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SOUTHERN JOURNAL. m COHEA & GOUVENEAUX.] MONTICELLO, MISSISSIPPI, SEPTEMBER 9, 1845. j-y0L. VI ^NO 9 ■wmm ■PUBLISHD EVERY TUESDAY EVENING r G. i. COIIEA k C. QOUVENEAUX, TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. $2 00, For one year in advance. $H 50 At the end of six months, or,* $3 00 at the end of the year. No deduction whatever will be made from the above prices. Those who pay within one monthsfterthe timeofsubscribm gwill be con sidered as having paidin advance,but in every instance where payment ia not made in that time, the terms stated above will be demand ed. Unless otherwise previously directed, the subscription will be regarded as for the entire yenr. No paper discontinued, unless f*t the option of the publisher, until all arrearages are paid. Wearethus explicit because we wish to avoid trouble anddisputein the collection of our subscription money. We beg that all who subscribe for the Journal, will note the terms of the subesription. TERMS OP ADVERTISING. 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I From the Boston Rerordcr. flkg- Angel Whispers. ■ nv OLIVER CRANE. ft A nice at evening cotnelh » h whispers soft and low, I As when th’eolian hummeth, I Ot echoes come and go; 1 a voice that calleth cairn to rest, Ere'yetthe sun-beams own the west. When twilight fast conccalelh The shadows of the hill, That music on me stealeth. As gently and as still; And on the zephyr’s thrilling lay, 1 hear in whispers, “come away.” Again as night advanceth Upon me all alone, While gay the moonbeam danceth To night-winds’ cheerless moan, I hear on every leafy spray, “Come, lonely watcher, come away.” The morn in freshened beauty Hath oped the teeming day, And forth at call of duty, I o’er the meadow stray; And, then above the insects’ hum, I hear it, “pilgrim come, oh! come.” i well* ui'aiui; me nvci9 To court the freshening air, And in each leaflet’s quiver I hear it every where In spirit-breathings gently say, “Come, wearied pilgrim, why delay?” I list upon the distance The bell’s funeral toll, The knell of changed existence, The parture of a soul; I list, and, as its echoes stay, I hear it, “pilgrim come away.” ’Tis eve, and buoyant As youth I seek the hill, To listen to the joyant, Yet plaintive whip-po*will; And, still above that thrilling note, I hear those gentle breathings float. They float, and as their measure Still lingers on mine ears, Awaking into pleasure The scenes of other years, Those soft, persuasive tones repeat, * “Up! pilgrim, own thy glory seat.” Around me as are falling The voices of the grove, I hear that spirit-calling Breathing where’er I rove, “Lone wanderer, hence no longer roam, Up! hie thee quickly, hie thee home.” Benevolence is always a virtuous prin ciple. Its operations always secure to oth ers lhcir,natural rights and it liberally su peradds more than they are entitled to claim. The Frozen Fairy. A band of fairies, making a flying tov by moonlight, came suddenly upon th borders of a northern forest. Alternat storms of snow and rain had fallen, an left the trees enrobed in garments of virgi whiteness. The full moon, shining bri liantly upon the thick branches, and casi ing slanting slmdows through the dii aisles of the wood festooned with icicle and paved with gems of frost, made th scene one of dazzling splendor. The fa ries folded their rainbow colored wings, an gazed in mute wonder, for never had the beheld aught to gorgeous. But when th night blast swept over them, they shud dered, and bethought them of the warr light of their own bright halls. As they were departing, one of th fairies of the band came and bowe< low before the queen, murmuring, boon!” “What wilt thou ?” said the fairy sov ereign, touching the suppliant with her tin sceptre. “Ollet me dwell in this beautiful placi gracious queen!” was the request. “Foolish one! wouldst thou forsake th sisters for this cold, glittering land? Thf be it so! Farewell!” And they sped light down the valley. The fairy, rejoicing in her new at splendid lot, danced gaily under theglcai ing forest roof, and sang many a rich car among the boughs which arched over h like a jewelled canopy. The snow spirit listened with adiniratl to her song, as it rang clear and sweet thi the wood. But long ere the moon waned, her voi faltered, and her step became languid. She had forgotten that her fragile fo»m w made for a sunnier clime, and might r bear the chill air which pervaded abo tier.' Slowly aho yielded to tho pierci cold, and at last sank benumbed upon snow-wreath! Oh! how she longed nestle in the arms of one of her siste amid the silvery fountains and perenn flowers of her own loved and lovely fai land. The snow spirits, in their spangl robes, gathered about her, but their voic were strange, and their breath fell like i upon her cheek. The stars looked do\ upon her with a cold, distant glance.. Flashes of rrdiancfr shot ever and am athwart the sky above her, seeming to mo her agony. All about her was glorious the land of dreams; but what was its brig!: ness to her. Faintly arose the last cry of the fair' “Sisters! O, sisters! take me borne!