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A loth) paper—Proottit to folitirs, Pgriculturt, fittraturt, sricacc, Art, parstic eitb Otani juttiligtna l 61c.
ESTABLISHED IN 1813.
THE WAYNESBURG MESSENGER,
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ATTORIfiIYSi
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FURMAN &
ATTORNEYS AND COUNSELLORS AT LAW,
Waynesburg, Pa.
litrAll business in Greene, Washington, and Fay
ette Counties, entrusted to them, willpro mpt
receive
attention. Sept. 11,1861—y.
J. A. J. BUCIUTIAIt. W. C. LINDSICY.
BIICIL&SAN & Lurnany,
ATTORNEYS AMP COUNSELLORS AT LAW,
Waynesburg, Pa.
Office on the South side of Blain street, in the Old
Building. Jan. I, 11368.
E.•w.3I:OC7WIV -3331.2" ,
/11. 4 TTOILNLY AND COUNdELLOR AT LAW.
BOrOtßee in Ledwith's Building, opposite the Court
lionse, Waynesburg, Pa.
f. A. M'CONNSLL. J. J. HUFFMAN.
,pavozasinum & 111:1719111EAN,
STTORNEYS AND COUNSELLORS AT LAW
Wayn"sbutrip Pa.
VaOtlice in the "Wright I 1 ~.se," East Door.
Unctions, &c., will receive prompt attention
yneeburg, April 2A, 18115-17.
DAVID CRAWFORD,
Attorney and Counsellor at Law. Office in Mayers'
Building, adjoining the Post Office.
Rapt. 11, 1861—ly.
A. SLACK. JOHN MILAN.
BLACK & PHELAN,
ATTORNEYS AND COUNSELLORS AT LAW
Office in the Court house, Waynesburg.
Sept. 11,11361-Iy.
PHYSICIANS
B. M. BLACHLEY___M. D.
TEILTSZOLII3If ilk. SINLOZON,
dasio—Blariblersi amilsillag, Mail" St.,
peaESPECTFULLY announces to the citizens of
',Waynesburg and vicinity that he has returned from
Hospital Corps of the Army and resumed the mac,
of medicine at this place.
Waynesburg, June 11, 1362.-Iy.
DR. D. W. BRADEN,
!_hysieian and Surgeon. Mee in the Old But
Gibbs , Idain street. Sept. 11, 1861-Iv.
DR. A. O. CDLOSS
yfrOULD very respectfully tender his services as a
PHYSICIAN AND SURGEON, to the people of
_ aynesbarg and vicinity. He hopes by a due appra
411M0* of human life and health, and strict attention to
budgess, to merit a share of public patronage.
Sirsynesburg. Janua.ry 6, 1661.
DR. A. J. EDGY
itZSPICTFULLY offers his services to the citizens
Of Waynesburg and vicinity, as a Physician and
mime. Chace opposite the Republican office. He
Immo by a deo appreciation of the laws of human life
dad health, so native medication, and strict attention
A busiinies s to merit a liberal share of public patronage.
gl. JUL
DRUGS
M. A. HARVEY,
Omit* and Lectionary. and dealer in Paints and
Oils, s roost celebrated. Patent Medicine., and Pure
Liquors for purposes.
Re • . 11, 1861—ty.
F' s i T.l-I ~`Yti
WM. A. •PORTER,
Whedesde and Retail Realm in Foreign and Domes
tie Dry Goods, Groceries, Notions, &c., Rain street.
Sept. 11, lftil—ly.
R. CLARK,
Dealer in Dry Goods, Groceries, Hardware, Queens
ware and notions, in the Hamilton House, opposite
ilia Court House, Main street. Sept. 11. 11961-Iy.
•
MINOR & CO .,
Dealers in Foreign and Domestic Dry Goods, Gro
wits, queansware, Hardware and Notions, opposite
es Green Douse. Main street.
