• .. . ,4: , `•-:-. ! , • • .. , 3 . - 0 0 , „ -- , ••"" -1 •-, - !::::-17 . ..:. ....... ... ..... r ... i , ..... . „. ..x .... ..,.. . ~.. , . , • :••„, .., 1 ...,.• .. ..„. t , . . . r. 1 :., --, 5.1 •„:,,,,-• S., , , •_7 a • .. .... . •. . . .-,.. ••,. -.l i ; . ... , . ...., ~ . . .. . . •.•.- . F . . , --..,...;.:.4::7•.• ~ .. SAMUEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor. VOLUME XXVIII, NITAIBER, 20.] 'llJ:rani. Santa Filomena 15tY IL W. LONGFELLOW `'iVheile'er a noble deed is wrought, I Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, Our heart. in glad surprise, To higher levels rise. Tho tidal wave of deeper souls Into our inmost being rolls, And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares. Honor to those whose words or deeds, TJtae help on in our tinily needs, And by their overflow Raise us from what is low! Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead, The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp— The wounded from the battle plain, In dreary hospitals mid pain, The cheerless corridors, The cold and stony floors. Lel in that house of misery .A. lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering gloom, And flit from room to room. And slow, as inn dream of bliss, The speechless sufferer turns to kiss ➢her shadow as it fulls Upon the darkening walls. As if a door in (leaven should ho Opened, and then closed suddenly, The vision canto and went, The light shone and was spent. On England's annals, through the long Hereafter of her speech and sung, That light its rays shall east From portals of the past. A lady with a lamp shall stand In the history of the land, A aulde type of good, Heroic womanhood. Nor even aliall be wanting hero The palm, the lily and the spear, The symbols that of yore Saint nomena bore. Confidence and Credit. The day was dark, the markete The 'Change was thin. gaieties were full, And half the town was breaking-, The countersign of cash was "stop," Bankers and Bankrupts shut up shop, And holiest hearts were aching-. When near the 'Change, my fancy spied A faded form, with hasty stride, Beneath grief's burthen stopping; Ike amine was Credit, and she said Hes father, Trade, was lately dead, Her mother, Commerce, drooping. The smile that she was wont to wear Was withered by the hand of cure, Her eyes had lost their lustre; lifer character was gone, she said, For basely she had been betray'd, And nobody would trust her. That honest indnstry had tried To gain lair Credit for his bride, And found the lady willing, Hut ald a fortune hunter cnine, And Speculation was his n ame, A rake, not worth a shilling. The villinn was on mischief bent, Ile gained both dad and 11111105 consent; And then poor Credit mantled. Me filched her fortune and her fame, Ile fixed a blot upon her name, And left her broken hearted. While thus poor Credit seemed to sigh, 11cr cousin, Confidence, came by, (Nlethinim he most be clever,) For when he whispered in her ear, She check'd the sigh, she dried the tear, And smiled us sweet as ever. gthrtivi4s. Parisian Pickings A GHOST. One morning the door of the office of a celebrated avoue (attorney) in Paris was opened, and an old man dressed in garments which did not even seek to disguise poverty, entered. Spite of this circumstance, scarce ly calculated, especially in a lawyer's office, to inspire respect, there was, in the tall, thin figure, and in the calm dignity of the coun tenance, an indefinable something, which made the younger clerk in the office look at the visitor with curiosity, and caused him to stop in a facetious speech, intended to make his brother clerks laugh, and most exceed ingly to confound and mortify the old prig who stood before them. When we said that the old man entered the offices of this great avouc, we should have intimated that it was an outer office, in which sat several young men; some salaried secretaries, or clerks, others merely gentle men intended for the law, who were sup posed to be in the office fur the purpose of studying its intricacies. M. Purulent was safely barricaded in an inner office, to which none had access without previously stating ins business. Di. Durmont's time was so yreeions, from the number of his clients, that he could not afford to throw away even five minutes of the hours he dedicated to business. Accordingly, as the visitor advanced to wards the inner door, the head clerk ad vanced towards him, and, not thinking such