The Southern journal., October 28, 1845, Image 1

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

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BY COHEA & GOUVENEAUX.] MONTICELLO, MISS1SIPP1, OCTOBER 28, 1845. [V0L. VI.-NO 16.
tTCHS JNMTKITAII.
18 PUBLISHD EVEBY TUESDAY EVENTS
' • tor ts. I. COHEA k C. GOI VENEAIX.
• ■ i ■ i ■
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ofour subscription money. We beg that, ad
who inbscribe for the Journal, will note the
- terms of the subcsripticn.
TERMS OP ADVERTIS INQ.
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of$l per square,for the firstinsertion,and 50
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serted until forbid , and charged accordingly.
Advertisements from a distance must be ac
companied with the CASH, or good referen
ces in town.
Pppaniifll flf^vpi>fi«pmpnlft will hp r.harffcd
double the above rates.
Announcing candidates for State or District
offices, $ 10; For County offices, $5.
As the above rates are the same ns those
established in Natchez, Vicksburg, Grand
Gulf, Yazoo City,and elsewhere in this state*
tio deduction will be made from them in any
case whatever.
all job work must be paid for
ON DELIVERY.
OQp Letters on business must be post paid
or they will not be taken from the post office.
Why don’t you take the Papers?
BY N. r. WILLIS.
Why don.t you lake the papers!
W They are ‘the life of my delight!’
I Except about election times,
And then I read for spite.
Subscribe, you cannot lose a cent,
Why should you be afraid?
( For cash thus spent,’ is money lent
On interest fourfold paid.
Go then and take the papers,
And pay to-day, nor pray delay,
k And my word heard it is inferred,
| You’ll live till you are gray.
a si __r~ r
XIII lliu W. — j
While'dying from the cough,
Desired to hear the latest news,
While he was going off.
*
I took the paper, and I read
Of some new pills in force;
He bought a box—and is lie dead?
No! hearty as a horse.
I knew a printer’s debtor once,
Racked with a scorching fever,
Who swore to pay her bill next day,
If her disease would leave her.
Next morning she was at her work,
Divested of her pain;
But did forget to pay her debt
)f Till taken down again.
; t- atfere Jessie, take these silver wheels,
Go pay tho printer now!’
She spoke, she slept, and then awoke,
With health upon her brow.
I knew two men as much alike,
As e’er you saw two stumps,
And no phrenologist could find,
A difference in their bumps.
iOne look the papers, and his life
la happier than a king’s,
His children all can read and write,
And talk of men and things.
The other took no papers, and
While strolling through a wood
A tree fell down upon his crown
And kill’d him—‘werry good.’
Had he been reading of the news
At home like neighbor Jim,
I’ll bet a cent that accident
Would net have happen’d him.
Why don’t you take the papers?
Nor from the printers sneak,*
| Because you borrow of his boy,
A paper every week.
For he who takes the papers,
And pays his bill when due,
Can live at peace with God and man,
And with the Printer too.
IV
The Quaker Jumping a Ditch,
Hezekiah Broadbrim was a fat Qua
ker of the State of New Jersey, who
sold molasses, codfish, china, earthen
ware, cloths, and all sorts of liquors.
We like the Quakers; in deed as well
as in name;-but Hezekiah was a Hick
ory Quaker. We was somewhat of
an old bachelor—and had a sister who
was an old maid too. But she was the
best creature alive; straight as a can
dle, blooming as a rose, and smmhg as
charity could desire. Her name was
Dorcas.
Hezekiah and Dorcas walked out
one Sunday afternoon in the blooming
month of May, to breathe the fresh
air,and view the meadows. The walk
ing was smooth nnd delightful, with
no more obstructions, except here and
there a ditch full of water, spanned
by a few bridges, and too wide for any
man of ordinary jumping qualities to
cross at a single bound. But IIeze«
kiah, valued himself as fat people, ge
nerally do, on his agility—and instead
of walking a few additional steps for
the sake of a bridge, must needs leap
every difch he came to.
