. jJIIW PER ANNUM INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE. St ioavanda : E Morning, March 24, 1859. I ftlecltb Ibctrj. EL y O y,D WOULD BE THE BETTER FOR IT. ■MI „ cared less for wealth and fame, j nd ims for battle-field and glory ; ■ f rit in human hearts, a name | r Nmi better in a song or story ; |f , f men.instead of nursing pride, lould learn to hate and to abhor it— If more relied On love to guide, d wrl j would be the better for it. K , oe „ dealt less in stocks and lands,' P End more in bonds and deeds fraternal ; K v', Tf ' s work had more willing hands m To link this word to the supernal ; t IL * ,ored up IjoVe s oil and wine ' F Uilon bruised human hearts would pour it ; P If " yours " and " mine " Would once combine, to TV world would be the better fur it. ST if sen would act the play of life, i i n d fewer spoil it in rehearsal ; R :• Bigotry would sheath its knife ■ Till good became more universal ; :h u< ustom . gray with ages grown , p " Hid fewer blind men to adore it— If talent shone In truth aloue,' R 'no world would be the better for it. P I: men were wise in little things— | Affecting less in all their dealings— £ •• hearts had fewer rusted strings T isolate their kindly feelings ; I j;.-non, when Wrong beats down the Right, Would strike together and restore it— If Right made might In every fight, I The world would be the better for it. Stlctttb Cult. ; 111)- VI) MAN'S REVENGE! low IT WORKED AXD HOW IT ENDED. r _—+ L iUrTF.R 111. —HOW THE REVENGE WORKED. ! Tri eto his promise, Richard Mallet never | 'ierfered, by word or deed, with the arrange i wts his child's guardians had made for her 1 sscation. I I A few years went by, and the laboring j knemason had risen to be first workman in i • master's employ. With bettered means jflkiti stood wages, Richard Mallet was able to H..: the neighborhood of Peck's Court, and •at a small house in the suburbs. Airs Alal fjeemed intent upon making his way up in . :? world. Bnt his wife and children could Mwno fault iu him. In her heart of hearts, linriah, perhaps knew that her husband was '"the same ; but she would have died sooner f n breathed an accusation against him. And where was Jessie all this time? In these few years, Jessie Alallet, the j - vailom crippled child, had grown into a :traight, well-formed girl, whose presence ' aid disgrace co drawing-room. Of a slight .ure and delicate features, she still recalls t pale-faced little child who used to hobble unit her father's house upon a crutch ; bnt fere is bloom upon her cheek, and health "d energy in her movements now-a-days.— nder skillful treatment, and the healthy in iwnces that have surrounded her of late, her iSrraity has gradually disappeared. It is an iuijiortaiit day at the Canterbury I'hool, when next we see her. It is Jessie's luenteenih birthday, and her school days Wit an end. She has been writing a letter 1 her parents—those letters are the only between the old one and the new one ; "Ward has them p.ll, from the first childish to the last well penned epistle, safely up iu an old desk—and Jessie sits thinking of her father and mother with tears her eyes. Why are they not here to-day? iruand the room are Epread all the little 1 "j her companions have given her—mere for the most part, but pleasant tokens " tiie good will she had awakened there, and I 'he good name she leaves behind. " Kvery N) here remembers me, ar.d is kind," thinks "It is only my own family who for m me Jessie has plenty of new friends now, ! t for aught we know, may have learned to Jlj without her parent's love, since last we her. There are many affections we count ig, that a six year's absence would try ; I letter-writing, as we most of us know, is | '- a poor bond, after all. | j SO Perhaps Jessie's love is of a less ardent Pure than it used to be. I e ' las n °f much time, however, for reflec I n " n t '" s or on any other score. There is a I urn of wheels on the gravel-path, and a heft r °! ,K . U P ,0 the door - is Air. Hale, Iher ° a '. tSs i e s guardians, who is come to take own iir 1 * r<)ra sc,l °ol, and escort her to his mepfi'. m " a ' e Fields, where au archery or : s,e 8 farewell to her companions of tsrn<- ir *i away in Mr. Hale's *ith BU D the schojl room windows, in dimmed eyes, and sees the old cathedral, Hut her J. ' ,er tears, for the last time, heerir, '^' ltenL 'd ere long. There is a and f.p nce sunshine, green fields, toim. S -i , air> ard t0 resist, and it was next 'He 'nj eto ~e dull, seated by Mr. Hale's i 11,.. , l . ew^ al %-hop grower's genial face toujji | Jessie good. Such a smile as his phjßii.i- l ,aV( n a smad ann,lit y 10 a young ■ Win a an ' a c^ea P ar >d efficacious retnedv I ' OW 'T'nted patients. 