a client could be of any consequence, stood before him, and in a tone of profound regret, declared that 'Monsieur Dumont vas par ticularly engaged.' will wait,' replied the visitor, and down be sat. The clerk returned to his desk. Then began, especially among the young men who were merely reading, a witty conversation, carried on in conventional slang, of which the old man in his shabby garb, was the sole object. He, however, did not understand, or his thoughts were perhaps far away, for he sat calm and impassable, occasionally taking a pinch of snuff from a broken, little horn box, but evidently totally unconscious that be was serving as a subject for the witticisms of the future Demosthenes of the Palais de Justice. Several persons entered the office during the hour which succeeded, some, clerks from other lawyers, were initiated into the juke that was going on; others, clients of import ance, were ushered ceremoniously into the inner sanctum. Still the old man never moved, never spoke, never grew impatient. At last, the head clerk thinking the victim sufficiently roasted, and irritated, perhaps, at the impassibility of the persistent visitor, threw down his pen, and starting up, ex claimed in a loud voice: 'lf you must see Monsieur Durmont, tell me your name.' `Colonel `Colonel Palma—the same name as the hero who was killed at Oran?' `The same person. 'The—same—person,' stammered out the clerk, gazing with astonishment at the man before him. 4 0f course,' exclaimed one of the clerks, thinking the old fellow was retaliating upon them; 'don't you remember what a splendid funeral he had?' 'Then,' continued the youngest, 'this gen tleman must be his ghost. Pray, sir, are you a ghost?' am, my boy,' replied the old man.— 'Now, sir,' added he, turning towards the clerk, 'will you be pleased to take my name to M. Dumont?' The clerk obeyed. M. Durmont, who never took his attention off one thing till it was claimed imperatively by another, did not pay any attention to the name, nor raise eyes from the papers he was examining, but merely by an inclination of the head signi fied to the clerk that he was visible. The old man entered, and carefully closed the door behind him. Then M. Durmont looked up, and with the practiced eye of the lawyer, read at a glance a whole history of wrongs and misfortunes in the apparently cairn and unimpassioned features. As the colonel took off his hat, as he stood erect before the arouc, he revealed a deep scar across the forehead, and the head entirely bald; and as he looked at Durmont with his light blue eyes, serene as those of a child, Durmont felt an electric thrill pass throngh him. An intense feeling of curiosity and interest (very unusual in him, professionally hardened) took possession of him, and rising, ho himself advanced a chair towards his visitor, and in a most respectful tone ad dressed him. [Atlantic Monthly 'To whom have I the pleasure of speaking?' said be. 'To Colonel Palma?' Durmot started; for Palma (the real name is not the one we write) was the name of a most distinguished officer, who had per formed deeds of most extraordinary valor at the siege of Oran, in Algiers, some fifteen years before—who had been there killed, and who (though his body was supposed to have fallen beneath the ruins of Oran, was not found) had boon honored by all France, and,was inscribed in the llall of the Inva lides amongst its heroes. did nut know there were two Colonel Palmas.' `Nor are there; I am the one who was killed at Oran.' Durmont glanced instinctively nt the scar which crossed his forehead. He imagined he was speaking to a madman. 'I am not mad,' said the old man, with a faint smile, replying to the thought that had flashed through the lawyer's mind. 'I have three-quarters of an hour to spare,' said Durmont; 'can you tell me all you have to say in that time?' 'I can,' replied the old man. Durmont bolted the door, and the colonel began. He told how, found in the night by the Arabs, he bad been taken by them, and had for some years remained among them in a distant portion of the desert. Then lie had escaped. Ile had made his way to Tunis. There the Consul had refused to believe his story—Le was duly dead The Consul showed him his name among the list of those honored and wept by his country. At Algiers it was the same. He was ut terly miserable and penniless. By almost superhuman exertions lie had contrived to get to Marseilles; there he had again told his story, and the Prefect in whom he had confided answered Lim by shutting him up in a mad house. 