The Southern journal., September 02, 1845, Image 1

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

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ISY COHEA & ECU VENEAUX.] jUONTICELLO, MISSISSIPPI, SEPTEMBER 2, 1845. [VOL. VI.-NO. a.
VOX WDWBXIAXi
IS PUBLISHn EVERY TUESDAY EVENING
BY G. J. COIIEA A C. GOrVENEAUX.
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A .. 11 _ .. 1 _a I „ 4 oco
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. ~~" g~(pisfif7
l'rom the N. Y. Mirror.
Moonlight.
I cannot, oh! I cannot sleep,
Beneath the full moon’s beam;
For busy thoughts their vigils keep,
And sport ’midst waking dreams.
Just such a moon, one summer night,
Long lost in Time’s abyss,
Shone o’er a scene, as lovely, bright,
And bcauliiul as this.
Just such a moon looked down and smiled
With rays as soft and ciear.
On a broad stream, as free and wild,
As the glad Delaware, here..
There was no cloud upon that sky,
ISior in my heart a care—
Where’er 1 turned my raptured rye,
Hope met the vision there.
She wrought her golden hues among
The images of earth,
And mingled with the starry throng,
Like them, of heavenly birth.
The leaves slept on the moveless trees,
All through those night-long liouis;
For e’en the gentle summer breeze
Had fainted on the flowers.
As if with perfume rich, oppressed,
Or weary with the sighs,
Which softly lulled each scene to rest,
Beneath the spotless skies.
The waters only mourned their lot,
With low and planlivc wail,
That they alone could slumber not
\\ .tun lire pcacctut vale.
Bu. ali! their bosom’s deep unrest,
The outward calm,still broke,
And moved the waves upon their breast
And sounding murmurs woke.
The \vhippootwill’s wild chorus rung,
And echoed from afar;
And listening, on their orbits hung
Full many a brilliant star.
Dar k mountains in the outline lay,
I seem to see them new—
Uprising, as to meet half.way,
The moonbeams on their brow.
Contemplative and stern they stood,
In eastern shadows east;
Their tops high crowned with forest
wood,
The growth of ages past.
The poetry of life was there,
In music, in my heart—
And Nature’s painting, rich and fair,
Beyond the touch of art.
Years have departed—and those scenes
No more may meet my view,
Yet still life’s sweet poetic dreams,
Unwearied I pursue.
I love, in musing neood, to trace
Creations of the brain,
And give them in my heart, a place,
The world holds nought so vain.
And when the moon, as now is high,
And Nature’s charms are full,
Earth’s shadows pass unheeded by,
Lost in the beautiful.
The pale exotics of the mind,
Transplanted here 1 brina,
And new delights essay to find
In their fresh blossoming.
Their buds more slowly may unfold,
Their flowers may be more frail,
But in my heart, as oft of old ,
Their sweetness will exhale.
And thoughts which came uncalled and
flowed
Spontaneous to my pen,
And in gay fancy’s colors glowed, ^
Will here return again.
Where everv uietured scene is hrifrht.
Iri radiant.beauty drest,
By suu or moon, by day or n'glit,
Romance must fill the breast.
Here in the country’s calm retreat,
God in his works appears,
And objects, beautiful and sweet,
Seem types of brightest spheres.
The wild bird to his Maker sings,
Tall forests wave in air,
And whisper of the King of kings,
Oh, poetry is there!
’Tis Nature’s language, and the heart,
Which rises not to heaven,
But claims alone on cat th its part;
How can it lie forgiven?
Estelle.
The Man who lost his Pants.
The following is a passage from the
laughable tale of “Desperation,'" one ol
the rich articles which are embraced in
the “Literary remains of Willis Gay
lord Clark.” It is on'y necessaay to pre
mise that the writer is a Philadelphia stu
dent w ho, after ‘a stolen fornight among
the guides of Washington city, finds him
self (through the remissness of a chum) a:
Baltimore on his way home, without a pen
ny in his pocket. He stops at a fashiona
ble hotel, nevertheless, where after tarry
ing a day or two, he finally at the heel of a
| great dinner, omnis solus in Iiis private a
partment, flanked with 'abundant Chanr
paignc and Burgundy, resolves to disclose
all to the landlord.—Summoning a servant
he says:
“Ask the landlord to step up to my room
and bring his hill.”