Sept. U. 1911-Iy,
OLOTEIIG
N. CLARK,.
Dealer in Men's and Boys' Clothinc, Cloths, Cassi
mares, Satinets, Hata and Caps, &e., Main asset. op.
pipits the Court House. dept. 11, 1961-Iy.
11007 1 AND SKOII DZALTIRS.
J. D. COSGRAY,
Boot and Shoe maker. Main street, nearly opposite
the "Farmer's and Denver's Bank." Every style of
Boots maid Shoes constantly on hand or mad. to order.
Sept. 11, 1861-Iy.
N. IL McClellan
WPM and ghee maker.Blactiley's Corner. Main street.
Beate and Shoes of every variety always on hand or
made to order on short notice 3
OW. 11. 1861-Iy.
r •:fi
JOSEPH YATER,
Mader in Grammies and Confectionaries, Notions,
Magieinaa. Perfumeries, Liverpool Ware, Glass of
gill Maas, and Moulding and Looking Glass Plates.
U'Osals paid for good eating Apples.
Sept. 11, 1861-Iy.
JOHN MUNNELL,
Dealer in Groceries and Conketionnsiot, and Variety
Goods Generally, Wilson's Nrw Building. Main street.
Sept. 11. 11561-Iy.
1100211, Bo-
LEWIS DAY,
Dealer la School and Minxlloneons Books, Station
ira?, Daipaiato and rapers. One door east or
P ~. 9 "re• Ihla Street. Sept. it, ISE ly
SAXIDZsaIi /MD WitRIOS
SAMUEL M'ALLISTER,
ma446lomtlas and Trunk Maker. old Hank
i li l ern7 11, 1861-4 r
- 11,11111.4101mirral •
11,00 PER & HAGER,
.ZiSreftw and carrt i ett.
, *treat
Nut pkg.
BY THE ALMA RIVER.
BY MlBB MULOCH.
[From many a household of our stricken
land prayers as full of agony and anxious,
strained, half-crazed supplication for loved
ones periling their lives by many a river
and stream, the scene of as bloody con
flicts as that of Alma,are going up daily and
hourly. Who but those watching, wait
ing, hoping, fearing, know how hard it is
to say—"Oh God, Thy will be done?"]
Willie, fold your little hands,
Let them drop that soldier toy ;
Look where father's picture stands—
Father, who here kissed his boy
Not two months since—father kind,
Who this night may—never mind
Mother's sob, my little dear,
Call aloud that he ma) hear,
Who is God of battles—say,
"Oh, keep my father safe this day,
By the Alma River."
kek no more, child; never heed
Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk,
Right of nation or of creed,
Chance poised victory's 1 • iloody work ;
Any flag in the wind may roll
On thy heights, Sebastopol ;
Willie, all to you and me
Is that soot, where'eroit be,
Where he stands,—no other word !
Stand—God, sure the child's prayer heard,—
By the Alma River.
Willie, listen to the belle
Ringing through the town to-day ;
That's for victory. Ah, no knell
For the many swept away—
Hundreds—thousands ! Let us weep,
We may need not—just to keep
Reason steady in my brain,
Till the morning comes again,
Till the third dread morning tells,
Who they were that fought and fell.
By the Alma River.
Come, we'll lay us down, my child,
Poor the bed is, poor and hard,
Yet thy father, far exiled,
Sleeps upon the open sward
Dreaming of us two at home;
Or beneath the starry dome,
Digs oat trenches in the dark
Where he buries—Willie, mark—
Where he buries those who died
Fighting bravely at his side,
By the Alma River,
Willie, Willie, go to sleep,
God will keep us, 0, my boy ;
He will make the dull hours ereep
Faster, and send news of joy,
When I need not shrink to meet
Those dread placards in the street,
Which for weeks will ghastly stare
In some eye —Child say thy prayer
Once again ; a different one;
Say, "OR God, thy will be done
By the Alma River."
CO gamily' Citric
GIVING AWAY THE BABY.