3 I w , e arc -'' otmd he, as the carriage Ice ' a t Htt l e Fields, "here we 1 > 'l ready, you see." THE BRADFORD REPORTER. Jessie beheld the tents and targets on the lawn, the servants hurrying to and fro, and the gardeners giving the last touches to ther decorations. " Don't faucy. Miss Jessie, this is all got up on your special account. Other people can have birth-days besides you. Dick is nineteen to-day, and he means to share in the honors too. Here he comes. He'll take you in to speak to Airs. Hale aud the girls." Mr. Richard Hale raised his wide-awake, and shook hands with Jessie. He had taught her to ride one holiday, and play chess another, so they were old frieuds. Airs. Hale was a stately woman, who kissed Jessie on her cheek, and bade her welcome with an air of polite patronage.— Pride of birth was Mrs. 11 ale's failing. She had the misfortune to he the grand-daughter of a baronet, and had a weakness for good blood ; hence she never took so kindly to Jessie as the rest of her family. Her hus band, with a delicacy of feeling peculiar to him, had never divulged to any one the real facts of Jessie's parentage ; but Mrs. Hale had formed a shrewd guess on the subject. To-day, there was even a more than usual amount of dignity in the good lady's demeanor; herhend was carried more erect, and her dress rustled more imposingly, as she swept by. A young lord was to be her guest, to-day, and, to meet him, some of the first families iu the neighborhood, and the elite of Canterbury had been invited to Hole Fields ; consequently, Mrs. Hale's reception of Jessie was quite asol emn and impressive sight. The daughters were rather more humble minded, and being oid school-fellows of Jessie, welcomed her right gladly. They were soon ont in the garden together—all three glad to escape from the drawing-room, and have a few minutes' chat before the bustle of the day com menced. Jessie almost trembled when she heard of the graud doings that were to take place, and the grand people who were expected. But before her friends had half finished their con fidences, the coufab was broken up by Air. Dick Hale rushing down to the arbor where they sat, and summoning his sisters to their mother's presence. " Make haste, girl's. There's mother be coming rigid with horror. His lordship has arrived, aud uobody to receive him. Do, pray, go to her aid, cr she'll be speechless iu five minutes." The two girls flew away to the house, and left Jessie to their brother. He stood and watched them with a laughiug face. " Well, Miss Alallet, this is doing us honor, isn't it. A"ou and I are lucky folks to nave such a birth-day keeping as this." " 1 am lucky in having such friends, and such a home to-day. I little thousrht, though, when Air. Hale brought tne over, that I should find such a gay assembly, or, perhaps" Jessie hesitated. "Or, perhaps, you wouldn't have come. Well, that's very polite. I think I had better tell my father that you'd like to have the hor ses out again, and go back to Canterbury.— He's sure to oblige you." Air. Dick turned very pale. "No ; don't talk nonsense. I didn't mean, Richard, to —to'' Jessie stammered, and stopped ugain. "To insult your guardian, eh 1" said Dick, recovering his good-humor, when lie saw Jes sie looking distressed. " Yon had better not let my mother hear you insinuate that yon don't care to meet her friends, Jessie. Oh, if you only knew what she's gone through to get them together, and the management it has ta ken to avoid giving offence. Just imagine her position this morning, when the Romleys sent word they'd he able to come after all, and we (unhappy wretches,) on receiving their first; note to decline, had invited their mortal eue- ; mies, the Cheeseraans. The families are at daggers drawn, because young Ilomley, 1 siqe pose, wants to marry one of the Miss Cheese mans, and old Romley spurus the