He clattered down stairs giggling, and
shortly after his master appeared. lie en
tered with a generous smile, that mr.de
me hope for the best the house could af
ford, and that just then was credited.
! “IIow much do I owe you?” said 1.
He handed me the bill, with all the
grate of polite expectancy.
“Let me sec—seventeen dollars. How
very reasonable! But my dear sir, the
most disagreeable part of the business is
now to bo told. I grieve to inform you,
I that at present I am out of money—but 1
i know by your philanthropic looks that you
will be satisfied when I tell you that if I
had it, l would give it you with unqualified
: pleasure. But you see my not having the
I change by me is the reason I don’t do it;
i and I am sure you will let the matter stand
and say no more about it. I am a stran
ger to you, that’s a fact; but in the place
where I came from, all my acquaintances
know me as easy as can be.”
The landlord turned all colors.
“Where do you live, any how?”
“In Washing-. I should have said
in Philadelphia.”
His eyes flashed with angry disappoint
ment.
“I see how it is, Mister; my opinion is
that you aTe a blackleg, don’t know where
your home is. You begin with Washing
ton, and then you drop in for Philadelphia.
You must pay your bill.”
“But I can’t.”
“Then I’ll take your clothes; If I don’t
blow me tight
“Scoundrel 1” said I, rising bolt upright,
“do it if you dare, and leave the rest to
me.’
There was no more words. He rose
deliberately, seized my hat and only inex
pressibles, and walked down stairs.
Physicians say that no two excitements
can exist at the same time in one system.
External circumstances drove away, al
most immediately, the confusion of my
'' brain.
1 arose and looked out the window.—
The snow was descending as l drummed
on the pane. What was I to do? An
unhappy wight, suns culottes in a strange
city—no money, and slightly inebriated.
A thought struck me. I had a large, full
cloak, with my other apparels, save those
he took, the landlord had spared. 1 dies"
J sed myself immediately, drew on my boots
over nay fine while drawers, not unlike
small clothes; put on my cravat, vest and
coat—laid a travelling cap from my trunk
jauntingly over my forehead, and flinging
my fine mantle about me, made my wav
through the hall into the street.
Attracted by shining lamps on the por
tico of a new hotel, a few squares from my
first lodgings. I entered, recorded some
name on the boons, and bespoke a bed.—
Every tiling was fresh and neat, and every
servant attentive; all augured right. 1
kept myself closely cloaked, puffed a ci
j gar, vveni to neu to mature my plot.
| “Waiter, just brush my clothes well, my
fine fellow.” I said in the morning,—
“mind the pantaloons, don’t spill any thing
from the pockets, there’s money in them
both.”
‘I don’t see no pantaloons.’ 1
i ‘The deuce you don’t. Where are they.’
‘Can’t tell, 1 snum, (his eyes as big as
j saucers,) I don’t know, as true as I am a*
; live!’
I
‘Go dow n sirrah, end tell your master to
come up here immediatelyThe publi
can was with me; in a moment.
‘Landlord!’I exclaimed,‘I have been
! robbed in you* house, robbed sir, robbed!
; My pantaloons and a purse containing
I three $50 notes tire gone! This is a pret
ty hotel. Is this the way yon fulfil the in
junctions of scripture? Iain a strangot
and find myself taken in wi ll a vengeance.
I will expose you at once if 1 am not re'
j comport set!.’
“Pray keep your temper,” said the agi
gated publican. ‘I have just opened this
j house, is is getting a good run, would you
i ruin its reputation for an accident? 1
; will find out the villain who lias robbed
you, and send tor a tailor to measure you
for your missing garments. Your money
j shall be refunded. Do you not see that
j your temper is useless?’
t\r., .1...... • _ i .1_.i. c. i.• j
I ..—. . ......... ,)~... .......
ness; I did not mean to reproach you. 11
| ihosc trousers can be done to-day, I shall
be satisfied, for time is far more precious
than money. You may keep the others if
i you find them, and in exchange for the one
| hundred and fifty dollars which you give
| me, their contents are yours.’
| The next evening with my new inex
pressibles and one hundred and forty dol
lars in my purse, I called on my guardian
| in Philadelphia for sixty dollars. He gave
me a lecture on collegiate desertion that 1
shall not soon forget. 1 enclosed the mon
ey back to my honorable landlord by the
first post, settled my bill at old Crusty’s
the first publican, and got my trunk by
mail.