"It was the day after my husband's
funeral," said the widow, "and I
was so stunned by his sudden death
that I could do nothing but sit and
think over it, and try to realize how
it could be so. Only the Sunday be
fore, he had been sitting with me,
watching the baby, as he sat in the
sunshine laughing and clapping his
little hands, as the shadows of the
trees were flung across the bare floor,
and moved by the gassing breeze.—
Now the child was sitting in the same
spot, the warm October sun stream
ing on his bright curls, and making
him look so pretty—so like a picture;
but the father was gone from us for
ever.
"It seemed to me I must see his
dear face once more—tnat he would
surely lift the latch and come in, and
take our child up, and say, as he of
ten did—lttother, what would you
take for this little brother?'
"Even the baby missed him, and
would come and stand at my knee,
calling 'Papa ! pspa !' until I thought
my poor heart would break. The
two eldest children were at school ;
the rest were out playing, so that I
was quite aline. By and by the ba
by was tired of his play, and came
End got up into my lap.
"'Mamma cry ?—mamma mustn't;'
he lisped out, and wiped my wet face
with his little chubby hands; but I
could only hold him closer to me,
and then cry more bitterly.
"Just then, Mr. and Mrs. Lorrimer
drove up in their handsomt carriage.
They lived not far off, and were our
richest neighbors. When I bad in
vited them in, and had dried my
tears a little, they seemed at a loss
how to begin the conversation, but
Charlie had slid away from my side,
and went and stood at the lady's
knee, and pointing to her heavy gold
bracelet, said—Pretty, pretty !' in
his childish way. She took it off,
and gave it to him, saying—
"'Won't you come to be my little
boy, Charlie ?'
"My mother's heart took fright at
once. They bad no children, and I
seemed to &el as plainly as if they
had told me, that they had come to
ask me for one of mine.
"'No, no; mother couldn't spare
him,' I said, quickly snatching him
away, almost rudely, I few.
"'My dear welshes? begat Mr. Lon
WAYNESBUBG, GREENE COUNTY, PA., WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 1862.
rimer, 'have you thought seriously of
the impossibility of your getting
along with five children, under
twelve years ofeage ? It has required
all your husband's efforts to make a
living for you—how can you hope to
do it without him 1'
"'We offer,' joined in his wife, 'to
take the most helpless of your little
' ones—to give him all the advantages
we would our own child; and surely
you must see that God's hand is in it
—that through us He intends to help
you.'
"I need not tell you how lon,g
withstood all their arguments. But •
at last overcome by their entreaties,
I consented to consider the matter.—
In two days, they came for an ans
wer. I never mentioned their visit
to any of the children, and I had
changed my mind almost every hour
since I had seen them. At last con
vinced that it was for the child's
good, I consented to give him up.—
When I went to dress him to go, my
resolution almost failed me. I lin
gered over every article I put on
him, and every dear curl over and
over before I could get it to please
me; and I kissed the little white
shoulders until they were all rosy.—
But at length he was ready, and I
thought he never looked so pretty.—
He was full of animation, for he was
old enough to know what it meant to
'go riding,' and he clapped his hands,
and laughed aloud at the horses, as
they were driven up. I handed him I
to his new mother, (the children sup
posed that he was to come back
soon,) and be never even looked at
me. Oh, how jealous my aching
heart grew !
"When I came back into the house,
the first thing my eye fell on was his
cradle. I could only throw myself
on it, and sob aloud. Then came
the trial of tellingthe whole truth to
the children. None of them scorned
reconciled, and I felt that the worst
Was to come when the two eldest
should return from school. 1. • almost i
dreaded to meet them, especially
1 Willie ; he was like his father, BO
quiet and calm, outwardly, but hid
( ing beneath his apparent coldness
the strongest, deepest feelings. But
~the others went to meet them as
they came home, and I was pleasant
ly disappointed in the way the old
est took it. He seemed to feel that
I had done it for the best, and that •
he must hide his own sorrow for my
sake. He was more thoughtful for I
my comfort, gentler than ever, only
very still and grave.