“Thee’d better not try that, Heze
kiah,” said his kind nnd considerate
sister.
“Never thee mind, Dorcas,” return
_ J IT_I • . //it. _ V _ _ 1
vu iiv/ivninii) Ipfliciv: a uu unu^gi»—
I’ve jumped many a bigger ditch than
that, when I wasn’t half my present
size.”
“All that’s very likely. But recol
lect thee’s now grown exceeding pur
sy. Thee is not a young man now.”
“Pursy! Well, if 1 have that’s no
reason w hy I should not be agile as be
fore. I tell thee, Dorcas, I can jump
i (his ditch without so much as touching
a finger.”
“Aye, but thee’ll touch thy feet to
the bottom.”
“Thee’s but a woman, Do(cas, and
thy fears magnify this ditch into a r£
ver. Now, stand aside, so that 1 may
have a full sweep according to my
abilities.”
“Nay,brother Hezekiah, they’d bet
ter not. The ditch is wide and the
bottom muddy; and thee’ll assuredly
spoil thy Sunday clothes, if no worse.”
“A fudge for thy fears, girl; thee
shall not stay me a jot. Nay, do not
hold me; (or 1 am resolved to jump
this ditch, if it were merely to con
vince thee of my agility.”
Accordingly Hezekiah went back
e i • i 4 i r •
n it*» ^niuB) ill uiuui iu lime ct kiii
run, and that the impulse thereof
might carry him over. Having re
treated far enough, he came forward
with a momentum proportioned to his
weight and velocity—and found him
self in the ditch.
The water splashed around on all
sides and bespattered the Sunday clo
thes of Dorcas, who could not with
all her Quaker sobriety and kind feel
ing, help bu.sling into a loud laugh.—
There was Hezekiah showing his agi
lity, and floundering in the mud like
a whale. The water was not so deep
as to be dangerous—and the scene
was too irresistibly comic for even a
saint to abstain from laughing, though
on the Lord’s day.
At length, when her risibility would
allow to her the power of speech—
Dorcas kindly held out her hand and
said, “come hither, Hezekiah, and I’ll
help thee out.”
“Well! well!” returned the flounder
er inn lone of vexation, “thee do well
Dorcas, to stand there and laugh at
me—as though it were mere sport to
stick in the mud and water up to the
middle.”
“Nay, nAy, Hezekiah, thee has
shown thy agility so marvellously,that
1 could not heV*clng pleased for the
life of me—'and now I take shame to
myself for having opposed tl)ee so
strenuously, *r for having a moment
doubted thy capacity for jumping.—
But if thee’s satisfied with the ex*
ploit, and is ready to come forth, I’ll
lend thee a hand to help thee out.”
Thus saying, Dorcas drew near the
sdge of the ditch—butllezekiah hav*
ng got in by his own unaided power,
declared he would get himself out in
the same way. But the mud was deep
rnd adhesive, and as he got one foot
jut he got the other in—and thus he
continued Ip labor and plunge, till tie
was satisfied his own ability was better
calculated to keep him in than to help
lim out of the ditch.
He grew wrolhy and used hard
words—and, so far forgot the plain lan
guage that he exclaimed, “by
“Don’t thee swear, Hezckiah,” in
:errupted Dorcas.
“Swear!” roared Hezekiah,“thee’d
iweartoo, if Jjiee was here.”
“Swear not at all, Hezekiah, but
lend me thy hand, and I’ll use my abi
lity to help thee out according to the
Scripture, which saith, ‘if thine ox or
Lhine ass shall fall into the ditch on
[he Sabbath day—’”
“Now sister, thee is too bad. Verily
thee would not make me so heavy as
me former animal, nor so stupid, as
the latter.”
“As to thy weight, returned Dor
cas, thee must be pretty well satisfied
by this time—as for thy stupidity, it
was, indeed, unsisterly in me to com
pare thee to the long eared animal.