—I a freezing!” Humble, yet gifted one! sigh not telea the fond hearts which (^circle thee in tl lowly home! Pine not fora dwelling that “land of mysterious gleams,” the wi and shining land of Fame. Many are ti souls whose warm affections have bei congealed by its frigid air. Its splendor wondrous, but delusive as the glittcrii ice-forest, for all above,around, and benea is cold—freezing cold! The Old Soldier. HY II. HASTINGS WELD. He had heed to the Pension Office. Tl generosity—if generosity consists in defc ring a benefit until the recipient is past tl enjoyment of it—or justice; if justice co sists in withholding the veteran’s dues ti he is ready to go down to the grave, (gen rosity or justice—call it what you will,v can call it neither,) had at last award) with a pension, an infirm old man! Tl burden of old age and hope deferred, hi made him sick of life. The death fil was even now measurably drawn over tl eye, once sparkling; the pace, which w: once firm and confident in the strength youth and the pride of patriotism, had b come irregular and tottering; and the man form, once erect and commanding, w bowed down—age and suffering had doi it. He was a stranger in the metropoli infirmity and neglect had broken down h body, but his spirit could better sustain i self; and a bitter sense of neglect he he suffered from those who should have r membered him, had kept him in solitud He would not offer a living comparison b< tween the men who achieved and the mt who have profited by the achievcmen (without exertion of their own. The co; scious victim of cruel neglect ani ingrati tude, he considered the tardy justice of his r countrj a mockery, and nought but his e abject |overty, and a wish to die ‘square e with ths world,’ had induced him to apply d for it. n ‘Am. now,’ said lie, ‘I will pay my debts ‘ and die’ ' Thechange of objects in the city be n wildered him. He gazed upon the spacious s and elegant edifices which bad in his ab B sense superseded old and familiar objects; but he gazed with hurried and uncertain d glances, as if doubting his senses. The ' bustling forms of a generation who have B forgotten the Revolution, flitted past him without heeding him; the pensioner was 1 alone in the city! Amased that the lapse Of time had wrought such wonders, he felt 5 like a slangerin a strange land, and that 1 too—on the very soil that he had de. I fended. His venerable appearance attracted the notice of a passer by, who perceived the old > man was bewildered tendered his services to conduct him home. ‘Home! I have no home. I was at home here in ’70, but I am forgotten y no w!’ n A transient gleam of anger flashed from y the veteran’s eye—but in a moment it pas sed away, and the vacancy of his cuuntc ld nance relumed. II ‘Where am 1? Oh! 1 have been to take ol the gift of Congress; let me go and pay my Jr debts Before I die.’ The gift!—here again his eye was light >n ed—and his bearing spoke the proud and 0 wounded spirit—broken, but not subdued. An honest feeling of indignation mastered -e him; striving, as if strong in the pride of — youth, to avoid the unfeeling and inperti as nent curiosity of the crowd who surround* ot ed him, he sunk exhausted on the pave ut ment. '8 ‘Take him to the police office for a vag a rani!' said one of the crowd. ‘Take yourselfofT for an unfeeling brute!' rs> said the honest fellow who had first addres al sed the veteran. ‘But’ catching him by ry the collar as he essayed to walk away— 3d ‘stop first, and give me the old man’s pock 09 et book! I saw you take it—hand over. :e or I’ll tear you limb from limb!’ ,n ‘Throttle him,’ cried one of the crowd— “ ‘a scoundiel! rob a pensioner!’ >n ‘Take him to the police,’ and the :k old man’s wallet fell from the culprit in IS the scuffle. The pensioner was recognized by some one in the crowd, and he passively suffered himself to be put [into a coach. lie was m conveyed to a shelter, and having happily fallen into good hands, attention for a cou pie of days partially restored his exhausted ,*n energies. An indistinct remembrance of k the events we have narrated flitted occa sionally across his mind, but he remember ed the events of ’76 better than those of ja yesterday, and the countenance of those who had been his rnmnaninns im arma war* Itr more distinctly marked in his memory— than the new ones he had seen the day be fore. When about to be put on board the stage to be conveyed home, his mind again wandered. ‘That’s right—carry me to Congress— le give me my due. I have fought for it. r* Congress said I should have it. The old le man’s wallet was put into his hand, i" ‘Oh, yes, I knew I should get it; they II could not so soon forget the old soldier; but e- so late—let me pay my debts and die. 1 re can live no longer. But somebody stole id it—they got it away from me; they could le not do it fifty years ago'.but I’ve got it now, id havn’t 11 No, they didn’t keep it—they in would steal the old man’s money. They le could not keep it—the God ofbattles would is blast them for it—God have mercy on sf them—they didn’t fight for it. Let me pay my debts and die. My children are y all dead—my wife died in—in—the poor is house—and me—I don’t want to live any le longer—nobody knows me now—let me i; die! is The stage stopped at——. Hitherto t- during the ride the old man had been si d lent. Forgetful of the present, inattentive to things about him, his mind was back s. among other scenes. A long, long reverie !■ and one from which he was never to awa n ken! His lips moved rapidly, though no t, sound was audible; involuntary and spas<> l- modic emotions evinced the activity of his i mind. He was busily communing with the friends and reviewing the events of youth. Poor old man! fifty years ajpcc seemed to him but yesterday. One of the lone isolated survivors of another race, he had no communion with those nround him. Dwelling upon the hardships, the privations, the dangers, the escapes, the victories of another age, his frame infirm and old, could not support the recollections, as once in the day of strength he withstood the reality. ‘Hark!’ murmured the old man. All eyes turned towards him. He raised him. gelfon his staff and leaned forward. His eyes beamed with supernatural animation, and.contrasted fearfully with his shrunken countenance; his hat had fallen, and his silver locks moved on the ligh.' air—his lips compressed, his posture firm! Oh God! was his death struggle? The roll of a distant drun fell on his ear—he grasp ed his staff firmly as once lie held his fire lock. A bugle saunded clear and full lie side the coach—‘For Congress and the peo ple, cha—!’—He voice ceased, he fell back to his seat, a husky rattling in his throat succeeded— The spirit #f the Revolutionary patriot had departed. From the St. Louis Reveille. Kicking A Yankee. V very handsome friend of ours, who- a lev weeks ago was polked out of acomfor taae ofhee up the river has betaken him* sell to Bangor, for a time to recover from the wound inflicted upon his feelings by our“unprincipledand immolating admin istration .” Change of air must have had an instant effect upon his spirits, for from Galena, he writes us an amusing letter, which, among other things tells of a desperate quarrel that took place on board of the boat be tween a real lire dandy tourist, and a real live yankec srllcr. The latter trod on the toes of the former; whereupon the for mer threatenedto “kick out of the cabin” the latter. “You’ll kick me out of this cabing?” “Yes, sir, l’l kick vou ont of this cab' in.” “You’ll kick me; Mr. Hitchcock out ol this cabing?” ‘Yes, sir, I’ll kck you, Mr. Hitchcock!' “Well, I guesj” said the yankee, very coolly, after beiig perfectly satisfied that it was himself wio stood in such imminent peril of assault—“I guess, since you talk of kicking, youVe never heard tell about old Bradley andmy mare there tu hum?” “No sir, nor 10 I wish-” “VVal, guess t won’t set you back much any how, as kicung’s generally best to be considered oi. You see, old Bradley is one of these sanctimonious, long*faccd hy pocrites, whcput on a religious suit every Sabbath daymorniug, and with a good deal of screwing manage to keep it on till after sermonin the afternoon. Wal, he had an old rtan mare that would jump over any sixteen rail fence in lllinoise, &.open a uaiu mat mu m o pauiucit uu u. 1 wu ur three times I found her in my stable; and f told Bradley about it, and he was ‘very sorry’—‘an unruly animal’—would ‘watch her,’ and a hul lot of such things, all