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PORT TOBACCO TIME&
VOL. 11. PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY BY E. WELLS, JR. G, W. HODGES, EDITORS AND PROPRIETORS. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For one year, if paid within six months,.•••s! 50 “ if not paid until end of the year, 2 00 Single copies 6| cents. Advertisements.— $1 per square for three inser tions—l 4 linos of small type or 16 of large type to constitute a square—2s cents for every subse quent insertion. If the number of insertions be on the advertisement it will be pub lished until forbid, and charged accordingly. A liberal deduction made to those w 7 ho advertise by the year. Communications addressed to this office must be post paid. POETRY. THE HAPPIEST TIME. BT ft. A. BROWNE. When are we happiest? When the light of morn Wakes the young roses from their crimson rest; When cheerful sounds upon the fresh winds borne, ’Till man resumes his work with blither zest; While the bright waters leap from rock to glen. Arc we happiest then ? Alas, those roses! they will fade away, And thunder tempests will deform the sky; And summer heats bid the spring buds decay, And the clear sparkling fountain may be dry, And nothing beautiful adorn the scene, To tell what it hath been. When are we happiest? In the crowded hall. When fortune smiles and flatterers bend the knee? How soon, how very soon such pleasures pall! j' How fast must falsehood’s rainbow coloring flee! Its poison flow’rets brave the sting of care Wc are not happy there. Are we the happiest when the evening hearth Is circled with its crown of living flowers; When goeth round the laugh of artless mirth, And when affection from its bright urn showers Her richest balm on the dilating heart? Bliss! is it there thou art? Oil, no! net there. It would be happiness Almost like heaven’s, if it miuht always be; Those brows without one shading of distress, wanting nothing out eternity; But they are things of earth, and _ ♦ They must—they must decay? Those voices must grow 7 tremulous with years; Those smiling brows must wear a tinge of gloom; Those sparkling eyes be quenched in bitter tears, And, at the last, close darkly in the tomb : If happiness depend on them alone ; How quickly is it gone! When arc we happiest, then? O, when resigned To whatso’er our cup of life may brim; When we can know 7 ourselves but weak and blind Creatures of earth; and trust alone in Him Who giveth, in his mercy, joy or pain ; Oh! wc arc happiest then. MISCELLANEOUS From the New Y’ork Commercial Advertiser. A TRUE HEROINE. The Irish as a nation are often accused of insincerity; and it must be confessed that, judged by the standard of our duller tem perament, their very vehement professions of attachment tfo often appear uncalled for and exaggerated. Yet where in truth do we ever meet with more touching instances of real, unselfish devotion, than are sometimes exhibited by the poor uneducated sons of Hibernia ? A case in point occurred, not many weeks ago, in this city. A young physician, great ly beloved by his friends and associates, was taken suddenly ill; after remaining a day or two at his own office, deprived, tin- i avoidably, of all those soothing attentions ' which none but women can offer in the hour of sickness, the young man rapidly grew ! worse, and the kind lady at whose table he I took his meals generously insisted upon his I instant removal to her own house, that he s might be within reach of that careful lend- I ance which the alarming peculiarities of his I case demanded. The disease was scarlet fever of the most malignant and dangerous I type. I On the day of his arrival, among other in- < quirers, there came a tidy,respectably dress- i ed girl — an Irish girl — with many, very s many and most anxious questions as lo the patient’s condition ; —and when they had all : been answered—when every thing had hre t i told her of good or bad, connected with his i disorder—she lingered still, still hesitated, 1 as though there was yet a something in her heart that could not find its proper utterance. 