But if thee is satisfied on all these
points, and will forthwith reach me
thine hand, I’ll do all as in me lieth to
bring thee safe to land.”
Hezekiah was pretty well convinc
ed by this time that his own ability
would never fetch him out, wherefore
liumbl) reaching out hts hand to Dor
cas, he said, “Verily, sister, I will ac
cept thy aid, inasmuch as my own abi
lity doth greatly deceive me.”
Dorcas kindly lent him assistance,
and by pulling vigorously, Hezekia'h
at length came to land. Shaking off
the mud and water like a spaniel, he
returned home, but charged his sister
by the way, never to mention how he
came to his catastrophe. Dorcas pro
mised of course; and she was a girl
of truth and kind feelings, and was as
good as her word. But once or twice,
when they were in company wilh sev
eral other Quakers, discoursing sober
ly about matters and things, Dorcas
looked archly at another girl, and
merely said, “Did ] ever (ell thee Ra
chel, how brother Hezekiah one Sun
day—” .
Hezekiah turned an embarrassed
and imploring look toward her, when
she said, “Nay, nay, Hezekiah, I’m
not going to tell—merely to ask if
ever 1 told how thee showed thy agil
ity one Sunday and jumped into the
middle of a ditch.”
Hallowing at Elections.—On the oc»
casiouof the late Presidentialelection,
a row had occurred at the ballot-box,
in a certain town, during which pis
tols, guns, brickbats, &c., were in re
quisition. The ringleaders were ta
ken up, and one of the witnesses was
called upon for his* testimony in the
following manner:
Lawyer—“On the night of the
election—you s >y you were badly
shot?”
Witness—“I did that.”
L—“Were you shot before or be
hind?”
W—“I wasn’t shot neither before or
behind.”
L—“But you say you were shot?”
W—“I reckon I did, for I was pep
pered all over my leftside.”
M—“What were you saying at the
time you were shot?”
W—“Saying? Why,I wasn’tsaying
nothing, but was hallowing as loud as
[ could, hurrah for Clay and Freling
luysen!”
| L—“Did you hallo the same thing
after being' shot?”
VV—“I rather ’spec! I didn’t; il
yon had thirty-two shot put in you
at once, I s’pose you would not
have halloed for any body but your"
self!”
A Good One.—Soon after the war
of 1812, an American vessel with a
crew of green Yankees, moored at
St. Catherine’s dock in London.
One of the Yankees pitched into a
large warehouse, and the proprietor,
presuming from his appearance that
he was a green one—accosted him
thus:
“Fr-fr-rrriend, ca-can you t-t-tell
m m.”—Here his stuttering stopped
his speech, and his book-keeper ad
vanced to his assistance, saying—
“He was going to ask you if you
knew why Balaam’s ass spoke.”
“Wall, I guess I du,” replied Jona
than; “1 guess Balaam was a stutter
ing man and couldn’t speak, so his ass
spoke for him.”
J oe Grimaldi and the Spinster
/Shaver.
When the famous clown was at
Preston he called at a barber’s shop
in Cheapside, and asked a young girl
inside if the master was within. She
replied that he was not. The call
was twice repeated with no better
luck. At length meeting with Mr.
Howard, the manager as he was strol
ling to and fro in the marketplace,
they joined company and were pro'
ceeding to the theatre, when passing
the barber’s door, Joe popped in his
head, inquiring, “Come in yet?”—
“No, sir.” “That’s very provoking,”
said Grimaldi, “considering that 1
have called here three times already.’