"The day ended, as the longest
will at last, and it came time to go
to bed. I had taken Willie to sleep
down stairs near me. Since his fath
er's death, the other children
slept just above us. Well, when
I came to lie down, there was
the empty pillow ! Baby had always
laid his little rosy face as close to
mine as he could get it, and slept
with one little warm hand on my
neck. All my grief broke out afresh
when I thought of him. Willie raised
up at last, and said, earnestly—
"'Mother, its Charlie you are cry
ing for, isn't it ?'
-"Yes,' I answered, know it's
for the best; but oh! it's so hard to
give him up.'
"'Mother,' continued the child,
'when fathor died, we knew it was
for the best, because God took him
from us; but I have been thinking
ever since we laid down how poor
little Charlie must be crying for
you, and how God give him to us, to
love him, and keep him; and now
you have given him away. If he
had meant him to be Mr. and Mrs. •
Lorrimer's baby, wouldn't he. have
given him to them at first ?'
"The chiid's words carried more
weight with them than the arguments
of my rich neighbors. After consid
ering a moment, I said, impulsively—
"'Oh, if I only had him back, he
should never go away again, no mat
ter how poor we might be.'
"The moon was shining so bright
ly that it was almost as light as day,
I:and presently Willie said— .
"Mother, it's only half a mile across
the fields, and they won't go to bed
for a long time at Lorrimer's : let us
go and get Charlie. Why, mother, i
I seem to hear him crying now.'
."Urged by the child's entreaties
and the fond promptings of my own
heart, 1 consented. I think I never
walked half a mile so quickly in my
life, and neither of us spoke until we
reached the mansion. Then we
stopped a moment for breath, and
sure enough we could hear baby
screaming at the top of his voice.—
We
went round to the sitting-room
door and knocked. They seemed
half-frightened when they saw who
it was, but asked us in politely. A
hired nurse was walking with the
child up and down the floor, trying
to pacify it. Mrs. Lorritner had wear:
ied herself out, and was lying on a
lounge.
"'Come to mother,' Willie said,
and he brought the little fellow to
me at . once.
"How he clung to me, still sobbing,
yet smiling all the while to find him
self
in my arms.
" cannot give him up,' I said, at
last, when I could get my voice clear.
'You must let me take him home.'
'They. evidently thought me the
silliest of women; but them cold words
only made me the more determined,
and we started back in less than half
an hour after we came, I carrying
the baby; Willie offered to help me,
but I felt as though I could carry
him in my arms forever.
"When I had laid him in bed, now
fast asleep, but still sobbing, and
reaching out his little hands, to feel
if I was there, I said, 'God helping
me, come what will, I will never part
with one of my living children again,
and I never did.
"I need not tell you how wild with
joy the rest of the children were
when they found the baby in bed
next morning : they almost fought
over the little fellow, and from that
day forth it was their greatest plea
sure to amuse Charlie and have him
with them.
"When the affair came to be known,
many blamed me, and many favors
that my rich neighbors might have
done me they withheld, I think, for
my folly, as they called it But a
few poor women like myself, that
had always nursed their own chil
dren, said I did right. We had
many trials, and often scarcely a
crust of bread in the house ; but our
hardships only bound us the more
closely together.
"All my children proved comforts
and blessings to me. God took care
of one for me; but as Willie said, we
knew that, was for the best, The
rest married in the course of time,
and left me; but the prop of my old
days, the one whose industry and
management give me this plentiful
and comfortable home, has never left
me since the day I gave him away."
—Little Pilgrim.
NAKED ARMS AND NECK.
A distinguished physician, who
died some years since in Paris, de
clared, "I believe that during the
twenty-six years I have p"acticed
my profession in this city, twenty
thousand children have been carried
to the cemeteries, a sacrifice to the
absurd custom of exposing their arms
naked."
I have often thought if smother
were anxious to show the soft, white
skin of her baby, and would cut a
round hole in the little thing's dress,
just over the heart, and then carry
it about for observation by the com
pany, it would do very little harm.—
But to expose the baby's arms,
members so far removed from the
heart, and with such feeble circula
tion at best, is a most pernicious
practice.