1 “Are you acquainted with Dr. , my good girl ?” asked the lady. “Do I know him, is it?” Oh yes—she knew him well— quite well—knew him long before he came from the old country. He had once atten ded her through a long and dangerous ill ness; and—now burst forth the pent-up se- AND CHARLES COUNTY ADVERTISER. cret—he had surely saved her life by his , skill and care, and she had come lo ask the kind lady—could she —might she, only be permitted to stay in the house until his re ) covery, and in her turn watch over, and ) wait upon him? She had been living out, it appeared in the neighborhood, as nursery maid ; but her ' employers, in their dread of scarlet fever, . objected to her daily visits of inquiry at the ; Doctor’s office, so the affectionate creature ■ had unhesitatingly given up a good place 1 and hastened away, delighted at the thought of being useful to her benefactor, and show s ing her gratitude for his former kindness by tendering her services to him as a nurse. A look of scrutiny, turned upon her as she told her simple story, was met by one as thoroughly pure and honest in its expres sion, that after a moment’s pause, a willing consent was given to the arrangement, and with noiseless tread, but with an expression of relief, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her bosom, the warm-heart ed girl bounded up stairs, and took her sta tion at the bed-side of the patient. It was a melancholy case altogether. The mother and the sisters of the young man, though written to, were as yet far away,and his weary hours were still farther embitter ed by the knowledge that if he died they j would be left utterly destitute—the proper ty upon which they all lived being entailed (upon him, the only son, and reverting at his l death to the next male heir of the family. But to return to the more immediate sub ject of this sketch. From the hour of her ■ first assuming the duties of nurse, she never left him, day or night, fora single moment, unless to bring for his comfort and relief such things as the other girls of the house, in their fear of infection, were 100 much ter rified to carry*up to his room. The symp- became too marked lo leave any | nraHpnan a faint hope of ultimate recovery,' but the courageous girl never suffered her ; feelings to overcome her; her manner is described as calm and self-possessed to a: singular degree, the features generally mo tionless, and the voice without a trace of agitation in its lone. Once indeed, and once only, toward the her hands pressed convulsively agatlTSr iier[ eyes and her bosom heaving with emotion. Rut the tears were resolutely forced back— 1 the feelings bravely gulped down, and in one moment more the devoted girl had turn ed the handle with a quiet touch, and re-| sumed her duties by the bed of death. The poor sufferer was attended by a host; of medical friends, but the flat had gone forth; a “still small voice” had whispered; to him that he must die. And he did die,l calling upon his mother and wondering how I she would be able lo bear the tidings of his I loss. Amid all the exclamations of sorrow and consternation around, not one word was spoken by the poor girl who had been his' untiring watcher so long. A stranger might have almost imagined her an uninterested i spectator of the scene—“a hireling who j cared for” her charge—but those who knew her better could observe that she never mov ed from his side—never lost sight of him for a single instant. It was she who closed the starting lids—bound up the head, and prepared him for the coffin. And all in ut ter silence—not a word of sorrow came from her. The pale cheek and trembling hand were the only interpreters of the feel ings with which she did it all. At length the last sad offices were to be performed. They persuaded her to leave the room for a short lime, and when she re turned the body was removed from the bed, and the collin—oh, bitter disappointment! the coffn was screwed down. Then indeed a wail of despair escaped her lips. She could see no reason for such haste—there was lime, plenty of time be fore them—and what had she done that she should not be allowed one look—one last look—before they took him away and shut him up forever? Being made to understand, after a time, i the necessity in such cases of immediate 1 burial, she suffered the men to depart with- I out further remonstrance —but within the 1 next half hour she had quietly borrowed a screw driver—shut herself into the room— 1 withdrawn every screw in the coffin lid— i and gazed, oh! who shall say with what bit- 1 lerness of'feeling?—upon the face within; 1 then fastening the lid down again,remained tranquil, nay almost happy, in the thought I that her hand was the last that had been laid upon his brow—her eye the very last that had rested upon his features. After die funeral, when the few valuables 1 belonging'to the deceased were collected to- i gelher, she was asked whether she would not wish to keep something in remembrance of him, and was told that she might lake for 1 that purpose anything she pleased. PORT TOBACCO, (MD.) THURSDAY, JUNE 26, 1845. 