The girl agreed (hat it was, and step
ping to the door looked anxiously up
the street and down the street; but
there was no barber in sight. “Do
you want to see him on any particular
business?” inquired Howard. ‘Bless
my heart, no, not 1,’ said Grimaldi.—
‘I only want to get shaved.’ ‘Shaved
sir!’ cried the girl; ‘Oh, dear me!
what a pify it is you didn't say so be
fore! for 1 do most of the shaving for
father when lie’s at home, and when
lie’s out.’ ‘To be sure she does,’ said
Howard;‘I have been shaved by her
fifty times.’ ‘You have?’ said Grim
aldi: ‘Oh, I’m sure I have no objec
tion; I am quite ready, my dear.’—
Grimaldi sat himself down in a chair,
and the girl commenced the task in a
very business like manner, Grimaldi
felt an irresistable tendency to laugh
at the oddity of the operation,but smo
thered it by dint of great effort while
the girl was shaving his chin. At
length when she got to his upper lip
and took his nose between her fingers
with a piece of brown paper, he could
stand it no longer, but burst out in a
tremendous roar of laughter, & made
a face at Howard, which the girl no
sooner saw than she dropped the ra
zor and lairghed immoderately also;
whereat Howard began to laugh too,
which only set Grimaldi laughing the
more; when just at this moment in
came the barber, who, seeing three
persons in convulsions of mirth, one
of them with a soapy face and a gi
gantic mouth making the most extrav
agant faces over a white towel, threw
himself into a chair without ceremony
and dashing his hat on the ground
laughed louder than any of them, de
claring in broken words, as he could
find breath to utter them, ‘that gen
tleman as was being shaved was out
of sight thef‘,nnicBt gemleman he had
ever seen,' and entreating him ‘to
stop them faces or he knew he should
die.’ When they were all perfecly
exhausted, the barber finished/ what
his daughter had begun,’ and, reward
ing the girl with a shilling, Grimaldi
“nd the manager took their leave.
Hope.
Eternal hope! the realm is unfa
ding—thou.art strong even in the ma
niac— thou art present in high and
low condition—thou art a balm for
every woe—thou leadest to the Him
alayan summit of time—spreadest e*
ternity before us like one grand Pan*
orama — arid showest us joys at God’s
right hand, that shall never pall or
fade whilst eternity endures! Oh!
when marble shall moulder—when
arts shall crumble—and worlds in fla
ming fire decay, thou shalt light thy
torch with the last blazing fragments
of expiring nature, and live eternal in
the skies.
What is man without Hope of fu
ture life? How feeble! how disconso
late! how unsatisfied!—Earth, it is
true, has a thousand allurements, and
opens to our taste unnumbered sour
ces of joy; but in the midst of them
there is a certain something wanting
to gratify the soul, if the hope of im
mortality he absent.
The Blessings of Christianity.
A beautiful writer says, that Chris
tianity enters the hut of the poor man
and sits down with him and his chil
dren; it makes them contented in the
midst of privations, and levies behind
an everlasting blessing. Yt walks
through cities, amid all their pomp
and their imaginable pride and their
unutternble missery, n purifying, eno
bling, redeeming angel. It is alike
the beautiful champion of childhood,
and the comforting associate of age.
It enobles the nobles, gives wisdom to
the wise, and new grace to the love
ly. The patriot, minister, poet and
eloquent man, derive sublime power
from its influence.
The Fair Penitent.
It was evening. The last rays of the
setting sun fell upon the richly paint
ed windows the of Abbey, & threw a
dim religious light upon the marble
floor beneath, and the fretted pillars
that rose on all sides. A young fe
male, dressed in w'hile, advanced up
the aisle, with slow and irregular
step, her eyes timidly bent upon the
ground, and her lovely locks half sha
ded a countenance in which health
and innocence seemed to vie with
each other, which should add most
beauty to features, the form of which
was beauty itself.
She stopped for a moment as she
reached the open portal of the chap
el, that forms a recess on the aisle,
then turned into the recess, entered a
confessional, and fell upon her knees.
What‘ignorantsin’ could this sweet
one have committed that required
absolution at the hands of her holy
father.
We shall see.