alliance, and swears he'll never consent. A pretty thing for an anxious hostess ! I wish the Cheeseraans were all at Jericho, I'm sure. 1 never wanted them to be invited here at all." Richard Hale looked really half annoyed. " Why not ?" asked Jessie. " Ob, because uobody knows who they are, or what they arc. It's said he was a tallow chandler, and had a large fortune left him. They have just that cut. He has taken a large house near us. I don't know them, you know. By the way. you don't, I hope." Jessie had suddenly grown crimson, and Dick feared he had said something iudiscrect. " No, I dou't know them." " Oh, that's right. That sort of origiu al ways makes one suspicious." Quietly as Jessie had discla'med acquaint ance with the Cheesemans, there was such a sudden tumult in her heart, and such a singing in her eafs, that for the next five minutes she heard not a word her companion said. "There goes iny father I" suddenly cried Richard. "He is looking for you, 1 know. Let's follow him ; you have to be introduced to such a lot of people. I must be off, too, or we shall have the Romleys falling foul of the Cheesemaus, aud there'll he blood spilt. Come along." They hastened away to the lawn. Everything wore a gala air there. The vis itors were arriving there fast; a splendid colla tion was laid out in one of the tents, aud a band of music was playing under the mulberry trees. The forthcoming archery fete at Hale Fields had been the talk of the neighborhood for days past. Jessie was an object of considerable inter est to the guests. She was said to be a sort of ward to Mr. Hale's, aud very rich ; also there was some mystery about her fortune.— Had they known that it was a half-sovereign lent, many years ago, by Mr. Hale's father to Zebedee Peck, the hoj>-picker boy, that had laid the foundation of this same fortune, they would perhaps have manifested less enthusi asm ; but being iguorant of this prosaic fact, several persons were very eager for an intro duction. And now the festivities commenced. Jessie PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY E. O'MEARA GOODRICH. " RESARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER." was no archer, bnt she stood by and watched the sports, well pleased when her old friend, Alary Ilale, carried off the first prize of the day. Then followed the luncheon in the tent, and Mr. Hale's funny speech when he presented the oak-lcaf crown to his daughter. After that came a dance on the lawn, when Jessie was his lordship's partner, and when the band from Canterbury, under the influence of Mr. Hale's home-brewed, played such exhila rating quadrilles, that it was enough to set the very cows in the neighboring fields doing L'ete and La -poult. Blithe, however, as the music sounded to the merry makers, there was one ear, not far off, to whom it brought no mirth. In the lane leading to Hale Fields, a solita ry man was standing, with a stern, down cast lace. It was Richard Mallet, who for the lust hour bad paced backwards and forwards in'the lane. Six years had passed since he had seen his daughter. During all this time, hehadkept his resolution of never interfering with her ed ucation, and had never presented himself before her eyes. He had a purpose ever in view from which he had uever swerved. He had come down to Canterbury by coach overnight, and finding, as he expected, that his daughter had that dav quitted school, and gone over to Hale Field's with her guardian, he had followed them in order to carry out the purpose he had so long meditated. It was only within the last hour that his heart had failed him. Though Richard Mallet looked older and sterner, he was much the same man at heart. Time, however, had wrought some changes iu him. Though still in the prime of life, his hair was tinged with gray, and his face had a hard er look than of old. He wore a better coat uow, and had a black silk handkerchief fasteued loosely around his throat. Hie horns and bugles of the Canterbury band swelled over the gardens, and the wind carried the hum and laughter of the guests to his ears. For the twentieth time, he stopped before the gates, and for the twentieth time, he turn ed away again. At last, with an angry expression at his own irresolution, he opeued the gates, and eu tered the grounds. " Air. Hale