Put the blub of a thermometor in a
baby's mouth, and the mercury rises
to 99 degrees. Now carry the same
to its little hand; if the arms be bare
and the evening cool, the mercury
will sink to forty degrees. Of course
all the blood which flows through
those arms must fall from 20 to 40
degrees below the temperature of the
heart.
Need I say when these currents of
blood flow back into the chest, the
child's general vitality must be more
or less compromised ? And need I
add that we ought not to be surpris
ed at its frequent recurring affection
of the tongue, throat or stomach.
have seen more than one child
with habitual cough and hoarseness,
or choking with mucus, entirely and
permanently relieved by simply
keeping its arms and hands warms.
Every observing and progressive
physician has daily opportunity to
witness the same cure.— Lewis' Gym
nastics.
SAYINGS OF CHILDREN.
TRUST.-A few nights since, two little
boys were lying together in their trundle
bed. Willie, the elder of the two, who
was only six years of age, awoke in the
night, very thirsty. Being told that ht
could jump up and get himself some water,
he cried, saying that he was afraid. Upon
this. his little brother, two years younger
than himself, spoke encouragingly to him,
and said, " God is wight here, Willie !
God is wight here ! you needn't be afraid,
Willie!" So Willie jumped up, and went
and got himself some water, and then
came back to his little bed, all safe, and
soon he and his little brother were fast
asleep again.
A PRAYER. -A. father came home from
his business at early evening, and took his
little girl upon his knee. After a few
dove-like caresses, she crept to his bosom
and fell asleep. He carried her himself
to her chamber, and said, " Nellie would
would not like to go to bed and not say
her prayers." Half opening her large
blue eyes, sae dreamiiy articulated,
"Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord—"
then adding, in a sweet murmur, " He
knows the rest," she sank os her pillow,
leaving herself in His watchful care who
"giveth his beloved sleep."
'Charles Fox and his friend Mr.
Hare, both much incommoded by duns,
were together in a house, when seeing
some shabby men about the door, they
were afraid they were bailiffs in search of
one of them. Not knowing which w as i n
danger, Fox opened the window, and call
ing to them said, "Pray, gentlemen, are
you fox-hunting, or hare-hunting r
ligrA confirmed Christian is one that
taketh self-denial for the f ine-half of his
religion.
THE PAUPER MILD'S BURIAL.
Stretched on a rude plank the dead pauper
lay,
No weeping friends gathered to bear him
away;
His white, slender fingers were clasped on
his breast,
The pauper child meekly lay taking his
rest.
The hair on his forehead was carelessly
No one cared ;
redfor him, tb q desolate-hearted;
In life none had loved him; his pathway,
all sear,
Had not one sweet blossom its sadness to
cheer.
No fond, gentle mother had ever caressed
him,
In tones of affection and tenderness bless
ed him,
For ere his eye greeted the light of the
day,
His mother had passed in her anguish
away.
Poor little one often thy meek eyes have
sought
The smiles of affection, of kindness un
bought ;
And wistfully gazing in wond'ring sur
prise,
That no one beheld thee with pitying eyes.
And when in strange gladness thy young
voice was heard,
As in winter's stern sadness, the song of a
bird,
Harsh voices rebuke thee, and cowering
in fear,
Thy song was hushed in a sigh and a tear
And when the last pang rent the heart
strings ii. twain,
And burst from thy bosom the last sigh
of pain,
No gentle one soothed thee, in love's melt
ing tone,
With fond arms around thee in tenderness
thrown.
Stern voices and cold mingled strange in
thine ear
With the songs of the angels the dying
may hear,
And thrillingly tender, amid Death's
alarms,
Was '..hy mother's voice welcoming thee to
her arms.
Thy fragile form, wrapped in its coarsest
shroud, reposes
In slumbers as sweet as if pillowed on
roses ;
And while on thy coffin the rude clods are
pressed,
The Good Shepherd folds the shorn lamb
to His breast.