Having first pronounced her accus
tomed prayer with a timied voice, she
seemed to gain confidence by this act,
and proceeded to relate her little
acts, of contumacy towards her school
mistress, (for though bordering on wo
manhood, she had not yet left the
convent school,) then her little sins of
actual commission, reserving the gra
vest to the last. At length, though
she had not evidently not concluded
she made a full stop, as if reluctant
to proceed farther.
tPiMno rlmtohlpr. PTrluimpd thn
— O'
good priest, proceed; you must not
permit a false pride' or delecacy to de
ter you from that confession without
which absolution were vain. What
more?’
‘I am afraid to tell you good father.
The priest said something to en
courage her, but the pretty penitent
still hesitated; and she covered her
sweet face with her two hands, as if
ashamed to have seen the tears that
made their way between her pretty
fingers.
‘Come—come,’ said the good falh*
er,‘this must not be* I must inlcrro- i
gate you, What is it that troubles
you? Have you done anything to In
jure or offend your good parents,
‘Worse father.’
‘Have you been reading in some
wicked book?’
‘I’ve not been readiug at all father.’
‘Did you play or laugh last Sunday,
during service?’
‘A great deal worse father.’ '
‘The good priest began seriously to
be alarmed; yet he did not know how
to frame his question, so as to avoid
suggestions, which, if he should prove
w,rong in his suspicions, would render
the remedy more mischievous than
the disease.
At last the young beauty, as if by
a desperate effort, relieved him of his
embarrassment. ‘Father, said she,
with a trembling and half suppressed
voice, ‘I will tell you all, if heaven
will give me strength to speak. But
be indulgent good father, it was the
first time—and I’m sure I never tho’t
that so much harm would come of it.
Besides it was not all my fault; it was
partly his. And he is so very hand
some too.’ The good priest trembled.
‘And so fond of me—he used to follow
me wherever 1 went—he seemed care
and think about nobody but me.’—
(She paused a moment—then contin
ued.) ‘Well, father, one night after I
had retired to rest, I found him in my
chamber.’—(The holy father groaned
aloud.) ‘I never could t^ll how he
got there—for I shut the door after
me,and fastened it carefully as I al
ways .do?'
‘Well, exclaimed the confessor, in
an anxious tone, what more.’
‘Oh, father! the worst is to come.—
That night in parcicular—it wa3 last
Thursday, father that—he looked so
very handsome, and seemed so very
fond of me—and—that—in—short_
‘But, exclaimed the priest, with a
sudden show of indignation,‘did your
mother never warn you of the terri
ble danger of such conduct i Did she
never tell you the fatal consequences
of
‘No, father,’ interepted the terrified
penitent,‘she never told me there was
any thing wrong in being fond of
such a beautiful cat—and
‘A cal! was it a cat?’
‘Yes father a large beautiful white
Angola, I was so wicked as to steal
from the pastry cook’s opposite where
we live and have, kept him conceal
ed in my room ever since.’
‘/n nomine Patrii et Filli Spirilus
Sancti te absofoo,’ said the good priest,
and never did lie pronounce the words
with a more full and gratified feelings
of pious satisfation.
‘Sir, you have an education, I sup»
pose,’ Said an illiterate preacher in
Maine to a learned clergyman.
‘Yes, sir,’ was the reply.
‘Iam thankful,’ rejoined the former
‘that the Lord has opened o»y mouth
to preach without any learning.’
.similar p.vpnt ’ rpnliprl fhr>
• 9
'took place in Balaam’s time; but such
things are of rare occurrence at the
present day.’
Old Maids.
The editor of the Philadelphia
Times, thus speaks of these valuable
household relics: “Aged but youth->
ful—wrinkled but smooth-laced—pru
dish but knowing—good tempered but
touchy—ugly yet pretty—men.hating
still manish—child nursing though
childless—solemn though gay—witty
though dull—they are at once the
most entertaining and the most un
fathomable things—and more deep
and intricate in their character than
* ponderous volume of Stoch meta
physics.
A western editor begs his patrons to
>ay up their dues, and says he is “too
■agged and miserably clad to be seen
>ut of his own village.