'At last, after years of despair,' continued the colonel, 'came years of stupid resigna tion; then at last I comprehended that my liberty depended on my denying my own identity; so finally I confessed that the whole had been an illusion; then they turned me out, giving me ten francs, with which at length I have reached France, France,' con tinued the colonel, 'my country, where I was honored—where I have a fortune, friends, a wife. Where I expected to find consola tion for the past, where I have found noth. ing but poverty, contempt. "Where are your papers?" is the reply to my story.— Ah, sir! I have been buried beneath a whole regiment and the ruins of a city, but here I am buried beneath the prejudices of society and a hecatomb of formalities. I have no right to be alive.' 'Pray, go on, my dear colonel,' said the aeotte with deference. The old man held out his hand to take that of the avoue. For the first time his hand trembled, for the first time the traces of emotion were visible on his features. . . 'A kind word has been so long a stranger to my ears I thank you for it; even that re "NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING." COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 21, 1857. pays some suffering. All my papers, prov ing my identity, arc at Munich, where I de posited them, but it requires money to get them.' 'That shall not be wanting, colonel, if you can give one proof; but no, I believe you.— How can we make the world believe you?' There is one person who should have suf ficed to identify me before the whole world. —my wife.' 'The Countess Ferrand.' 'You know her, then?' 'The Count and Countess are both clients of mine.' `Yes, her husband. Sir, she was a poor girl when I married her; she was bound to me by both gratitude and love. You know I died rich, and ever since I had acquired this furtunc, I had made a will leaving it all to my wife.' `She duly inherited all, your death having been certified at the war office, recorded by the Marshal Tiugead, and inscribed on the walls of the Invalides. She duly inherited your fortune, wore mourning the proper length of time, and then—' `Married again. I know it now,' said the colonel. 'Spite of that I went to her house. Looking as I do, her lackeys turned me from the door. Then I stood fur hours, fur days, fur weeks against the lamp post opposite the dour, and I saw her get into her carriage. I saw her going out morning and evening, in elegance and splendor, while I was poor and starving at her door. Oh! she is still very beautiful—more beautiful, more accom plished than ever—this wife of mine, whom another possesses. Well, then I wrote to her twice. No answer. She knows that I am alive—she knows that I am penniless, and yet—' 'There will be the difficulty, Colonel; it is on account of Mine. Ferranti, better, perhaps, that we should endeavor to enter into some arrangement, and not try to prove any thing.' 'Not prove that I am alive?' 'According to law, my dear Colonel, you are not.' A ghost, as I said?' 'A ghost, and people don't believe in ghosts. Now give me the right address for Munich, and the papers shall be had, I promise you; and, Colonel Palma,' added the young lawyer, (for he was only thirty six,) 'here are twenty-five louis. You can never obtain admission anywhere in the dis guise you now wear. Do not thank me—it is an advance merely on the sums we shall obtain from Mme. Ferrand. Come here again on Saturday.' The Colonel pressed the hands of the law yer, his lips quivered, and his eye glistened, but he did not speak; and, taking up his battered and torn hat, he abruptly left the study. 'Pcrnon,' said Dumont to his confiden tial clerk, 'the last half hour has cost me twenty-five louis; but even should this man turn out to be an . imposter, they. arc well spent, for I have seen the most accomplished actor of his day.' 'The next day M. Dumont, after mature ly considering the position of the Colonel, came to the conclutdon that the simplest and most expeditious way of settling the matter was to go to his wife, now Countess Fer rand. 