The Southern journal., September 16, 1845, Image 1

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

Image provided by: Mississippi Department of Archives and History

                
£'■
19 PU11LI9HD EVERY TUESDAY EVENING
3Y G. J, COHEA fcC. GOVVEXEAUX.
TERMS OK SUBSCRIPTION.
$2 00, For one year in advance.
$2 50 At the end of six months, or,
$3 00 at the end of the year.
No deduction whatever will be made from
-be above prices. Those who pay within one
‘Ucntbafte r the timeof subscribing will be con
sidered ashavingpaidin advance,but in every
instance where payment is not made in thal
time, the terms stated above will be demand
ed. Unless otherwise previously directed, the
subscription will be regarded as for the entire
year. No paper discontinued, unless at the
option of the publisher, until all arrearages are
paid. We are thus explicit because we w^sh
to avoid trouble anddisputein the collection
ofour subscription money. We beg that all
who subscribe for the Journal, will note the
terms of the subcsription.
terms op advertising.
Advertisements will be inserted at the rate
«f$l per square, for the firstinsertion.nnd 50
cents for each week thereafter—ten lines or
less, constituting a square. The number ol
insertions required must be noted on the
margin of the manuscript, or they will bt in
serted until forbid , and charged accordingly.
Advertisements from a distance must be ac
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 Uie above rates are the same as those
establfbed in Natchez, Vicksburg, Grand
Gulf, Yazoo Citv.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.
CCy- Letters on business must be post paid
or they will not be taken from tlie post office
From the Southron.
Ballad.
BY GKANBY.
The storm subsides, yetoccau raves,
And flings its spray on liigh;
The ever-changing, crested waves
Roll huge and rapidly.
Against the rocks, in foaming rage,
They dash and are no mure;
Yet others come, the war to wage,
And break like those belore.
High on the sandy beach they break,
In wild, tumultuous glee;
'vhile far off hills, affrighted, shake,
And echo to the sea.
The sky is clear, and from his throne,
The Sun sends down his rays,
And every wave a gem has grown,
Reflecting back his blaze.
Oh, who can tell what deeds the storm,
In this last rage, hath done 1
VV hat hearts are chilled that late w ere warn^
Of lover, sire and son!
Upon the beach, a maiden fair,
Intent, looks on the sea—
Her eye is wild, her unbound hair
rlows letterless ana tree.
ler youthful brow is furrowed o’er
With many a mark of care;
For she has watched upon the shore,
Through all the storm, in prayer.
Its burden was for him alone,
Who sailed upon the wave,
And prayer like her’s must reach the throne
Of Him whose will can save.
'•‘Oh God I” she cried, “in mercy spare
My Edward from the sea,
Oh, answer this, my heart-felt prayer—
Return him back to me.”
Her prayer was heard—a billow vast
Came rolling to the shore;
And on the sands her lover cast;—
But he shall speak no more.
She clasped him to her faithful breast;
Then rolled another wave,
And both have found eternal rest—
The Ocean is their grave.
A Chinese of forty, who received a sev
ere flogging from his mother daily, was ob
served to weep. The cause being enquir
ed, ‘Alas! the poor woman’s hand gets
weaker every day,” was his dutiful re
ply
An extravagant young gentleman hav
ing a pair of beautiful grey horses, asked a
|X friend who happened to be of a serious cast
what he thought of them. “Why, I con*
fess,” replied the other,“they look extreme
ly beautiful; but 1 am fearful that your
greys will soon be converted into duns.”
The Tutor and the Proprietor.
By the Author of the Great Metropolis
We passed pretty near a house which
was a short lime ago the scene of an inci
dent which, in the hands of a skilful novel
ist, might be so spun out as to make the or
thodox three vol u mes. In that house there
lived—I am not sure that he does not still
reside there—an eccentric old rich landed
proprietor.
His own dress and manners were plain,
and his modes of life homely, but, intending
a handsome fortune for each of his family;
two sons and a daughter—it was his great
ambition to give them-a first rate education.
The daughter, being the eldest, had re
turned from one of the first boarding schools
quite an accomplished lady. He doated
on her, and fully made up his mind, that
she should either be married to a man of
rank and importance in the world, or not
married at all. For the two sons, as he said
that they might be educated under his own
eye, and that he might see that full justice
was done to them, he employed a talented
young man, whom the old eccentric gen>
llemnn constantly lauded to the skies
for his very exceeding modesty of man
ner.