5 “May I—sure, then, I’ll take this”—lay- J ing her band eagerly upon it. It was an old - handkerchief, soiled and rumpled, which the ■ young man had worn around iiis nock during I the last tours of his illness, and which, ifshe bustle aid confusion, bad been left ! bed just where it had been thrown afteihis ■ death. ' > The friends urged her to make another * choice. “No,” she would have that, ‘ only that. ! They isked her to take something inad- L dition, at all events, something of more ; value. “No, co—nothing but that—she wanted nothing More.” i One gentleman,pointed out the possible i danger of her selection, and warned her at . least no* to hold it so near her person. “But by this time the poor girl had be come impatient at the opposition. “It’s mine non —sure, Sure 1 may do what 1 like with my own.” And with the word, the handkerchief was drawn lightly round her throat, and the two ends thrust deep within her bosom; and one who stood nearest her could hear the almost whispered words, “He did me no thing butgood in life and I’m sure he won’t hurt me now.” It is unnecessary to say with what feel lings the relatives looked upon her, when j they heard of her devotion lo the lost son iand brother; she was immediately offered a home among them, but it was gratefully declined; her duly was accomplished and she preferred returning lo the lowly and self-denying course of life in which her lot was cast. From the London Punch. MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. Mrs. Caudle thinks it “ High Time ” that the Children should have Summer Clo thing. There, Candle! If there’s anything in the world 1 bale—and you know it—it is asking you for money. lam sure, for my self, I’d rather go without a thing a thou sand times, and I do—the more shame for you to let me, but—there, now ! there you fly out again! What do I want now? Why : hkc any other father. What's The [and what am I driving at? Oh, nonsense, Caudle! As if you didn’t know ! I’m sure if Td any money of my own, I’d never ask I you for a farthing : never! it’s painful to I me, goodness knows ! What do you sav ? jlf it's painful—xehy so often do it? lia! I suppose you call that a joke—one of your club jokes ? I wish you’d think a little of people’s feelings, and less of your jokes.— I Ha! as I say, I only wish I’d any money lof my own. If there is any thing that hum | bles a poor woman, it is coming to a man’s pockets for every thing. It’s dreadful. Now, Caudle, if ever you kept awake, iyou shall keep awake to-night—yes, you shall hear me, for it isn’t often I speak, and then you may go to sleep as soon as you ; like. Pray do yon know what month it is? And did you see how the children looked at church to-day—like no body else’s chil dren? What was the matter with them? Oh, Candle! how can you ask! Poor things! weren’t they all in their thick me rinos, and beaver bonnets ? What do you say— What of it? What! you’ll tell me that you didn’t see how the Brigg’s girls, in their new chips, turned their noses up: at ’em ? And you didn’t see how the j Browns looked at the Smiths, and then at! our dear girls, as much as to say ‘ Poor creatures ! what figures for the month of M*v !’ You didn't see it? The more shame - for you —you would, if you had the feelings I of a parent —but I’m sorry to say, Candle, you haven’t. Pm sure these Brigg’s girls— the little minxes !—put me into such a puck er, I could have pulled their ears for ’em over the pew. What do you say ? I ought lo he ashamed of myself lo own it? No, Mr. Caudle; the shame lies with you, that don’t let your children appear at church like oilier people’s children, that make ’em comfortable at their devotions; poor things! for how can it be otherwise, when they see themselves dressed like nobody else? Now, Caudle, it’s no use talking; those children shall not cross over the threshold next Sunday, if they haven’t things for the summer. Now mind—they shan’t, and there’s an end of it. I won’t have ’em ex posed to the Briggses and the Browns a gain : no, they shall know they have a mo ther, if they’ve no father to feel for’m.