'We shall have twenty suits growing out of this one; every one will, of course, go through all the Courts, till they get to the Supreme CJurt. The facts will he disputed everywhere; we may, perhaps, have to send a commission to Algiers, to Oran—who knows? Yes, I know how far the law may lead us, how long law-suits may last, and how much money they may cost. Let's see the wife.' Durmont drove to Count Ferranti's, in the Faubourg St. Vonore. lie was immediately, on seeing his name, ushered into the pres ence of the Countess. She was alone in her boudoir. It was not yet twelve o'clock. Her graceful form, round and plump as a woman of thirty-five should be, to look young, was enveloped in a white eachemere robe-de•chambre, orna mented with pink. The numerous airy curls of her light brown hair were main tained in their position by a film of a point d'Alencon cap. Seated at a table whose el egance was in harmony with the rest of the apartment, the Countess, with a gold pen, was replying to an invitation from the Eng lish Embassy. She raised her eyes as Dur mont entered. The smile was sweet—the teeth displayed were white—the eyes were brilliant, and so black that they had not a shade or shadow of brown; perhaps it was this, in connection with her light hair and fair blonde complexion, that gave them a hard, harsh expression: but Durmont, as they met his glance, and as he looked on the luxury around, sighed and exclaimed men tally: 'Alas, poor ghost!' 'Madame la Comptesse,' said Durmont, 'I am come to speak with you on very im portant business.' 'I am sorry my husband is not at home.' 'lt is, on the contrary, fortunate, Madame, that your second husband should be out of the house when I am come to speak to you of your first, Colonel Palma' 'What means this joke or this riddle. I don't understand.' `Yon know that the Colonel still lives.' `Nonsense, have I not the certificate of his death from the• War Office? Didn't the Duke de Nemours himself relate to me the particulars of his death?., Have I not inher ited his fortune?' 'All true, yet all false, for you, his wife, know that he, lives. lie wrote to you.' `Wrote to toe since his death—never.' 'lle said he 'lid: and that one letter even contained a bill of exchange.' 'There was no bill of exchange, sir, in either letter; it is false.' 'Then you did receive the letters? What is the use of not being sincere with me.— See, you arc caught in the very first trap I have laid for you.' 'You have no legal proof of what you ad vance.' 'We have.' 'The tribunals would justify me. It was two years before I married again.' 'The tribunals might, but the world, and an ad% ersary of whom you have never thought—' 'Who?' `Your second husband; do you imagine the Count Ferrand, who is so susceptible, so ambitious, would consent to maintain his right to the wife of a living husband, who has a prior right, and who claims you?' The Countess turned pale. have two children by M. Ferrand.' 'Whom you make illegitimate by disput ing the amicable arrangements we propose. Besides, remember you have no connexions under this imperial dynasty. Count Per rand, though he may be attached to you, might, favorite as he is at Court, be free for a splendid and influential alliance. Still, if you prefer war, and the courts should, as they won't, decide in your favor, you will not after all be so badly off. The wife of a hero, who, on his first recognition, will be promoted to the rank of General, rich as you know, for you have his fortune, "grand officer of the Legion of Honor."' 'Does he love me still?' said the Countess, who had appeared to be lost in thought. think he does.' At this the brilliant black eyes grew blacker and more brilliant still. will see your client,' said she. 'Saturday?' 'Saturday, at your office.' On the appointed day the clerks were much astonished at the appearance of the old prig, in a dress suited to the rank he really bore, and wearing the red ribbon of the grand officer of the Legion of Honor around his neck. He was completely trans formed in all but the dignity and serenity of his countance, and even that had on it a ray of hope which brightened it. Mme. Ferrand arrived a few minutes af terwards. As she entered the inner office she started. Besides Dumont and the Col onel there were four other persons. Dar moat was too astute a lawyer not to have witnesses to an interview on which depended so much. The Countess recovered her pres ence of mind almost immediately. 'Madame,' said Durmunt, 'this is Colonel 'That!' exclaimed the Countess. 'You are deceived; that is not Colonel Palma.' 'Rose,' said the Colonel, in a severe tone, 'how dare you deny my identity? Do you remember the circumstance of our first meet ing under the arcades of the Palais Royal at night. You were but young in your trade then.' 