Things went on for a season as smoothly
as eilher party could wish, the tutor grow
ing every hour in the good graces of his
patron. He became, m fine, a confirmed
favorite, and was in every respect “treated
as one of the family.”
One day after dinner the modest tutor
(there being no one present but themselves)
said to the old gentleman, in hesitating
accenls, scarcely venturing to raise his
head as he spoke, that he wished to consult
him confideniially for a few minutes on a
very important and delicate matter; and
to get his advice as to how he ought to
act in the peculiar circumstance in which
he was placed.
“Quit* ready to hear you, sir; and to
give you the best advice in my power,” ob
served the other, who had always been re
markable for his rough, blunt manner of
speaking.
“1 really do not know how to,begin; I’m
almost afraid to mention the thing to you,”
remarked the tutor, tying and untying a
piece of twine in his linger, on which
he had kept his eye very thoughfully
ii.veu.
“Oh, don’t bo afraid, out with it. It’s
nothing horrible, I hope!”
“Oh, dear, no.”
“Well then, let us hear what it is at
once.”
“It’s about an affair of the heart.”
“Ah! an affair of the heart!” Ay,I see
you young men know something about,
these matters. It’s long since I had an
affair of the heart, though I have plenty of
other “affairs” far more serious; but young
men must be young men;—yes they must.
Come, tell us all about this affair of the
heart; you have fallen in love with some
pretty girl and wish to marry her, 1 sup
pose.”
1 he tutor owned tthe soft impeach
ment.
“Well, and why not marry her?”
“Thai’s just the point about which I wish
ed to consult you.”
“Is she an amiable girl ?”
“The very perfection of every thing
that is morally good and mentally ex
cellent.”
“bo so. And belongs to a respectable
family ?”
“A very respectable family. Indeed, she
moves in a better sphere of life than myself,
and her family are so respectable, that any
gentleman would be proud to be connected
with it.”
“Then why, you spalpeen, don’t you
marry her at once?” said the old man, rai
sing his right leg and placing it on an ad
jacent chair.
“But I have not yet obtained the consent
of her father,” replied the tutor, speaking
in a seemingly subdued and timid tone, and
not having courage enough to look his pat
ron in the face. ,
“Then why,don’t you obtain it?”
“I’m afraid to ask it.”
“Why afraid to ask? Don’t be a cow- i
ard.”
“I’m afraid, because she assures me that
she knows her father would never give his |
concurrence to her marriage to one who is \
: entirely without means, and has nothing but
his education and moral character to re
commend him.”
“Does she speak confidently on this
point?”
“Oh, most confidently. She is quite
positive.”
“Quite sure, eh!”
“Perfectly certain.”
“No chance of the father yielding?”
“Not the slightest.”
“Is he an old man?”
“He is advanced in years.”
“Then, he must be an old fool. Do I
know this stupid piece of antiquity?”
“Intimately.”
“And for some time?”
“For many years.”
“Do he and his daughter reside in this
neighborhood?”
“They do.”
“Is it a fair question to ask the old idiot’s
name?”
“I would rather not mention it in exist
mg uircumsiances.
“Oh, very good, very good. I would
not press you—not ly any means—1
say!”
The love struck tutor was all atten
tion.
“Listen to me, sir. Lend me your
ears.”
“I will, with pleasure.”
“What I’m going to say is worth hear
ing.”
“I’m anxious to hear it.”
“I’ll tell you what you’ll do.”
“I shall be most grateful for your advice
in so trying a situation as that in which I
am placed.”
“Is the young lady very much attached
to you?”
•
“I have no reason to doubt the ardor of
her affection.”
“Would she elope; that is, run away with
you?”
“She is willing to do anything,”
“Then, your course is clear. Carry her
off and get married at once.,’
‘‘1 m afraid of offending the old gentle
man, her father.”
“Oh!—the old gentleman, her father!
Never mind him if you can get the girl
herself.”
“And would you really advise me to run
away with her. I would not like to take
so important a step without your appro
val.”
“Would I advise you? I do advise you,
and let it be done directly, sir. Why, sir,
you have no pluck or spirit about you, or
you would have done it before now. Thun
der and lightning! old as 1 am, sir, 1
would do it myself. Go and do it at
once.”