— What do you say, Caudle? A good deal I must think of Church , if I think so much of what wc go in? I only wish you thought as much as I do, you’d be a better man than you are, Caudle, I can tell you ; but that’s nothing to do with it. I’m talking about decent clothes for the children for the summer, and you want to put me off - with something about the church; but that’s 1 so like you, Caudle. ; I'm always wanting money for clothes? r How can you lie in your bed and say that? ; Pm sure there’s no children in the world > that cost their father so little; but that’s it, > the less a poor woman does upon, the less she may. It’s the wives who don’t care i where the money comes from, wljo’re best 1 thought of. Oh, if my lime come over again, would I mend and-Stitch, and ■ make the things go as far as I have done ? : No—that J wouldn’t. Yes, it’s very well for you to lie there and laugh, Caudle — I j very easy, to people who don’t feel. Now, Caudle dear! What a man you i are ? I know you’ll give me the money, L after all. I think yon love your children, and like lo see ’em well dressed. It’s only ■ natural that a father should. Eh, Caudle, j j eh? Now, you shan’t go to sleep till you ■ have told me. How much money do I want? Why, let me see, love. There’s Caroline, ; and Jane, and Susannah, and Mary Ann, i and—What do you say? I needn't count I 'em you know how many there are? Ha! : that’s just as you take me up. Well, how much money will it lake ? Let me sec ; L and don’t go to sleep. Pll tell you in a minute. You always love to see the dear things like new pins, I know that Caudle; i and though 1 say it—bless their little hearts! i —they do credit lo you, Caudle. Any no- I blcman of the land might be proud of ’em. ■ Now, don’t swear at noblemen of the land, and ask me what they’ve lo do with your I children ; you know what I meant. But I you are so hasty, Caudle. How much? Now don’t be in a burry r Well, I think with good pinchin’—and yon know, Caudle, there’s never a wife who can pinch closer than I can—l -think, with ! pinching, I can do with twenty pounds.— • What did you say ? Twenty fiddlesticks? What ? You won't give half the money? i Very well, Mr. Caudle, 1 don’t care; let the 5 children go in rags; let them stop from . church, and grow up like heathens and . cannibals, and then you’ll save your money, r iand, 1 suppose, be satisfied. You gave me i hecnly pounds five months ago? What’s five • imonths ago to do with now? Besides, ]j what I have had is nothing to do with it. / V Lai do you say T r l Vn jtounds are i' Jiiii'liKu—j^cuj—turn ; vnu , think things cost nothing for women ; but 3 yon don’t care bow much you lay out upon ; yourselves. They only want bonnets and ) frocks? How do you know what they r | want ? And you won’t give more than !; ten pounds. Very well. Then you may r go shopping with it yourself, and see what f I you’ll make of it. / don't leant to dress .1 the children up like countesses? You often rifling that in my teeth, you do; but you -|know it’s false, Caudle; you know it. I ; only want to give ’em proper notions of j themselves; and what, indeed, can the poor ,| things think when they see them as fine as II tulips ? Why, they must think themselves I nobody—depend upon it, Caudle—it’s the way to make the world think anything of you. What do you say ? Where did I pick up that? "Where do you think ? I know a great deal more than you suppose—yes ! ’ though you don’t give me credit for it.— Husbands seldom do. However, the twenty pounds I will have, if I’ve any—or not a farthing. No, sir, no! I don't want to dress up the children like jwacocks and parrots'. J 'only want to make ’em respectable—What Jdo yon say? You'll give fifteen pounds? !No, Caudle, no ! Not a penny will 1 lake under twenty ; if 1 did, it would seem as if I wanted to waste your money; and I’m ■sure, when I come lo think of it, twenty pounds will hardly do. Still, if you’ll give me twenty —no, it’s no use your offering fifteen, and wanting to go to sleep. You shan’t close an eye until you promise the twenty. Come, Caudle, love!—twenty: and then you may go to sleep. Twenty— twenty —twenty “My impression is,” writes Caudle, in his comments, “that 1 fell asleep, slicking firmly to the fifteen ; but in the morning Mrs. Caudle assured me, as a woman of honor, that she wouldn’t let me wink an eye before I promised the twenty, and as man is frail—and woman is strong —she had the money.” Mr. Caudle purchases and sends home a “ Pel Monkey." The consequences thereof. Now Caudle—in the nme of all iftat’s hideous—what do you intend to do with ’ that ugly ape you so- J t here to-day ? Isn't ( it enough, Caudle* that wc should have the < mouths we Itto teed already, but you i must squander money upon zoological - quadrupeds ? JS'of a quadruped? What is i it then r There, Caudle, now yon needn’t < “hem*' —you havn’t got a cough—its all t P snam ; aud I should like to know what’s l i to be done with the beast ? Beautiful spe