won't be able to see you to-day, my man—he's engaged, aud can't attend to bu siness," called out the lodge-keeper as lie went through the gates. " Aly business ain't with Mr. Hale,'' said Richard looking at the man, whose red face showed he had taken good care of himself in the general festivity. " Oh, it's the back-door yon want, is it ?" " Take the first path, then, to the right." The man spoke with an insolent air. But Richard kept in the broad walk, and went on as before. Suddenly, he came to a stop. He had heard his own name pronounced by some one behind the high laurel hedge at his side. " Mallet ? Ah, that's her name, it is ? Well, she is certainly goodlooking. But tln v say, poor thing, her family is not recognizable. Is it true ?" "Quite true. Mrs. Iluie has hinted as much to me herself. They do say her father is a common mason, and carries a hod on his shoul der to this day. Bnt, however, that nniv be, they are vulgar people—that's certain." Richard's lips became as pale as death. " What a mercy the child was removed from her Iriends in time 1" continued the first speak er. " Really, no one would suppose her to be of low origin. With her money, she may make a good match one day, and so get free of her former ties. What a good thing she fell into the hands of the Hales—quite providential. Ah, here comes our host!" The ladies moved away ; and Richard, witli his teeth set, and his foot crushing the gravel under his heel, strode on to the house. One or two persons turned toiook at him as j he approached, but the majority of the guests were on the side-lawn, where the dancers were assembled and the marquee erected ; so he es caped observation. "Is my daughter in ?" he inquired of the servant at the hall door. He had walked straight up to the piiucipnl entrance. The man stared in surprise, and then, with a satirical glance at a waiter near, replied : " No, she aint, nor wou't be to-day, nor yet to-morrow. Your business ain't partickler pressin', I 'opcand he winked at his com panion. " A'ou'll please keep a civil tongue in your head, and ans ver my question. Is Miss Mal lett in ?'' "Miss Mallett? Yes she's about some where ; but you can't sec her ; that is, you— ; you" The man stammered, changed his 1 "tone, and stopped. Something had warned him in time. " You'll have the goodness to show me into a room where 1 can speak to her, aud then send and seek her." Without another word, the man led the way across the hall, and ushered Richard into the library. It was a handsome room—green and cool, with a large bow-window opening out into the garden, and an awning outside. Richard could see the gay company, and the baud and tent on the lawn. He caught sight of his own fig ure in a mirror opposite, but the contrast there did not trouble him. A strange self-control had come over him ; there was an iron resolu tion written on his face. He was standing gazing at the sacrifice of Iphigenia, iu bronze, on the mantel piece, and was striving to find out its meaning, when he beard footsteps approaching. He turned, and a young lady and gentleman entered the room through the wiudow. It was Jessie and Mr. Dick Hale. For one moment they both stared at the un expected visitor in surprise : the next, Jessie gave a low cry aud sprung lorward : " Father!" Richard Mallett's arms were folded on his breast, his face was cold and unmoved ; but at that one word his arms opened aDd he straiued her to bis heart. Mr. Dick Hale disappeared. "Thou aint forgotteu ray face, then !" said Richard, looking down at his daughter.— " That's well. I didu't know but how you might." Though lie spoke coldly, his lip trembled so he could scarcely articulate. "Thou art changed since we met, girl.— Instead of ray poor laine lass, I find thee a lady growu." He scauued her over at arm's length. " I want to know, now, whether you are still my own child or not ; I want to know whether they have changed your heart as well as your dress. Stay ; don't speak yet; you may repent it. I have a question to ask you : I want to know whether you will leave these people, and come home to your mother and me —that's the proof I want as to whether you are still my own child." Jessie's eyes fell. There was something so cold and stern in her father's voice, it made her heart shrink. "Think before yon speak ; there's much de pends upon it. Are you ready to leave these friends, and cast your lot with me ? Are you prepared to live with those who are not clever and polished, but rough, unedicuted people.