“I was anxious to consult you on so de
licate a matter.”
»tw»if _ i_
uuwfv iuj ujhimuu auu
have got my advice. Don’t be faint-heart
ed, sir, get up early and elope with the lady
to-morrow morning, and take my horse and
gig for the purpose. They are quite at
your service—very much at your ser
vi^.”
“Iam really under infinite obligations
to you for the deep interest you have taken
in the matter. I’ll adopt your advice, and
avail myself of your kind offer of y»ur
horse and gig to enable me to carry her
off.”
“Do, sir,do; and mind you do it effect
ually. Let there be no mistake, no failure
in the matter. Success to you in your en
terprise. Let me know when you made
the young lady your wife.”
“I will with the greatest possible plea
sure.
On the following morning, the old gen
tleman summoned his daughter, as was his
custom, down to breakfast, he stationed
himself on the occasion at the foot of the
stairs. No response was made to his first
summons.
“What do you mean, you lazy, indolent
russy, that you don’t come when you’re
:alled?’’bawled the old and eccentric per,
lonage, in the way of continuing his first
;all.
Still there was no answer.
“You are sound asleep, I suppose. Why i
ion’t you get up and come down directly ? 1
[)oyou hear?” ,
“I say, you indolent, good-for-nothing J
riece of goods, why don’t you-.” ,
_ “Please, sir,” interposed an out-doorman
servant who had just entered the ball;
“please, sir, I saw Miss and the tutor driv*
ing away this morning at five o’clock, in
your gig. And more than that, please yer
honor, they (horse gig and all) seemed as if
they were in a dreadful hurry. They were
indeed sir.”
The old man audibly groaned, and sank
down on the stairs. The truth flashed into
his mind. It was his own daughter, who
had eloped with the tutor, in obedience to
his own advice tendered to the latter so em
phatically on the previous day.
A Man grown by Guano and
Electricity.
The New Haven Courier tells the fol
lowing capital story: “A citizen of this
place while recently on a tour in New
York, was induced to make one of the au
dience of an itinerant lecturer who was
holding forth upon the efficacy of electrici
ty as applied to vegetable productions.—
In the course of his harangue, guano was
accidently alluded to as a powerful agent
in quickening the growth of plants, and
the effects of both were displayed in such
glowing language that the auditory soon
imagined themselves standing in the midst
of a field and endeavoring to measure the
height of the grain before it was out of
reach. The whole assembly were in a
fine state of enthusiasm, and sw allowed
down the wonders revealed to them with
open mouths and starting eyes, when a
plain looking old farmer arose, and, with
apparently much diffidence, begged leave
to confirm the lecturer’s statements, by
j the relation of an incident which he had
recently witnessed, and to which he was a
party.
“I have,” said ho, ‘a very bad boy, nam-1
ed Tommy; he’s given us a good deal of
trouble, and having tried various methods
to reform him without success, I told my
wife that it would be best to try something
that was new, and rather more severe.—
Accordingly we aggrecd to shut him at
night in the barn. 7'his answered very
well (ora while,but he grew worse again,
till finally I was obliged to shut him up in
the barn every night by sundown. Well,
one night while Tommy was roosting with
the cattle, and I was in bed, there came a
tremendous storm. It lightened sharp en
ough to put out a man’s eyes, and thunder
ed so loud that it made the house rattle
like a snare-drum. Feeling rather unea
sy about the boy, I got up early in the
morning and went out to see how he fared.
As I was going to the barn, I met a man
most eight foot high coming towards me.
I never had seen such a tall critter in all
my life before, and 1 begun to feel sorter
scarible at having him about my premises.
‘Hallo, ’says I as soon as I could speak,
‘who are you ? and what are you doing in
mV Itflrn vn rriia clron.rA I. m!r ■ n iv am* I
- * -d -b
mal answered in a little squeking child’s
voice, ‘ Why, father, it’s me; don’t you
know Tommy?’ ‘You?’says I; ‘why Tom,
how on earth did you gel stretched out so
long in one night? why, your’e growed as
tall as all out doors, don't you know it?
‘Why, yes father,’ says he, ‘1 s’pose I have,
‘or last night I slept on them bags of guano
you put in the barn, and that*and the light
ning together just did the business.” The
effect of this story upon the ^idience was
indeed electric. Peal upon peal of laugh
ter followed, the people went off every
way, and the next day the lecturer upon
electricity and guuno was among the mis
sing.”