cimen? It’s a nasty, flat-nosed, ugly brute, ? it is; and I’m not to be annoyed with fo -5 reign apes—l’m not! It’s quite enough to I have the care of you, without such mon , slers in the house. Elegant ringtail? I ; tell you I care neither for his head or tail. ; lie shall never have a moment’s peace in l this house ! You never knew anything that ; did? J’ll fix your “beauty”—now, depend | on’t. Apt to bile? I’ve no doubt of it. I - always thought it just inhuman enough to' I have recourse to such unnatural spite. You . know I hate animals, Caudle, but you can make a pet of an ugly monkey, while your poor wife is neglected and abused—but I’ll , pisen him, I will! Keep clear of the reach yOf his teeth? I’ll Doom him out of the house—that’s what 1 will. It’s quite suf ficient for one woman to endure his mas ter. A pretty nose? I’ll flatten it closer ’ to his ugly face than nature did originally. Heavens! Caudle, what is that? Mary! For pity’s sake what has happened ? Over turned the waiter—containing my best Chi ! naica set? A pretty pet is this, Mr. Cau :die, to domesticate! A little playful only? And is this the satisfaction I gel after the crockery is smashed! Break him of such ■ tricks? I’ll break his neck. Caudle, will 'you send him ofT directly? You won’t? ; Then, Mary, I’ll no, I won’t: I’ll . not be hasty. Caudle! but I can’t endure . this treatment long! I can’t—Caud iCaudle! Are you dead? There it goes • again ! Caudle, don't you hear that crash ? [ You hear nothing but my noise? I tell you, jCaudle—Well, Mary, what now? Wound • his tail round the astral , and is dragging it ) up the back stairs? Caudle ! Oh yes! you'll , start now the mischief is all over. Why , can’t you hurry, Caudle ? Don’t you .hear . the cut-glass shade ? Aigh !—Ugh ! Oh ! ? murder! Skash! Here he comes straight into the parlor. Catch him! Stop him! y Caudle!—Mary! Don't let him in! Shut i the door, Mary ! * * * * * jl So, you’ve secured the monster, have Jyou, at last, Mr. Caudle! Now, Caudle, c , and you know it—l’m mistress in my own e j house, and we haven’t come to taking i ! ‘boarders” yet. No? No, sir, and what jis more, we chan’t! That baboon gentle el man must go out. Do it? You know I I I t aiFi do it. Dhcn be content? No 1 shan’t, tlCaudle. You say you gave but six-pound i tcn for him. Only six-pound-ten for him? I Caudle, you ought to have a guardian. A pretty penny, surely! Now, Caudle, you’re j not going to sleep in the chair their!* Cau ■ die, I say! I havn’t done with the mon t key yet! Caudle! Caud i’ll be hanged ? if he isn’t snoring! i “The last sound 1 heard that night,” con i linues the MSS, “was a heavy blow upon [ the pavement. My pet monkey had jump fled from the window, and we found him in • I the morning lying near the portico, with a ; broken neck !” Ax Old Joke in a New Dress.—An old lawyer of the city of New York, tells ‘ a good joke about one of his clients : t A fellow had been arraigned before the m police for stealing a set of silver spoons.— jThe stolen articles were found upon the I culprit, and there was no use in attempting jto deny the charge. Lawyer was ap i plied to by the prisoner as counsel, and, seeing no escape for his client, except on the plea of insanity or idiocy, he instructed the prisoner to put on as silly a look as pos sible, and, when any question was put to him, to niter in a drawling manner, with idiot expression, the word ‘spoons.’ If suc cessful the fee was to be twenty dollars.— The court proceeded to business; the charge , was read, and the question put to the pris oner: “Guilty or not guilty?” “Spoons!” ejaculated the culpiit. The court put several questions to him, but “spoons,” “spoons!” was all the answer it could elicit. “The fellow is a fool,” said the judge; “let him go about his business.” The prisoner left the room, and the law yer followed close in his wake, and when ■ they had got into the hall the counsellor tapt his client on the shoulder saying: “Now, i*V good fellow, that twenty dol lars.” Thp rogue, looking the lawyer full in the face,and, putting on a grotesque and silly expression, and, winking with one eye, ex jr/aimed : “Spoons!” and then made tracks. A Hint to the Passionate.—Dr, Cald well, an American writer on physical edu cation, contends that a well-balanced brain contributes to prolong life, while a passionate and turbulent one tends much to abridge it —and if persons knew how many dangers in lile they escaped by possessing mildness of temper, instead of the opposite disposi tion, how eager would be the aim of all men to cultivate it. NO. 8.