God seen in all his Works.
A TALE FROM THE GERMAN.
In that beautiful part ofGctmany which
borders on the Rhine, there is a noble cas
tle which as you travel on the western
bank of the river, you may see lilting its
ancient towers on the opposite side, above
the yrove of trees about as old as itself.
About forty years ago, there lived in
that castle a noble gentleman, whom we
shall call Baron-. He had only one
sdn, wild was not only a comfort to his fa
ther, hut a blessing to all who lived on his
father’s land.
It happened on a certain occasion that
this young man being from home, there
came a French gentleman to see the cas
tle, who began to talk of his heavenly Fa
ther in terms that chilled the old„rnan’s
blood; on which the Baron reproved him,
saying, “Are you not afraid of offending
God, who reigns above by speaking in
such a manner?” The gentleman said he
knew nothing about God, for he had nev
er seen him. The Baron this time did not
notice what the gentleman said, but he
next morning took him about his castle
grounds, and took occasion first to show
him every beautiful picture that hung on
the wall. The gentleman admired the
picture very much, and said, “whoever
drew this picture knows very well how to
use the pencil.”
‘My son drew that picture,1 said the Ba
ron,
•Then your son is a clever man,’ replied
j the gentleman.
The Baron then went with his visitor
into the garden, and showed him many
beautiful flowers and plantations of forest
trees.
•Who has the ordering of this garden?’
asked the gentleman.
‘My son,1 replied the Baron; “he knows
every plant, I may say from the cedar of
Lebanon to the hyssop on the wall.1
‘indeed,1 said the gentleman, ‘J shall
think very highly of him soon.’
The Baron then took him into the vil
lage and showed him a small, neat cottage,
where his son had established a school,
and where lie caused all young children
who had lost their parents to be received
and nourished at his own expense. The
children in thoT house looked so inno
cent and so happy that the gentmnn was
very much pleased and when he returned
to the castle he said to the Baron, ‘what a
happy man jou arc to have so good a son!'
‘How do you know I have so goods
’ son?’
‘isecause 1 liave seen his works and, 1
know that ho must be good and clever, ii
he has done all that you have showed me.'
•But you have not seen him.’
‘No, but l know him very well,, because
I jddge of him by his works.’
‘True,’replied the Baron,‘and in this
way I judge ot the character of our hcav
: tidy Father. "1 know by his works, iha
he is a being of infinite wisdom, and pow
er and goodness. ’
The Frenchman felt the force of the re
proof ahil was careful not to ofl’end the
good Baron any more by his remarks.
Scientifically Obscure.
i iic lute Dr. Wilson, senior Fellow ol
Trinity College, Dublin, though a ver\
grave than himself, was fond of quizzing
and puzzling the country folks who came
to inquire after their relatives and friends
in the college. One day, seeing a man
standing in the court, with a letter in his
hand, gaping and staring about, and not
knowing where to go, lie walked up tc
him gravely, and inquired what he wanted,
The man answered:
“Sir. can you tell me where i may fine
Mr. Delahunt?”
“Yes,” said the doctor; “do you sce.thc
building before you?”
“Yes.”
l nen cruelty tins quadrangle, anu take
! tl'.e diameter of the plot beyond it, enter
i the opening before you, and ascend the
j ligneous grades; then turn to your left, and
! you will find him either peripatounding in
| iiis cubicle, dorraitating in his iectory,
or periscopounting through his fenes
tra.”
The poor man, who understood nothing
of all this, and not remembering one word
but the last, said:
“And pray, sir,” “what is tile fencs
! tra?”
To which the doctor replied:
“It is an orifice in an edifice to admit lu
minous particles.”