The first Sabbath.
The sixth day of creation drew near its
dose.—Thesun had finished his course.—
and the gloom of evening began to spread
over the earth. The first-born son of earth
stood upon a hill in Eden, near Eloah, his
guardian angel and gu’dc.
It grew darker and darker about the hill.
Pwilight rushed to the embrace of night, I
ind threw her dewy roses over hill and
'alley. The songs of the birds and the i
loises of the beasts were hushed, and even i
lie air seemed to sleep. <
‘What’s all this?’said the man with a I
10ft and low voice to his heavenly guide •— I
Will the young creation disappear and <
ink down into chaos?’ I
Sloah smiled, and sa<d—‘It is the repose I
if earth.’ I
Now appeared the heavenly lights—the s
moon arose, and tbe starry hosts followed
in splendor.
Man looked upward with sweet surprise
and the angel of the Lord looked with
pleasure upon the agonizing son of Earth.
The night was still, and the song of the
nightingale floated in the air.
Eloah touched the man with his staff,—
He lay down on the hillock and slept.—
His first dream came over him, andJeho
vah made him His companion.
When the mprning twilight opened, El
oah touched the slumbering one. He a
woke and felt new power and life stream
ing through him. The hills and valleys rose
out of the gloom, the young light came
glittering down upon the fountains of the
river of Eden, and the Sun arose, bring*
ing the day. Man looked upon his now
formed wife, the mother of all living._
Surprise and delight filled his heart.
“See,” said Eloah, ‘the dvine is made
out of rest. Therefore shalt thou conse
crate this day to rest and devotion.”_
Krummacher.
The Secret of Happiness.
Go search the ponderous tones of hu
man learning—explore the works of Con
fucius—examine the precepts of Seneca,
and all the writings of Socrates. Collect
.11 iL. II • n ..
an cAvciicuuiCT ui me ancient ana
modern moralists, and point to a sentence
equal to the simple prayer of our Savior,
“Father forgive them!” Revil'd and in
sulted—suffering the giosseit indignities
—crowned with thorns; and led away to
die, no annihilating curse breaks from his
lips. Sweet as the aspiringRVa mother
for her nursling, ascends the pray er of
mercy for his enemies, ‘Father forgive
them!’ 0, it was worthy of its own ori
gin, proving incontcstibly that his mission
was from Heaven.
Acquaintances have you ever quarreled?
Friends, have you ever differed? If
He, who was pure and perfect, forgave his
bitterest enemies, do you well to cherish
anger? Brothers, to you the precept is
imperative; you should forgive; not seven
times; but “seventy times seven.”
Husbands and wives you have no right
to expect perfection in each other. To
err is bumau. Illness will sometimes
make you petulent, and disappointment
ruffle the smoothest temper. Guard, then
with unremitting vigilance, your passions;
controlled, they are the genial warmth that
cheers us along the way of life—ungov*
erned, they are consuming fires. Let your
strife be one of respectful attention and
conciliatory conduct. Cultivate with care
the kind and gentle affections. Plant not,
but eradicate the thorn in your partner’s
path. Above all, let no feelings of re
venge ever find harbor in your breast. A
kind word—an obliging action—even ifvv
be a trifling one, has a power superior to
the harp of David, in calming the billows of
the soul.
Revenge is as incompatible with happi
ness as religion. Let him whose soul is
dark with malice, and studious of revenge,
walk through the fields, clad with verdure
and adorned with flowers; to his eye there
is no beauty—his soul, nature is robed in
the deepest sable. The smile of beauty
and cheerfulness lights not up his bosom
with joy; but the furies of hell rage there,
and render him as miserable as he wishes
the object of his hate.
But let him lay his hand upon his heart,
and say, “Revenge, I cast thee from me;
l1 atlier forgive me as I forgive others,”
and nature assumes a new and delightful
garniture. Then indeed, are the meads
verdant, and the flowers fragant—then is
the music of the grovo delightful to his
ear, and the smile of virtue lovely to his
soul.—B. Minor.
A Burst of Oratory.