said in a very serious manner, with a face twice as long as old Deacon Farrar’s on Sabbath day. I knew all the time that he was |y. ing, and so 1 watched him and the old roan tu; and for three nights regular, old roan came to my stable about bed time, and jusi at day light Bradley would come, bridle her and ride her off. I then just took my old mare down to lire blacksmith’s shop, and had some shoes made with ‘corks’ a bout four inches long, and had ’em nailed on to her hind feet. Your heels, mister ain’t nothing to ’em. I took her home, gave her about ter feet halter, and tied her right in the centre of the stable, fed her well with oats about nine o’clock, and after taking a gooc smoke, and went to bed, knowing that my old mare was a truthitelling animal, anc that she’d give a good report of herself ir the morning. I had’nt got fairly to sleef before the old ’oman hunched me, anc wanted to know what on earth was th< matter at the stable. Says I, ‘go to sleep Peggy, it is nothing but Kate—she i: kicking off flies, I guess.’ Purty soor she hunched me again and says she, ‘Mr Hitchcock, du git up and see what in the world is the matter with Kate, for she is kicking most powerfully’ ‘Lay still, Peg gy—Kate will take care ofherself, I guess.’ VYal, the next mornin’ about day light, Bradley, with bridle in hand, cum to the stable, and as-true as the book of Genesis, when he saw the old roan’s sides, starn and head, he cursed and swore worse than you did, mister, when J came down on your toes. “Arter breakfast that mornin’ Joe Da vis cum to my house, and says he, ‘Brad ley’s old roan is nearly dead—she’s cut all to pieces, and can scarcely move-’ ‘I want to know,’ says 1, ‘how on airth did it happen?’ Now whilst we were talkin’, up cum that evarlastin’ hypocrite Bradley, and says he, ‘Mr. Hitchcock my old roan is ruined!’ ‘Du tell,* says I. ‘She is cut all to pieces,’ says he; ‘do you know whe ther she wa3 in your stable last night?’— Wal mister, with this I let out: ‘Do you know it?’—the yankee here, in illustra ting, made a sudden a<jvanc-< upon the dandy, who made way for him unconsci ously, as it were—‘Do you know it? you no-souled, squash-headed, old night owl you!—you hay-hookin’ corn-cribhin’, fod fodder-fudgin’, cent-shavin’ whittlin’ of no thin’ you!—Kate kicks like a mere dum beast, but Pve reduced the thing to a sci ence!” [The yankee had not ceased to advance, or the dandy, in his astonish ment, to refteat; and now, the motion of me latter being accelerated by an appar ent demonstration on the part of the for mer to “suit the action to the word,” he found himself in the ‘social hall,’ tumbling backwards over a pile of baggage, and tear ing the knees of his pants as he scrambled up, a perfect scream of laughter stunning him from all sides. The defeat was total; a few moments afterwards he was seen dragging his own trunk ashore, while Mr. Hitchcock finished his story on the boiler deck] Will You Answer. The foilwing questions deserve an an swer from the classes of persons alluded to below. They are of a character not to be passed by without serious reflection. ‘ ‘ What arc you doing?"—What are you doing, young man, you who are dressed so neat and trim? 'Your hands appear never to be soiled, and your bosom is without a speck or a wrinkle. You never work, and have time to devote to any amusement.— Did you ever ask yourself, what would be the consequences of an idle life? Do you wish us to tell you? Go to the state pris on, or to the work house, and see for you self. You will come away a better man, we’ll be bound to say. And you sir, what are you doing? You are often seen at the door of a groggery.— Know you not the thoughts of many who see you t i nere is a young man malting a fool of himself. His cheek his eye, bis words, his general appearance, indicate it.” Then why not turn about and be come a man, respected? Just turn over a new leaf to-day, and it will be the saving j of you. Persist in your drinking and loaf j ing propensities, and they will lead you down, down, down to destruction. This j you know—at least you ought to know it, for you have an examples enough before you to confirm the fact. Whot are you doing, young man with a cigar in your mouth, and a whip in your hand? On an excursion of pleasure, hey? You better take the money you pay for horse hire, and cancel your shoemaker’s or tailor’s bill. Your extravagant habits will make a pauper of you, or something worse. Reform to-day. Throw away your cigar, and ride no more until you are able. What are you doing, Miss Folly? No wonder you are considered a walking dry good dealer’s sign, with such an abundance of fine clothing on your back. But who likes you the better for that? Would it not be as well to keep at home and learn to sew and knit, to sweep the floor and rinse the clothes, as to dash about the streets? Ask you mother, and if she has common sense, she will tell you so. Your i neighbors will, we know. Who do you i suppose will be able to support you, if you i continue to cut such a figure?