sober husband, whistling in
heartfelt glee; as the glad wife extends
her hearty welcome, while he clasps each
urchin to his throbbing breast, every nerve
ttumed to the full enjoyment of the sweet
luxury of domestic bliss. This is the fam
ily where Temperance has taken up her
abode; and “thepledge" forms the pride of
the husband and the boast of the wife.—
Look on these two pictures and say—who
would not prefer the joys and comforts of
the former? Who would not live happy
in the house of Temperance—in prefer
ence to the mising of the Drunka’d's den!
From the St. Louis Reveille.
An Emigrant’s Perils.
I1V SOLITTARE.
mi • • i •» .1 .
x tic luc.vjjci ituucu uvvener iiim quiet
home, who has never been tempted wander
from its peaceful precints, has but a faint
idea of the emigrant’s troubles, and many
may tail to deeply sympathise with Mich
ael O’Reily, ihe subject of our sketch; but
there are those who have mingled in the
perilous tide, and can knowingly speak of
it* dangers. “Maybe,” as Michael would
say, “it’s mesilf that has had a full peck
measure of thtm, barrin’ what I injayneous
ly iscaped •’’
Michael’s brother, Patrick had induced
him to quit the little cottage and pratie
patch on the green sod, for a home where
“goold” flowed up the rivers. At the
time we encountered him he had reached
the spot where “a great man intirely,”
had prophecied this shiny metal would
flow to, and he but waited to reach Pat
rick’s home on the Missouri river, to set a
net in the stream and catch his share.—
as he and Mrs. O’R., who was well, but,
naturally enough,“wakely,” 'ras seated
on the boat considering how they could
get further up the stream, a steamboat
runner came to their aid, and forthwith
made every necessary arrangement for ta
king them safe. Michael’s mind being
at ease about that matter, he ventured to
indulge in a whiff of the pipe, when he
was accosted by another of the off-in-twen
ty minutes agents.
“Passage up the Missouri, sir?” en
quires the runner.
“Yis, l’m goin’ wid ye’s,” saysMichacl,
“sure wan uv.you’re boys ingaged men
minnit ago.”
The runner perceivingjin a moment that
his rival had encountered Michael, resolv*
ed to do the aforesaid rival out of his pas«
Scnger, and accordingly hurried him off to
his own, by telling him that steam was up.
The “done” runner on returning and
findig his passenger off, suspected that the
rival boat had secured him, and ventured
upon the “terror experiment” to win him
back. Michael instantcy recognized his
first friend, and saluted him with—
“Pm here, ye see!”
“Yes, but you’ve got yourselt into a
kingdom come snarl, if you only know’d
it, without half tryin.”
Twist the snarl which way Michael
would it sounded unpleasantly, and he
ventured to enquire—
“It’s what did ye say kind of -narl. I
was in!”
“I only just want to open your peepers
to the fact, of having been trapped on board
an old boat, fully insured, with a desperi
ate shaky ’scape pipe, and engaged to be
Mow’d up this trip, so good by old fellow,
you’re ticketed.
“Och! if she’s fully insured, all’s right,”
says Michael, whispering safety to his
heart, “and the boy that I came wid, says
she can run up a tree if there’s a dhrap of
wa ther on it.”
“If she don’t run up a tree,” was the
reply, “she’ll be sure to run agin a snag
gy one, and then, I predicate, so.r.e of her
passengers ’ll be blowed tree high, so
you’re in lor it old boss! Good by,—1
say, if you should see my old uncle down
thar," pointing at the same time signifi
cantly to the rushing river, “the one I
mean who didn’t leave me any money, tell
him for me as he’s gone to the d—1, to
shake himself—will you?” and delivering
himself of this soothing request, he vanish
ed, leaving Michael fancying himself as
tride of a ’scape pipe riding over tree tops,
rocket fashion.
“Och sorra the day I iver put fut among
sich haibins!” soliloquized Michael, “to
talk ofa man’s bein’ blown to smithereens,
as if it was a gentle rap wid a shillaleh—
faith its out uv this I’ll be imigratin’quick,
er than you could peel a pratie,” and forth
with he proceed to move, with all possible
haste, his stock of worldly effects; observ
ing which, the runner who had awoke his
fears, shouted out as a quickener, “don’t
forget uncle, for lie would think it dreadful
mean, if [ didn’t send word by somebody
I knew was goin'' direct
“Leave that luggage alone,” savagely
shouted .he mate, “you can’t leave this
boat—you’re engaged,”
“True for ye’s,” says Michael in a dole
ful tone, “be dad I was otnadhaun enough
to do that sump, and ve’s ran mo .irv
I
when iver you’re a mind to.”
“ We don’t blow her up,” says the mafe„
until the downward trip, unless some gen.
tlemnn’srequesled in his bargain; if you’ve
got a flying ticket we are bound to accom
modate you,” and just at that moment,
whiz went steam-cock.
“Be aisy for the Lord’s sake,” shouted
Michael, “blow her up for the gintleman
cornin’ down, as I’m not used to it, 1 might
fall awkwardly in some man’s apple Orch
ard and desthroy a peach tree—d’ye mind.
Having been assured that all was safe
and that by express desire the blowing up
was deferred, be took his seat at the stern.
As the shades of evening gathered around
the boat and over the waters, the steamer
pushed from her moorings,—the last we
saw of Michael he was holding in one hand
a small string of-beads, with a rosary at
tached, while with the other grasped the
painter of the jolly-boat towing astern,and
his eye with a doubtful but resigned ex
pression, was firmly fixed on the shaky
’scape pipe
Sweetening for his Coffee.—“Mister,
how do you sell sugar to-day?”
“Only 2C^ents the pound, sir.”
“Can’t give it. I’ll drink rtiy coffee
without sugar, and kiss niy wife'fot sweet
ening. Good day, sir.”
“Good day, sir. When yoil get tirey
of that kind of sweetening, please call
again.”
“I will.” He called next day.