— There's a deal to lose, but I think there is something to gain. We can give you love, Jessie, such as you may never find else" lie suddenly stopped. " Answer me, my lass, which is it to be—go or stay 1" " I'll go, father." He loved her still ; his last words had deci ded her in a moment. " You'll go ? Aud will you go contentedly ? Will you go, feeling you aint ashamed o' them you'll have to live with ?" " Father ? why do you put these cruel ques tions to me? I have prayed to God to bring us together every night of my life. Ashamed! oh you forget I am your child." Jessie hid her face in her hands and wept. " You say you ain't ashamed of me," said Richard, with a strange expression gathering over his face. " Then I'll put your words to the test. Look at this hand ; it's rough and hard with labor ; my boots are thick and ugly; the linen on my back is coarse ; my coat is badly cut ; I don't look like a gentleman— anybody may see that. Now, if you ain't ashamed of me, common looking as I be, take me out through that window on to the lawn amongst those people, and tell them I'm your father. Dare yon do it ? Dare you own me before 'em all ? Speak out." Jessie turned deadly pale, and a spasm pas sed over her face. What was it her father asked? It was too much—too much. A hun dred things forbade it : Mrs. Hale's pride, (he opinion of her friends, and—worse than all! Dick's words that very day. fcjhe stood dumb and terrified. Her father saw her irresolution, and his breath came quick. " You've had time to think. Dare you do it ?" There was a moment's silence, and then the struggle was at au end, She had counted the cost, and had triumphed. She passed her hand over her brow, and said : " Yes, father, 1 dare. Come!" She had reached the window, when her step faltered. Before her was the gav and brilliant assembly. She stood spell bound at the sight, and a shiver passed over her " Yon can't, then—you can't do it," whis pered Richard hoarsely. Without another word, he stepped back, and turned and left her alone. But ere he had gone five paces from her, Jessie was at his side : " Father, forgive me ; I have no fear." She put out her hand, looked up into his faee radiant in her love, and led him straight to the window. The next moment they stood in the garden before all the people. Kvery eye was fixed upon the young girl as she crossed the lawn with her companion and walked up to the tent where Mr.and Mrs.Hale ' and a party of their friends (Canterbury gran- I dees, and quiet old folks, who did not dance) j were sitting. "Who has Miss Mallett got with her?" " What a singular proceeding !" "Is she es corting one of the gardeners to the tent ?" \ asked the young people on the lawn Regardless of all comments, Jessie never j stopped till she had reached the tent where her hostess sat. Then and there, in a few simple words she made known her father to Airs. Hale. A buzz of astonishment rose up around j Mrs. Hale looked bewildered and confused ; ' but, ere Jessie had done speaking, Mr. 11 ale j was at her side. " This is your father, Jessie, is it ? Then I am glad to make his acquaintance." Mr.Hale held out his hand to Richard. " 1 have only seen you once before, Mr. Mallett (it was when your uncle died); but I have not forgotten your behavior then.'' Mr. Hale's prompt manner had spared any thing like a scene, and relieved every one at once. j "Sir, I thank you ; that's kindly said. But let me explain how 1 came to intrude myself lure." Richard stood erect, and unembarras sed with his hat off " I aint a man to intrude myself anywhere, but I had a reason fcr com ing here which mav be a wrong nn, but which I couldn't help follerin' out. For now goin' on seven years, sir, I have been pining for the sight of my child, and all this time I have lie ver meddled nor interfered with the edication I knew she ought to have. I come down here to-day, sir, to claim her, and see if she still loved me as she used to do ; but 1 come, I'm afenrd.in a sperit as might have led to no good. I had grown mistrustful, and thought she'd he changed, and ashamed