'Sir,' said Mme. "Ferranti, turning to Dur mont; 'I will not remain here to be insult ' ed,' and with a rapid step she hurried out. 'She has no heart,' exclaimed the Colonel; 'I will kill her.' 'Nonsense; she is a sharp, clever woman; take care she don't put you in a mad-house. We will begin the suit.' A few minutes afterwards, as the Colonel was descending the steps, his wife put her arm through his. 'Francois,' she said, 'come with me.' The tone. the action, those of other days completely overpowered the Colonel. He followed like a child, and soon found hint self seated by her side in her carriage, which moved forward at a rapid pace. 'Fancois,' said the Countess, taking his hand, 'I knew you at the first glance.' 'Rosin°, you have by these words obliter ated all my misfortunes.' Two big hot tears fell from the eyes of the old man on the Countess's band. 'How could I acknowledge you before so many? Think of my position; married at once to two husbands. Old if I had known you were living. Indeed it is not mr fault. I waited two years. Your death was so formally certified. Here the Countess wept. 'Don't cry, Rosine,' said the Colonel, pros sing her little hand in his. 'We are going to Montmorency; I have a house there; it is alone that we must decide I this matter. You arc noble, generous, good, you will absolve me when the world would blame Inc. I love Mowdeur Ferrand as a woman should love the father of her chil dren' 'Silence, Rosine,' said the Colonel. 'Oh! the dead have no right to return to life.' I , 'And yet I love you—not as a wife, but as a daughter. I pity you. I will do what you please.' The look of love and snbmission with which the Countess accompanied these words, made the poor Colonel wish himself beneath the ruins of Oran. They reached the Count ess's house at Montmorency; all was pre pared for them. 'You were suro of bringing me here, then?' 'Yes, if you were really my husband, I know you would come.' They dined together; the evening was passed without one allusion to the subject of litigation. 'God bless you, my child,' said the Col onel, as the Countess rose to retire; 'you have given me the first happy hours I have had fur fifteen years.' The next day the Countess was pensive; towards evening the Colonel witnessed tears in her eyes. 'Would that I had died too,' at last ex claimed the Countess; 'my position is intol erable.' As she spoke the door burst open, and two children, exclaiming 'Mamma, mamma,: rushed into the room. The Countess darted forward, and seizing them both by the hand, stood still and blushing before the Colonel, striving to conceal them. 'Let me see your children, flosine,' said the Colonel, in a low, husky voice; 'don't let them be afraid of me.' Ile took them, he caressed them, he pas sed his large, bony hand over their smooth, fair curls. Rosine, falling on the sofa, bur ied her head in the cushions, and sobbed bit terly. 'My children,' said she; 'oh! I had forgot ten them; the law will give than to their fath cr.' The poor old Colonel knelt down beside her, his arm still around the children. I should be a brute to seperate you all, and destroy the happiness of a whole family, for the few years I have to live. llosine, it was a mistake of Providence that I did not die, evidently, there is no place fur me in this world. Forget me.' Rosine clasped her children, and the Col onel slowly left the room. A few hours afterwards there was a knock at the door of the room to which, overpow ered by emotion, he Lad retired. A gentle man entered. 'Sir,' said lie, am a lawyer whom the Countess deputed to request you to sign this paper.' The Colonel took it, read it; it was an act by which he denied his own identity, and declared himself an imposter. He threw it towards the lawyer. 'Sir, a soldier never will consent to pass for a coward and a liar! Take the act back to your employer. I refuse to sign!' The lawyer obeyed without remark. He proceeded to the library, where the Count ess impatiently awaited him. 'Has he signed?' exclaimed she eerily, as he entered. 'Nu,' replied the lawyer, 'the old war horse reared and couldn't be curbed.' `We shall have to shut him up in a mad house after all,' said the Countess. She turned; the Colonel was beside her; he rushed to the lawyer. 