A Yankee orator inspired by the threat
>f war with Mexico recently delivered
limselfas follows:
Fellow citizens and hosses—hurrah!
here’s prospect of war. Skunk Holler is in
nuns anu on its feet, and the aithquake
hout burstin’ from 26,000,000 greased
ungs, is reverberated over all this tall
and. Mean sneakin’, toad hoppiu', snake
rawlin*, sword on, house settin’ on fire, 1
larbarious, David Crockett killin’ Mexico
las dared to show her cat teeth to the
ieavenrous lightenin’ defyin’ and death I
walierin’Uncle Sam. (Shouts.) Me I
——
thinks, and oh hoeses, I spy tiie spirits of
’70, goddess of liberty soarin’ on its tur
key’s wing around you! (‘Whar?’ says
one looking up.) You loot I’m speak in’
in figger. I see them flappin’ their shinin’
pinions and pipin’ the effectin’ war cry of
Yankee Doodle! (Crowd, Yankee Doov
die! Crackadoodle doo!) Bring out Long
Tom of Bunker Hill, and the thousand
pounder of New Orleans! Let them roar
till they crack the welkin’, set the clouds
and knock the Poles over. The wrath
spring cleaver of Uncle Sam shall split the
numbskull ofSandy Hanrifch in a haady
manner, and Skunk Holier will bung up %
the daylight of his country! Let us
dig a hole with the pickaxe of vengeance,
steam the Mexicans into it, and sink ’em
into Chaney! Whar is the skunk that
don’t echy them sentiments? (Three
cheers and a whistle.) The country’s safe
(Shout.) Its great but it’s safe! (Shout.)
I believe I’ll take a drink.
Baby Literature.—The St. Louis Re
veille has an infant correspondent, and the
letters from baby-dom are sometimes very
funny. The following is an extract from,
the last one:—“1 was carried into my ma’e
sick chamber yesterday, and there sat pa,
looking very sad. As the nurse approach
ed the bed, ma thus commenced—“My
poor ittld baby’s doin’ to die, bess its poor
ittle heart, and den its ma is doin’ to die,
loo, and nasty widow Jenkins is doin’ to
marry its pa, and bury and fordit its poor ^||
ma and poor baby.’’ At the same moment
she took a look at pa, who felt more dis
tressed, and then she commenced crying
and then she ordered the nurse to take me
away, and I hollored louder. When Molly
got me into the nursery she threw me into
the crib with the remark:—
‘Drat dat brat, I wish de ting would die
—don't know what de debil white folks
have children for if’taint to plague nig*
gars.
Good!—Read It!
The ladies of New York, have resolved
to marry no man who does not take the
newspapers—and furthermore, they wonn’t
allow a fellow to look ac them who owes the
printer for more than one year’s subscript
tion.
Well, I don’t wonder. A family without
a newspaper are always half an age behind
the times in general information. Be*
sides, they can never think much, nor find
much to talk about. And then there are
the little ones growing up in ignorance
with no taste for reading. Besides all
these evils, theres’s the wife, who when
her work is done, has to sit down with her
hands in her lap, and nothing to amuse
her, or divert her mind from the toils and
cares of the domestic circle. Oh, dear!
be on your guard, girls, imitate the exam
ple of the noble and thoughtful ladies of
New York.
How to learn the valueof a Hollar.
Reader says the Democratic Expositor,
if you would learn the value of a dollar, go
and labor two days in the burning sun, as
a hod-cariier. This is an excellent idea,
auu u many ui our young gentlemen had
to earn all their dollars in that way, how
much less dissipation, and folly,and crime,
would we witness every day. So of our
fashionable young ladies. If they, like
the poor widowed author of the song of the
shirt, had to earn their dollars by making
shirts at sixtean cents apiece, how much
less foolish finery would we see about
them, and how much more truthful notions
would they have of the duties of life, and
their obligations to the rest of the world.
Be«*^sieneraUj^ than
they collect after the first of August.—
Weigh your hives—and see for your
selves.
A cockney, recently asked what he
thought of a prairie at which he was look
ng, exclaimed, “my heyes! what a nice
dace for pitching quoits.”
Remarkable.—In 1768 a man named
jillet, of Patchogue, Long Island, cut his
lame on the shell of a tortoise, and let it
jo; and in 1844 the tortoise, so marked
vas found crawlingover Gillet’a grave.
There are men who make use of their
i iends as they do their clothes, which they
eave off when they have worn tlictn out.