of me. So when she comes into your parlor, where I was waitin' for her just now, I steeled my heart again her, bonny as she looked, and felt jealous of her dress and lady ways. She said she was ready to go wi' me, but she seemed to be frightened like, I thought, aud I doubted her still. So I said to her (it wus a sudden thought that come, I don't know how): " If you'll cross that lawn hand in hand with me, aud own me afore all I those people. I'll believe you love me as you 'ought." Whereupon, sir, before I'd lime to consider o' whut I asked (I wasn't myself just then), she stepped out of the window, and brought me straight into your presence without a murmur or a blush. And God lovelier for it! And so he will It was a right noble act, thu' I hadn't ought to have asked it." Jessie hid her face on her father's arm, and be stopped. Every one was silent. The simple earnest ness of the man, and his erect yet modest bear ing, had touched all present. " Mr. Mallett,'' said an old gentleman com ing forward, "I admire and sympathize with your conduct. May God bless your daughter." The old clergyman, a high dignitary of the church, laid his hand ou Jessie's arm, aud led | her to a seat. " Let me shake hands with you, Mr. Mallet. I honor both your head and your heart." It was his lordship that spoke. Yes ; Mrs. Hale might stare and refuse to credit the evi deuces of her senses ; but there was her noble I actually shaking hands with a man with out gloves ! When ?. right reverend dean and a peer's son had thus openly acknowledged the stone-mason, no one was afruid of losing caste by addressing him. Jessie and her father would probably have become lions, had they not stoleu oET, through Dick Ilale's agency, to a quiet parlor, where they were left alone to themselves. Of course, the archery feto at Hale Fields was long remembered in the neighborhood, aud gained considerable eclat from what certain ladies pleased to term "the roiuautie incident" that terminated the day. One summer evening a few years later, a family group was assembled about the shade I of a sycamore, in front of a pretty farm-house iu Devonshire. The garden overlooked the sea, and, from the seat under the sycamore, the white, bird like sails of the fishing boats coming up with the tide, and the great hull of a Plymouth steamer iu the distance, with its smoke plume trailing along the horizon, were visible. It was Richard Mallet und his family who were assembled iu the garden at the Cliff Farm. The father with a roll of paper on his knee, and pencil and compasses in hand, was plan ning some improvements for the farm-yard.— His wife, busy with her knitting, sat at a little distance. One of the boys lay on the grass at his mother's feet, reading t> hen ; the other j was watching the Plymouth steamer through a telescope. Jessie, alone with her father, on the bench under the tree, sat with her hands clasped idly before her, and her face fixed ou the sea. She looked very pretty iu that thought ful attitude. " Father," she said suddenly, " I was just thinking how strangely good has come out of evil in our two lives. Uncle Zeb's wicked in tentions seemed to have carried with them their own frustration. He has knit us closer together than ever. I think I should never have known how much I loved you, hud 1 not been separated from my home all those years ; and I certainly could never iiave kmwu how much vou loved me." Jes-ie took hold of her father's hand as she spoke, and looked at him with unutterable uf fection. " Yes, Jessie, good fuis coine out of evil iu I our lives, a-, you say. And I think pwople would often have less power to injure us than they have, were we but true to ourselves. As ! long as you and me remained so, Uncle Zeb's , curse could never have done us any harm We i want more faitli in one another, Jessie, and in the goodness of our own hearts, and then we'd see less coldness and disunion than there is in j the world, lint I musn't preach ; it's only your mother who >ays I'm as good as the parson, or i who think s me as clever, Gloss her heart!" He : looked towards his wife with a fond smile.