“Oil, thank you,” said the poor fel
low, a:.d walked off more perplexed than
j before.
! Having One’s own Way, and
Doing as One Pleases.
Most people would be inclined to assert,
unthinkingly, that no difference existed
between “having one’s own way,” and
“doing as one pleases,”—that in the two
phrases there is a distinction without a
difference—yet Paulding clearly proves the
contrary, as the following extract will
show, to the entire comprehension and per
fect conviction, wc doubt not, of every Be
nedict that shall read it.
“Well, but I suppose you have your own
way for all that?”
“Have my own way! what d’ye take me
for, stranger? Wasn’t I born, no, not
I'orn, but raised in Old Ken luck; and d’yq
think I wouldn’t have rny way and my say,
if an earthquake stood on one side, and a
flash of lightning on the other, and crossed
their arms right before me, as much as to
say, stand where younre! But a man may
have his own way, and yet somehow or
other not do just a3 he pleases—after
all.”
‘■1 don’t see exactly how.”
“No? well then, I’ll split the log for yon.
Sec here now, what 1 call having my own
way, is doing a thing in spite of what other
people may say or do to prevent me; and
what I call doing as I please, is to have no
body to come about me and put on theii
wise airs, and tell me I’d better not, or 1
shall repent, or I’d wish some day or othei
i’d took their advice, and worry and fret t
feller’s soul into a knot hole, so that.when
he does take his own way, at last, he wab
bles about like abroad-horn in an eddy, in
stead of shooting right strait ahead, like all
nature, and after all, as I said before
lias no pleasure in having his own and
only way.”
The Hero of tlTe Plague.
When the plague raged violently at
Marseilles, every link of affection wasbro
j ken—the father turned from the child—the
i r___ r...i_ t , .
-*‘wv -wnujuibC ttliu Hi*
gratitude no longer excited indignation.—
Misery is at its height when it thus des
troys every generous feeling—thus dis
solves every tie of humanity. The city
. became a desert—grass grew in the streets
a funeral met you at every step. The
phy sicians assembled in a body aflhe Ho
tel do Ville, to hold a consultation on the
fearful disease, for which no remedy had
yet been discovered. After a long con
saltation, they decided, unanimously, tha1
the malady had a peculiar and mysterious
character, which opening a corpse might
develop—an operation which it was im
possible to attempt, since the operator mus
infallibly become a victim in a few hours
beyond the power of human art to save
him, as the violence of the attack would
preclude their administering the customary
remedies.
j A dead pause succeeded this fatal de
claration. Suddenly a surgeon, named
Guyon, in the prime ot life, and of great
celebrity in ids profession, rose, and said,
firmly—
‘•Be it so; I devote my life for the safety
of my country. Bctore this numerous as
sembly 1 promise in the name of humanity
and religion, that to-morrow, at the brealt
of day, I will dissect a corpse, and write
as 1 proceed, what I observe.”
He left the assembly instantly. They
admire him—lament his fate—and doubi
whether he will petsist in lyis des ign. The
intrepid and pious Guyon, animated by al
the sublime energy religion or patfiotisn
: can inspire, acted up to his word. He hac
married, and was rich; and he imme
diately made his will, dictated by justice
j and piety.
A man had died in his house withir
J twenty-four hours. Guyon, at day-break
j shut himself up in the same room. Full o.
_ _1_1 I. _ M,
V»<»UUIUUU>J IltAV.* IIV 11.H uiuu; III til Ul
collected. Kneeling before the corpse, lie
wrote:—
“Mouldering tenement of an immorta
soul, not only can 1 gaze on thee withou
horror, but even with joy and gratitude.—
i'hou open t» me the gates of a glorious
eternity. In discovering to me the secre
cause of the terrible plague which destroys
my native city, thou wilt render my sacri
fice useful. Oh, God! Thou will bless
the action. Thou thyself hast inspirec
me!”
lie began—he finished the dreadfu
operation—and recorded in detail his sur
gical observations. lie then left the room
j threw the papers into a vase of vinegar
| and immediately sought llie Lazaretto—
where he died in twelve hours—a deal!
