~ Serins of Publication.
* THE AGITATOR,
liUancc be received. By no man L_..j . ; .
an bo brought in debt to tbe printer. . • , , , . ' " ----- ... --- -
WtbottXf to tf>t Jgjctcnoion of ttje &vta of jFvcctrom an* t*e S»vca* of fficaltftg mefo
saching 11 into nearly every-iieighborhood in The ~ ■ ‘ - - ■■ ■„ - ~ _=■- . -
; , 6 - it is senifree of poitogt toany Post-office *. ?.
K Tulin the county limits, and tothose living within . WHILE THERE SEIALLBE A WRONG UKRIGHTED, AND UNTIL “Man’s INHUMANITY TO MAN” SHALL CEASE, AGITATION MUST CONTINUE,
e limits, bat whose most convenient postoffice may -, or i,, , ol ~, , r 1
in an adjoining County. _ _ ■
Business” Cards, not exceeding 5 lines, paper in
duded, $4 per year.
The following lines were addressed by ft young lady, to a
gentleman, who, on being requested to write in her album)
iaJ instead, designed a human heart, and subdivided It by
he various passions, the most predominant of which, were
jrc-3, vanity, frivolity and scandal.
And who arl Ihon, cm thus portray,
The female heart 7
I pity thee, unhappy youth,
Whoe’ter thou art.
For thee, no pleasant mem’ries paint
Domestic towers j
No tender mother could hare welched
Thy childhood’s hours.
Ah, no! thou never couldst forget
Her sacred lore—
Her midnight watch, her ceaseless 1 care
Allpraise above.
No gentle sister can bare pused.
Her trusting eyes,
Fraught with the love, that says.
Tie thee, I prize,
Alas I it never has been thine.
Thro’ life to tend
TJiat gaze Of love, or win tbc smite
Of dearer friend.
Of woman, thou hast only known.
The weaker part;
Or thou could’st never thus have drawn,
» , The female heart.
Have Love and Friendship such small share
In woman’s heart 7 ~
Have Fortitude and Truth and Hope y " *
No Utile part T
Have heavenly Charily ahd Faitk y
* No resting place 7
Alas! poor youth, if these'are lost.
Heaven help thy race I
Is woman vain ? ’Us man that lights
The spark of sic—
To praise the gilded case, nor care
For gems within.
Farewell! forgiveness kindly prompts,
The fervent prayer.
That e'en thy life may yet be blessed
-By woman's, care. ,
Escape from Gallows Hift
The strip of ground in New York, from
Broadway to Centre streetjalong Chambers,
commencing at the new stxiro of Stewart, 4/1
Broadway, seventy burying
place. The part nearer Broatfway was
voted to the negroes for the last resting place
for their dead, and the moiety extending to
Centre street was a bend of P otter's Field,
[and during the Revolution the spot where
i most o( the private soldiers of ihe British
Army whojdied in the,city were interred.
Gallows H«, (the spot where the Manhattan
reservoir is now placed,) was decorated with
a gallows, where all deserters and prisoners
suffered death, who came under the control
of ihe infamous provost marshal Cunning-
ham.
It was customary to execute most ofhhe
deserters who were ualive born, at night.
There was a policy to ibis. Public execu
tions of the Americans .by the Royalists
would have been noised abroad j and the in
jury created thereby, though the manner in
which the continentals themselves would
have made use of it, must have resulted in
injury to Ihe king’s cause. These execu
tions generally look place after midnight.
The prisoners condemned to death were al
ways confined in the old jail, within a musket
shot of the place of execution, and a ser
geants guard of eight men, accompanied by
the provost marshal and his deputy, generally
accompanied ihe prisoners to the gallows.
It was near two o’clock of a night in
October, in ihe year 1180, that a-young man
was reclining among the recently made
graves that raised their mounds in Ihe vicinity
of Gallows Hill. The hour and the place
were singular for a lone Individual like the
man in question to be reposing. I say alone,
yet he was not exactly so, if human bodies
divested of their mortality can be considered
companions; for nearly above his head
swayed to and fro by the night breeze, hung
t the remains of two soldiers of the -sth regi
ment, who had been executed that morning
for desertion.
The sky was obscured with dark murky
clouds, and the moaning of the wind as it
swept around the gallows and through the
trees that here and there reached their
branches amid the darkness of the night,
gave a desolate and disagreeable, sound well
benefitted the place itself. •
The man scarcely moved, with the excep
tion of now and then raising his head and
peering cautiously above the mound of earth
behind which he lay, towards the jail, dimly
visible wilh its high massy walls in the field
beyond.