— ! "Holloa, what are they up to there! See, ! there's Pliil shouting like mud !" There was evidently great excitement amongst the mother and her boys. " There he goes, father. There's the gen tleman who took ns out fbliing the other day, ! and jumped overboard when Ned fell into the water!" A stranger was standing near the edge of the cliff beyond the garden-wall. " Oh, do run and ask him to come in," said the mother. " I hare seen him there nearly every night this week, and wondered who lie could be. To think I didn't know him ! You 20 too, Jessie ; you'll know how to thank him. ! Here's your hat." Jessie took her father's arm, and they set off ' for the cliff. As they drew near the stranger, Jessie suddenly grasped tight hold of her fath er's arm. "Oh, stop, father—stop ! Look, lie's coming this way. Jessie had recognized the figure before her —it was that of Mr. Dick llalc. He bad been prowliug around the neighbor hood for some days past, in a secret sort of way. quite unlike his usual open behavior.— Wild ducks had been the rstensib'e object of his wanderings, ns the gun upon his shoulder ] gave evidence of; but the sen-fowl appeared only to frequent one part of the coast, and ; that was the immediate tieighbordood of the Cliff Farm. It required no great amount of persuasion upon Mrs. Mallet's part to induce Mr. Dak Hale to enter the house, and to stay and take i supper afterwards. And as, upon returning to j his inn at midnight, he decided to remain an- j other week in the neighborhood, it is to be presumed he spent a pleasant evening. A few years further 011, and we again take a peep at a family group at the Cliff Farm. But this time they are assembled by a win ter's fire, with the wind rumbling in the chim- j ney, and the waves beating 011 the beach below. A gray haired old man is going to tell a , Christmas story to his grandchildren. Grand \ father has seen strange changes since his youth, and can tell strange stories too. " Let it be something true, grandfather," j says a bright eyed little girl on his knee. " And let it have a terrible name,"says Dick a fine boy of nine. " Suppose, then, I tell you your mother's his tory," ears grandfather, looking at the youug matron silting bv her husband'* side. VOL. XIX. " Yes, grandfather, tell tbeui that/' replica the children's father. " But mother's history won't be a story,'* cries Dick. " It will he ns good," soys grandfather ; "and ns you want a terrible uauie to it t Dick, suppose we cull it A Dr.ad Alan's Jicvengv" As ASCIKNT OHIO FlUHT —Upwards of a quarter of n century ago, a little uffuir occur red in high life, in the town of Columbus, which ought not to be suffered to pass into obiirion. The scene was the front of the ven erable hotel kept by " Bob Russell," who with j his well known colored servant " Dick," (tho roughly marked with the snmll-pox.) will not soon pass out of the iniuds of the settlers of tbo Stnte. Mr. F y was Attorney General of Ohio, uni L d was Chief Clerk in the office of thu Auditor of .State. The United States Court ■ was in session, nnd Mr. F. improved the op uortunity to explain to a number of conatitu | cuts in front of the hotel the circumstances of a claim wnich had accrued to the " Sullivan heirs" in consequence of the removal of the capital ol Ohio from Chiificothe to Columbus. In the course of his remarks, he questioned the statement of the Auditor's books. Mr. L. at once pronounced b s statement a lie. " I cannot waive rank," said Mr. F., 44 and fight this man." As he proceeded to reiterate his charges, Mr. L. pronounced him a second and a third time a liar, when Mr. F., becoming much exci ted, shouted : 44 My fellow citizens, I have concluded to waive t lie questioD of rank, and settle this mat ter at once." So, taking off his coat, and descended from the stand, and immediately received a tremen dous 44 right bander," which lodged him in a neighboring mud-hole. Getting up, he receiv ed a 44 settl.T," which brought him on to tho same spot. A third time he came up to tho 44 scratch," when a well directed 44 eye blinder," from the sub-Auditor, caused him to turn a complete surnmer-sault, and lodged him ooca more upon his mother earth. Turning his eyes around, under the evident impression that he hud fulfilled the utmost re quirements of the 44 code," and not desirous of performing any purely 44 meritorous"labors, ho addressed himself to his physical superior as follows : 44 Before rising from this position, air, I d