—Scarcely a man in Christendom. Be wiso then; . dress neatly, but not gaudily. Spend less time in the streets than you do in the kitch en, and you will never regret it. To all, we say, go straight forward in the path of duty—turning neither to the right nor the left, and you will be such persons as high Heaven looks down upon with approbation. A Tin-pedlarVJokel Mynheer von Speckleburg, was a portly landlord, six foot in height, and weighing some three hundred pounds, who lived in a quiet settlement not far from the great city of New Amsterdam in the days of the redoubtable Peter Stuyvasant, Gov. of his Dutch Majesty’s possessions in America. This same Mynheer von Speckleburg was considered the wit of the little village in which he lived, and was very fond of pre ying himself such, when ever a traveller stopped at his door, upon whom be thought there was a chance of putting a joke. One evening a tin-pedlar drove up to his house and gave directions to have his team put up for the night. As he was the ‘first live Yankee’ ever known in that re* gion, the bar-room was soon filled with worrtiy burghers anxious to see one of those people of whom they had heard so much. mi i i i ii i . • ■ < . . . i tie uiu muuiuru aimougn ne naa neara something of Yankee jokers, still felt con fident in his powers, and soon commenced a running fire of Dutch witicisms levelled at the pedlar, who however seemed to take little notice of them, but sat comforta. bly whittling a chip in (he corner; after a while he looked up and calmly surveying ‘mine host1 seemed to dwell with much sat isfaction on the old gentleman’s abdominal preponderance, offered to bet a sum sufii cient to moisten the throats of the compa ny, that he would swallow the great Myn heer von Spcckleburg, big belly and all? The bet was accepted &. the Yankee pro* ceeded immedately to business. He di rected the Dutchman to divest himself of ms coai anu doois ana stimuli bbusuii at full length on an old table standing in the bar-room; this having been done, Jona than, after opening his mouth several times so wide as to make the honest land-* lord wish he had not been so willing to bet, ravenously seized the Dutchman’s great toe with his teeth, which caused him to make a furious plunge and exclaim, “Dunder and blixen vat you pites me toe for.” “Why you old goose,1 said Jonathan, “You didn’t think I was goin1 to swallcr yer whole did ye?” Mynheer agreed to pay the toast and toddy. The Consummation. ’Twas twilight. Seated at the door of a moss-covered cottage, was the pride of the village—lovely Phoebe. Her finely moulded form—her exquisite and voluptu ous bust—her classic and beautiful chisel. led features—her sweet lips—teeth of pearly whiteness—and such eyes! two drops of liquid azure set in snow! all com bined, ’twas enough to melt the very soul of an anchorite! Beside this angel, knelt a youth, whose cheek, pale as ashes, told the talc—he was in love! ‘Tell me,’ said he—in trembling accents—‘Tell me me this night, my fate. Keep me in agony no longer. Tell me what sacrifice 1 shall undergo for you—you, my soul’s idol!— Command me to perform a pilgrimage a< round the earth on burning coals—and it shall be dona. Any thing_any thing_ but cast me notoff. Plant a dagger in my heart, but keep me in suspense no lon ger! •Say, lovely Phoebe—will you—will you be mine?" He trembled—his heart throbbed—she saw he was ready to swoon —a crimson flush mantled her cheek— “Like the rich sunset ’neath Italia’s sky.” She took his hand in her tiny fingers—put her smilling lips to his ear, and whispered —“Obed, 1 shant be nothing else!" The St. Louis Reveille says av man at St. Etienne is said to have invented a five bladed carving instrument, which, ‘being place in a roasted fowl, and a spring being pressed, the blade will, in a second, sepa rate the legs and the wings, and divide the carcase!” A tremendous excitement has been cre ated in Baltimore, by a person who walk ed into a tailor's shop and paid, with inter* est, for a suit of clothes which he purcha rod twelve years ago. s