'The old war horse reared sir,' said be; 'know, also that he kicked,' and suiting the action to the word, the Colonel spurned the man front hint. When he was alone with his wife his fic titious strength left him. The truth was revealed to him; his last illusions were gone, and he despised her. She stood trembling and silent before him, her eyes cast down. At last the Colonel rose, and gazing intent ly at her, he addressed her in a tone of great solemnity. 'Madame,' said he, `I despise you. I thank God that circumstances have sepera ted us. I love you no more—l do nut even love you enough to desire revenge—l never wish to hear of you again—l scorn to claim my right—henceforth rest in peace. From this moment, Colonel Palma is dead to you and all the world.. Farewell—we shall never meet again.' Madame Ferrand fell on her knees weep ing, and attempted to take his hand. The Colonel pushed her from him. 'Do not touch nie—l despise you—you are nothing to me now.' With these words lie passed out of the room, and left the house. Dumont not seeing the Colonel, or even hearing of him, imagined that some amica ble arrangement had. taken place between Colonel and his wife. One day he was in the police court. when he was struck by the appearance of an old man, whom a ser gent de vile had just brought in as a vaga bond. 'What is your name?' said the magistrate to the old man. 'Francois,' replied the prisoner, an old man, bent with age, with a calm, resigned expression. 'Francois what?' 'Nothing.' 'Francois Palma,' said Durmont. know him, and claim him.' 'No, no!' said the man, trembling and clasping his hands. 'The colonel died at Oran. Don't say he is alive. Rosine will send him to a mad-house.' A mad house! That was indeed the only plaee in which the colonel could find a home. The last blow had been too much. Gentle, quiet, grateful, resigned, and long suffering, but unconscious of the past, ex cept as could be comprehended in the few phrases he had repeated to Durmont. The young aroue saw that the colonel was kind ly treated, and visits him sometimes. The colonel knew him not—nor ever alludes to Rosine, but when hesees Durmont Lc smiles, and looks at his pocket. De is watching for cigars the lawyer brings him. This is all lie cares for or knows in this world. As for the Countess, she is very friendly with M. Durrnont, who is still her lawyer. Being at Baden-Baden when the two Empe rors met at Stuttgart, she went on to be present at the fetes, and was remarked for $1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IF NOT IN ADVANCE Igrace, elegance, mature beauty, ripe as a luscious fruit, and fur the splendid dia monds with which she was covered. Coming from the Palais de Justice the other day, Dumont read in the paper an account of her dress and presentation to the Emperor of Russia. His thoughts reverted to the colonel. 'Where is justice?' said be to himself. 'There,' added he, looking at the towers of the Palais de Justice, 'there is the law.— Yonder,' and he looked up the Seine to the Tuileries and the Pont Royal, 'is society, with her immutable decrees—but justice, where is it?' Mechanically the young aroue raised his eyes, and seeing the blue vault above him, murmured. 'Not here, but in [Leaven.' One of the Sinkers What the county of Buckingham may have been in its palmy days, I pretend. not to know. Within my own memory, it has been (and but for the desperate winters we have had of late years, would be still) a great country—fur peaches. Also you may gather much broom straw there. If you desire to play 'gully-keeper,' you will find in Buck ingham ample opportunity fur indglging in that pastime. If you delight in pines, you may find them of any size and in consider able numbers in Buckingham. Buckingham is noted fur the unsocial mountain (Willis') that rises some hundreds of feet in air, without reason—unless it be to afford shelter to foxes and a refuge to little dirt-eating free negroes, with large eye , ;. It enjoys a reputation fur gold mines that yield nothing but temptation and small profits to innocent Britisbers. It boasts a couple of rivers whose navigation has been so improved, at the expense of the State, that in RI ite of locks and dams, either of them, in a season of freshets, will float an entire fence-rail; while, in extremely wet weather, stumps of almost any dimensions may be transported without fear of being wrecked, a matter of some yards, until said stumps are caught in the hummocks that abound in the tortuosities of said rivers. In addition to