3; istatunts,
A WIFE ON THE BATTLE FIELD.
The following extract from a let
ter, • dated at Corinth on the 16th
inst., has been published. It vividly
portrays the fearful emotions and
anxious thoughts which torture the
mind of an observer during the pro
gress of the battle, and relates many
harrowing scenes of war which, if
descrihed, world seem "stranger than
fiction :"—"Oh, my friend ! how can
I tell you of the tortures that have
nearly crazed me for the last three
days. Pen is powerless to trace,
words weak to convey one tittle of
the misery I have endured. I
thought myself strong before. I
have seen so much of suffering that
I thought my nerves had grown
steady, and I could stand anything;
but to-day I am weak and trembling
like a frightened child.
"But do not wonder at it. My
dear husband lies beside me, wound
ed unto death, perhaps. I have lost
all hopes of saving him, though I
thank God for the privilege of being
his moment beside him. And be
sides all this, all around me the suf
ferers lie moaning in agony. There
has been little time to attend to thorn,
poor fellows! True, the surgeons
are busy all the time, but still the
wounded have not been brought in,
and it seems as if the time will nev
er come when our brave boys shall
have been made as comfortable as
circumstances may permit. It is
awful to look around me; I can see
every imaginable form of suffering,
and yet am hell less to aid them any
of consequence.
"Since night before last 1 have not
left my husband's side a moment, ex
cept to get such things as I required,
or to hand some poor fellow a cup
of water. Even as I write, my
heart throbs achingly to hear the
deep groans and sharp cries about
me. F. is sleeping, and I dare not
close my eyes lest he should die
while I sleep. And it is to keep
awake, and in a manner relieve my
over• burdened heart, that I am wri
ting to you now under such sad au
spices.
"On the morning of the 3d instant
the fight began. The attack was
made on Gen. McArthur's division,
and we could plainly hear the roar
of the artillery here, as it is about
two miler and a half distance only
from this place. Oh, the fearful ag
ony of that awful, awful day !
bad seen F. a moment early in the
morning, but whet lie bade me good-
sarAn English farmer recently
remarked that "he fed his land be
fore it was hungry, rested it before it
was weary, and weeded it before it
was foul.' We have seldom, if ever,
seen so much agricultural wisdom
condensed in a single sentence.
bye, said hurriedly, as he tore him
self away :—'Pray for me, my wife;
and if I fall, God protect you'.'—
There was something in his look
and tone which struck a chill to my
heart, and every moment after I
knew the fight had begun, I felt as if
he had indeed fallen. I cannot tell
how long it was before I heard that
Oglesby's brigade was engaged, but
it seemed an age to me. After that
my agony was nearly intolerable.—
I never had a thought of fear for
myself; I was only thivating of F.—
Then I got the word that he had
been hotly pursued by the rebels
and had flg/en back.
"Late in the afternoon I succeeded
in gaining a little intelligible infor
mation. Poor Gen. Hackleman was
shot through the neck, while giving
a command, and fell mortally wound
ed. He died between ten and eleven
o'clock the same night, I have since
learned. Up to the time of receiv
ing the wound he had acted with the
greatest bravery and enthusiasm,
tempered by a coolness that made
every action effective. When dusk
at last put an end to the first day's
conflict I learned that Gen. Oglesby
had been dangerously wounded, but
could gain no intelligence of my
husband. I could not bear the sus
pense: Dark as it was, and hopeless
as it seemed to search for him then,
I started out to the battle field.
"Oh, how shall I describe the search
of that night? It looked like mad
ness. It was madness. But all
night long I struggled amongst
bleeding corpses, over dead horses, ;
trampled limbs, shattered artillery—
everything that goes to make up
the horror of a battlefield when the
conflict is over. They were remov
ing the wounded all night. Oh, how
awful to stumble over the dead and
hear the cries of the wounded and
dying alone, and in the night time. ;
I had to start off alone or else they
would not have let me go.