! ten thousand times more glorious than the
warrior, who, to sine his country, rushes
on the enemy’s ranks—since he advances
with hope at least, and sustained, admired,
and seconded by a whole army.
Physicians, who remain firm in the dis
charge of their duties, while the fears ol
i their fellow citizens are prompting them ti
! fly from contagion, display that moral cou
; rage which is far superior to the physical
energy which sustains the soldier in battle,
as mind is superior to matter.
i.
and
up
Ute following list of moral virtues, to which
he paid constant and earnest attention, and
thereby made himself a better and a hap
pier man:
Temperance—Eat not to fulness; drink
not to elevation.
Silence—Speak not but what may benv
efit others or yourself; avoid trifling con
versation .
Order—Let all your things have their
places; let each part of your business have
its time.
Resolution—Resolve to perform what
ever you ought; perform without fail what
you resolve.
Frugality—Make no expense, but do
good to others or yourself; that waste box
thing.
Industry—Lose no time; be always em
ployed in something useful; cut off all unx
necessary actions.
Sincerity—Use no hurtful deceit; think
innocently and justly; and if you speak,
speak accordingly.
Justice—Wrong none by doing injuries,
or omitting the benefits that are your duty.
Moderation—Avoid extremes; forbear
resenting injuies.
Cleatiliness—Suffer no uncleanliness in
body, clothes, or habitation.
Tranquility—Be not disturbed about trr;
fles, or at accidents common or unavoida
ble.
Humility—Imitate Jesus Christ.
Cuff’s Millenium Sermon.
Oh, belubbed breddren and sistern, de
time am cum for us alt for to go: De carf
__r.. _ „ i » .: i .
,-- iuci, auu uc uu—
believin sinners am roiin off ob it like mag
gots rolin offob a dead boss; de lass great
sheep shearin time hab aribc; an de lord
hab marcy on your dirty black wool, for
de debil will singe it up like a coon’s tail
on a coal fiali,~Oh, den dar will ba*a
bleatin and blowin ob dar sinful noses; de
lambs will bleat arterdeyew, and deyews
will bleat arler de ram, and de ram will try
for to butt his brains out backwards;for at
dat awful moment he won’t know his bder
i end from bis todder end, but de good shall
1 go up wid me in my ascension spirits.—
Dem spirits am in de trowserloon pocket
| ob my coat tail; it aint ardent spirits, bred*
ern—it am balloon spirits called click
! oho! hydrogin, and wc’il all take a pull ob
| it, and dat pull will take us up, fiah proof
to glory, and we’ll soar from dis combus
ted un corrupt arth as turkey buzzards
soar from de carrion. Amen,
The Mississippi Woman.
She is generally graceful in her figure,
slow in gait, mild in her looks, proud in
mein, engaging in her conversation, quick
at blushing, chaste in her manners, impro*
irinr* nnn.'ntn n/i.^ ___4- _ C_I
| - -"0--1'.[jvuviwuu IV U IUUUj
ready to weep with one in distress, solici
tous for the poor, eminnently humane, con*
stant in her attachment, a fond-wife a ten*
■ tier mother, tenacious of her word, jealous
j of her honor, prudent in her conduct, cir
1 cmnspect in her house, but what is very
' natural cannot keep a secret.
A western editor has the following burst
of patriotism in his prospectus:
Devotion to the land that gave me birth,
and the glorious principles under which I
have been reared, has forced me into the
; ranks of her illustrous champions. I shall
; continue to defend her rights unawed by
1 power, unseduced by wealth. But if the
1 cash don’t begin to come in, I’m darned if
1 don’t have to slope.
“Do you hear this, Girls'.”— Young la*
dies who arc accustomed to read newspa*
pers, are always observed to possess win
ning ways, most amiable dispositions, inva
riably good wives, and always select good
husbands.
Evils in the Journy ot Life are like the
hills which alarm travellers upon the road;
thoy both appear great at distance.but when
we approach them we find they are far less
; insurmountable than wo had conceived.
A man who was in the habit of talking
to himself, being asked by his wife why he
did so, replied that he liked to converse
with man of sense.