its fine rivers and mines, Buck ingham can brag of a Female Institute, where ninny a pretty girl has been as well educated as if she had gone to Georgetown or anywhere else, outside of Tappahannock. Besides all the foregoing, I know of no other I advantages that Buckingham possesses, un less it be a number of paper-shavers, and a Court House, where gambling, it is said, is carried on to a greater extent than marble playing iu Curdsville. Buckingham is Democratic by very con bidcrable odds; nevertheless, I have been told that a Whig, with money, can carry the county by five hundred majority. What sort of a fiction is this? But, in reality, Buckingham is as good as any other county in the State, and better— by reason of its being the birthplace of the • distinguished writer, and the residence of the still more distinguished subject of this sketch. This personage is a cousin of mine, and the son of Captain Sinker, whom per haps you know. If you do not, I will tell you that he is a tall old fellow, who, having one of those iron Revolutionary constitutions which arc so rapidly disappearing, deter mined some some half-century ago not to die in debt to that vacuity so wisely insert ed in the region of his short ribs. He is that old gentleman who wants everybody nt church to go home and eat dinner with him. If he invites you, I advise you by all means to accept. Ile will swear he has nothing but a middling and some buttermilk, and give you one of the best dinners you evert sat down to. And you may calculate with certainty upon getting a drink (or a dozen if you like) of the very best whisky. The old Captain lives in a house, or rather a number of houses tacked on to each other, by the side of the road. It just the sort of a home I fancy. It has any number of porches; and porches, in my opinion, are the glory of a house in the country. It has , plenty of cellars, closets and garrets. And then the floors are on half-a-dozen different levels. Confound a house whose doors are all on the same level! Such a house is rare ly picturesque, lint, what is worse, every body can hear everything that is going on. Captain Sinker's house suits children who play at hide-and-seek, and it is the very place for a young fellow to have a sweet heart—a sensible young fellow, sfdio don't like to shut or lock doors, but at the same time likes to get into an out-of-the-way nook or corner. In the old Captain's yard there is a well, worth all the money in world. The water is real nectar. I wish I was a frog and lived right in that well; I'd like to be a bucket and come up dripping on a summer's day, to look at the sultry world. The Cap tain keeps a lame negro boy constantly bringing this delicious water into the mid dle porch. It is always fresh, and it is al ways there when you want it. You don't . have to wait. And then the pails are the cleanest, the gourds the nicest—the sweet est out of which 'a thirsty soul' ever drank to satiety. - - The eldest son of the Captain is the indi vidual with whom we have to deal. I call him 'Delaware,' and sometimes 'lsabella;' in return he calls me 'Whack' and 'Hatchet.' The occasion of these titles concerns nobody but ourselves. Delaware Sinker stands about five feet in his socks, which are clean on Sundays. He is a keen-made man, of the shad-bellied, weasel pattern, and dres ses on week days in very original manner. [WHOLE NUMBER, 1,425. His hat is a drab-colored slouch, without a particle of stiffening in it: in fact it is lit tle better than a wollen rag that hangs down and flaps over his face. His breeches arc made of white nappy cotton, his coat is a slop-shop bob-tail: and his vest is of black satin, traversed by a yarU or two of gold chain, which secures an antiquated watch that resembles a small pone of corn bread. His shoes weigh eight pounds each, and are in fact a couple of mud-scows. His head produces a mat of shaggy hair, like a sor rel mane, while from all that part of his face beneath his eyes there pours out and rushes down a torrent, a cataract of the the most awful beard r ever beheld. It is an effulgent, flame-colored beard, whose physiognomical effects arc terrible. I have sometimes thought that Delaware with his beard resembled the sun in a fog; at other times I have likened him to the devil, look ing through the blazes of perdition; and which is the better of the two comparisons it would he hard to tell. I prefer the latter. His forehead is knobby, and hard as the nether mill stone. I'll butt Delaware Sink er against any ram or Billy goat in the State. Ills eye is bright and clear as crystal, or muddy and sullen, according to circum stances, For, no more than his father, is he willing to come under any obligation, fluid or solid, to his stomach. He knows what whisky is. His check-bones are high.