"As you may suppose I could not
find bin,, either amongst the living
or the dead. But the next morning,
just after sunrise, I came to a little
clump of timbers where a horse bad
fallen—his head shot off and his
body half covering a man whom I ;
supposed dead. His face was to the
ground. but as I stooped to look
closer, I perceived a faint movement
of the body, then beard a faint moan.
I stooped and turned the face up
ward. The head and face were both i
covered with blood, but when 1 turn
ed it to the light I knew it in spite ;
of its disfiguration. Oh God, the
agony of that moment sickened me
almost to suffocation.
"With a strength I thought im
possible in me, I drew him, crushed
and bleeding, rom beneath the car
cass of our poor old horse, whom we
had both so loved and petted, and
dipping my handkerchief in a little
pool of water amongst the bushes,
bathed his face and pressed some
moisture between his parched, swol
len lips. He was utterly insensible,
and there was a dreadful w mmi in
his bead. Both limbs were crushed
hopelessly beneath the horse. He
was utterly beyond the reach of hu
man skill to save, but as soon as pos
sible I had him conveyed to the
hospital. I have nursed him ever
since, hopelessly and with a heart
breaking with grief.
"Oh ! bow many wives, how many
mothers, are today mourning the
dead and dying, even as I mourn my
dying! He has not opened his eyes
to look at or spoken to me since he
fell. Oh! could he but speak to
me once before he dies, I should
give him up with more resignation.
But to die thus—without a look or
word! Oh, my heart is breaking !"
DEBAIX.
Seeing that Desaix is one of the
three Generals named as pattern
warriors in the letter of lieneral
Scott just given to the public, our
readers will perhaps be gratified if we
reproduce Napoleon's estimate of
that celebrated officer. "Of all the
generals 1 ever had under me," said
Napoleon to O'Meara at St. Helena,
"Desaix and Kleber possessed the
greatest talents; especially Desaix,
as Kieber only loved glory inasmuch
as it was the means of procuring
him riches and pleasure, whereas
Desaix loved glory for itself and de
spised everything else. Desaix was
wholly wrapped up in war and glory.
To him riches and pleasure were
valueless, nor did be gi% e them a mo
ment's thought. He was a little,
black looking man, about an inch
shorter than I am, always badly
dressed, sometimes even ragged, ar.d
despising comfort or convenience.—
When in Egypt I made him a pres
ent of a complete field equipage sev
eral times, but he always lost it.—
Wrapt up in a cloak, Desaix threw
himself under a gun and slept as con
tentedly as if be were in a palace.—
For him luxury had no charms.—
Upright and honest in all his pro
ceedings, he was called by the Arabs
the just sultan. He was intend9d
by nature for a great general."—
There are features in this picture of
a great general by a greater one that
we would fain commend to the espe
cial stud' , of some of our own roller-
I all.
NEW SERIES.--VOL. 4, NO. 25.
"MALL YOUR BOBBINS,"'
Every one knows that old Sir Robert
Peel, father of the late Prime Minister of
England, and grandfather of the present
Baronet, made his money by cotton
spinning. In the early part of his career
his business was not remarkably exten
sive, but suddenly he made a tremendous
start, and soon distanced all his rivals.—
He grew immensely rich, as we all know,
but we do not all know the lucky accident
to which he was indebted for his enormous
wealth.
In the early days of the cottoh spinning
machinery, a great deal of trouble used
to be caused by filaments of cotton adhe
ring to bobbins, or tapes, which then
formed portions of looms. These filaments
accumulating- soon clogged the wheels
and other parts of the machinery, and
rendered it necessary that they should be
cleared, which involved frequent stoppages
and much loss of time.
The great desideratum was to find out
some plan of preventing this clog gi ng by
the cotton, and Sir Robert, or Mt.eel as
he was then, spent vast sums in experi.
ments. He employed some of theabiset
machinists in the country—among them
James Watt—who suggested various cor
rections, but in spite of all they could do,
the inconvenience remained—the cotton
would adhere to the bobbins, and the
evil appeared to be insurmountable.