— Altogether, he recalls those fierce, blue eyed Germans, whom Tacitus describes, and is just about as tame as one of those bar barians. A superficial view of him would lead you to believe that Delaware had little or no more gumption than the law allows. But don't be too certain about this. Physically and intellectually, he is a Singe Cat. He has sense enough to put you up to all you know, in a battle of wit. And if you feel disposed to try muscular conclusions with him, wea zel as he is, he will whale you like all wrath. In his youth he was a bld boy, with two brothers who would have been Ladder than himself, if that had been possible. Looking into my memory, I find there a `vision of the night,' to this effect: Four small boys upon pallets in an attic room.— Three of these boys aro three Sinkers, and these three Sinkers, instead of going to sleep, arc engaged in a triangular fight, which is none the less tough because not a word is spoken. The scuffling is terrific, and there is an occasional and very emphatic 'ugh!' when a fist falls upon an eye, or a heel is plunged into the pit of somebody's stomach. It is pitch dark, and the fourth small boy, to escape the shower of blows from fists and heels, and knees and elbows, has rolled clear off his pallet into the middle of the floor. Presently a light appears at the bead of the stair case. This light is dim at first, but grows rapidly brighter, until at length a powerful man is discovered, clothed in a great shirt, with a candle in one hand, and a switch, cow hide or horse whip in the other. The three fighting Sinkers are too intently engaged to observe this powerful man. But he brings himself rapidly into notice. He puts the candle on the floor, and be puts the switch on the bare backs of the fighting Sinkers, and continues to put it there with the entire unction of his pow erful arm, until the litllc attic chamber rings with the din of three bad boyish lungs. The old Captain takes up the candle and disappears; three whimpering Sinkers fall lovingly to sleep in each other's arms; and the small boy in the middle of the floor rolls back to his pallet and goes to sleep ton. In his nineteenth year, Delaware Sinker, attempting to jump a fractious colt over a Buckingham gully, hod the better part of his teeth knocked out. Ile bled nearly todeath, and as soon as he got well. went and got married. Three years he was married and three children were born to him. After he became a wid ower, Delaware took np his abode with the old Captain, and took with him there his two boys, "dan'jus" boys, whom Delaware curses and damns and loves with all his heart. The third child, a beautiful little girl, lives among Christian and civilized people, at a place called Gan'wy's Taber nark. Having never worked at the carpenter's trade, Delaware has, of course, kept store and taught school. Why he didn't keep on keeping store is a mystery to me, for lie is an excellent accountant, and so general a favorite that everybody would have bought goods from Lim. At school he is a discipli narian of the strictest, old-fashioned style; dosing small boys with hickory oil, and bringing obstinate boys to the floor and to submission with that primitive organ of punishment, the fist. His S cholars, 1 am told, all respect and love him. Like his father before him, Delaware is a a captain—captain of militia. It is true the militia have died out, nor has Governor Wise been able to revive them; nevertheless Delaware is a captain. In the exercise of his military functions, Captain Sinker, jr., displayed the same strict discipline he had found to answer so well in school. First thing, he announced his ability to whip any man in the company. Some rebellious re cruits evincing a disposition not to credit this announcement, be promptly knocked them down and dragged them out; after which he marched the company about fur ten hours in the broiling sun. Having at tentively- studied his books of tactics, he per mitted no interference and no suggestions in his drill. While mustering his company
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