Of course these delays seriously affected
the wages of the operatives, who, on Sat
urdays, generally came short in propor
tion to the stoppages during the previous
days. It was noticed, however, that one
man always drew his full pay--his work
was always accomplished—in fact his
loom never had to stop, while every other
in the factory was idle. Mr. Peel was
informed of this, and knew there must be
a secret somewhere. It was important
that it should be discovered if possible.
The man was watched, but all to no
purpose ; his fellow workmen tried to
••pum p" him, but they couldn't; at last,
Mr. Peel sent for the man into hie private
office.
He was a rough Lancashire man—una
ble to read or write—little better indeed
than a mere animal. Ha entered the
"presence" pulling his forelock and shuf
fling on the ground - with.his great clumsy
wooden shoes.
"Dick," said Mr. Peel, "Ferguson, th.
ov erlooker, tells me that your bobbins sts
always clean—is that so ?"
"Ee's Master, 't be."
"Well, Dick, how do you manage it—
have you any objection to let me know?"
"Why, Master Pill, 't be a soart o' ea
cret loike, you see, and if oi told, t' oth
ere'd know'e mock as oi," replied Dick,
with a cunning grin.
"Ut course, Dick, I'd give you some
thing if you'll tell me—and if you can
make all the looms in the factory work
as smoothly as yours."
"Ev'ry one 'n them, Master Pill."
"Well, what shall I give you? Name
your price, Dick, and let me have your
secret."
Dick grinned, scratched and shook his
great head, and shuffled for a few minutes,
while Mr. Peel anxiously awaited his re
ply. The cotton lord thought his servant
would probably ask a hu nd red pounds or
so, which he would have most willingly
given him. Presently Dick said:
"Well, Master Pill, I'll tell 'trail about
it, if you'll give me--a quart o' beer a
day as long as I'm in the Mills—you'll
save that ten."
Mr. Peel rather thought he should, and
quickly agreed to the terms.
"You shall have it, Dick, and half a
gallon every Sunday into the bargain."
"Well, then," said Dick, first looking
cautiously round to see that no one was
near—"this it be," and putting his lip
close to Mr. Peel's ear, be whispered :
"Chalk your bobbins I"
That indeed was the great secret. Dick
had been in the habit of furtively chalking
his bobbins, which simple contrivance
had effectually prevented the adherence
of the cotton. As the bobbins were
white the chalking had escaped detection.
Mr. Peel was a sagacious man, and
saw through the affair at a glance. He
at once patented the invention—had
" chalking" machinery contrived, and
soon took the lead in the cotton spinning
department. This was the foundation the
his princely fortune. It is but right to
mid that he pensioned Dick off handsome
ly.
Poverty.
Bulwer says that poverty is only
an idea, in nine cases out of ten.—
Some men with ten thousand dollars
a year suffer more for want of means
than others with three hundred.—
His income is ten thousand, and by
habit he spends twelve or fifteen
thousand, and he suffers enough from
being dunned for unpaid debts to
kill a sensitive man. A man who
earns dollar a day and does not run
in debt, is the happier of the tyo.—
Very few people who have never been
rich will believe this, but it is true
as God's word. There are people, of
course, who are wealthy, and enjoy
their wealth, but there are thousands
upon thousands, with princely in
comes, who never know a moment's
peace, because they live above their
means. There is really more happi
ness in the world among working
people than among those who are
called rich.
ENCOURAGEBIENT TO VEGSTARIANIL
—ln Moravia there is a mail living,
a peasant, who is one linimired nod
forty-seven years old, and NMI hale
and hearty. He was formerly a sol
dier, and re-married at the age of
ninety. Ile lives on milk and pota
toes.
/ler A female poisoner, Constance
Wilson, has been sentenced to death
in England, for murdering bypoisoo.
She adatinisteeed coichiesm,
is hewed, has, like Damon.** Med
a cemetery by her crimes.