At length a light glimmered, the -tread ot
men was faintly beard and the young roan,
raising himself from the spot where he lay,
glided along the rude fence which skirted the
burial ground, until he stood within a few
feet of the execution place. Here he paused
and looked in the direction of the approach
ing sight; faintly through the haze appeared
three or four files of soldiers, preceded by*
a black man who carried a lantern, the only
tight which seemed tu be in the party. Then
walked a prisoner with his arms tightly bound
md him, and directly after, Cunningham,
e provost marshal, and five or six soldiers
with muskets on their shoulders. •
“One, two, three,” repealed the young man
*_ lms f. 1 aa cou nting the numbers of men
rZ f' n , S J- '‘ l "; e,ve in aH - Ti» a despe
rate undertakmg but my comrade shall not
me if I can save him. Now for skill and
courage. Be cool, Dick Martin. You have
vom- cn" 311,1 more desperate occasions, if
J ur commanding officers speak the truth,”
tilace»lf ed u baCkaBainon ' his o,d r «ting
C*- when he , stumbled iu a grave That hi
Slow not r ‘ Ccd r ber ° fe > in the rear of the
for thf> a *'l d f st lm P u ' sa was lb leap out,
three 1,1(2 B rave old not exceed
deisrmimi- “ Ul a , second thought altered bis
“This !0D ' and he murmured—
tainlir 1,16 J 1 ? 91 P ,aca or me, they cer-
th nol 'h‘ n h of looking for a living
. he grave I” and he stretched at full
a m " narrow house” that he knew
e he should f,,, • The y
f d ifle burial ground and proceeded di-
VOL. IV.
rectly : to the gallows, under which they
halted. ' Forming a circle, the black fellow
with the lantern, Cunningham and the pris
oner in the centre, preparations were made
to go through with the awful ceremony—that
of depriving a fellow creature of life.
The black fellow looked up to the gallows,
rom which the bodies were hanging, and
'hen proceeded very deliberately lo cut them
down observing—
“Dese chaps hah hung long anufT, and I
guess dey aint much better dan dead niggas,
now.” ■
The prisoner looked on with a glance of
no common interest, for he felt that fiis soul
was fluttering on the confines of eternity. It
is useless to talk of bravery when a man in
the fulhjVigor of health beholds preparations
making lo deprive him of his existence.
True, he may meet death with manliness and
fortitude, and display lo no human eye any
of the physical shrinkings by which we are
apt to measure the outward courage of man ;
but within, there is a feeling which the Crea
tor alone perceives, and He judges whether
or not the man is prepared to die.
The negro passed a rope through the beam,
when but a few moments before hung the
innate clods that now encumbered, as it were,
the ground beneath the gallows. This
he said—
“ Dar, Massa CunningKuwJs'% rope da\J
will hold de prisoner long anbfijl redkonS
Guinea Sambo no stop
for nuffin I gdess. I torn to- reevb. da't' hot
with a hitch dat de debbjl coOldliot break.”
As he finished* this classical speech he
very deliberately Kicked (he body of one of
.the dead soldiers aside, and rolled Jhe other
coolly into the grave when? lay the
man—and the dead rested umm c theTivmg !
A sMi'dder ran ’through theWrame of the
youth as he felt pressing above him the frame
of one who’, but a day before ,had been as
ftrH of! life as he now war; but not a sound
had escaped him ; for he knew that silence
was his only preservation.
“Well rascal, you s|e what you are coming
to for deserting his majesty’s service. A
halter I suppose, is more agreeable than
good treatment and a soldier’s pay.”
Thus spoke Cunningham to the prisoner.
“I entered into the refugee corps for my
own reasons. They have proved satisfactory”
the prisoner said, looking at Cunningham
with a bold countenance.
“Yes, infernally satisfactory, you rebel.
A spy I s’pose ! De Lancy’s refugees would
he a pretty set if they were all like you ;
rogue. No, no; I had my eyes on you
when you ’listed a month ago, and told
Colonel De Lancy what I believed ye was—
not a royal refugee, but a rebel scoundrel.
I was right rogue, ah 1”
“Yes, you was right as to my enlisting.
As to being a rebel scoundrel, why there is
an offset—you are a royal knave and blood
thirsty villain. All ihe information I wanted
to send to the great Washington, he has got
before this—so hang away ! But I would
like five minutes communion with my God
first,- if you have the manliness to grant it.”
Astonished as Cunningham was by the
boldness of the man’s speech, he -knew full
well he himself was detested by the English
soldiery for his tyranny, and that a refusal
of such a request to a man on ihe point of
execution, would only make him • still more
odious among them. With an ill grace he
said—
“Pray, rascal—pray ! I don’t wonder that
a knave like you fears death. A man that
betrays his king, betrays his God ; and it is
full time that ypu try to make peace wilh him.
Three minutes, rascal,three minutes 1 That’s
all the time you have from me. Go on your
knees at once then. Sambo, have the baiter
ready. Three minutes only.’’
The negro had placed the lantern on the
ground directly under the gallows. Its faint
light gleamed upward, showing a dim outline
of the gallows, faces and forms of the sol
diers grouped, with their muskets to an order,
in a semi-circle around the scene of execu
tion.
The prisoner bent down, resting his knees
upon the earth thrown up around the newly
dug grave. He had no-hope of escape ; and
he looked upwards, towards the heavens, al
though all was black with night,'yet his eyes
pierced through the gloom, and he saw in the
future, 1 redemption for the past f The quiv
ering of his lips showed his sincerity; he
was prepared to die. Of a sudden he bent
bis head. Ah ! his prayer was heard—res
cue was at hand. His life—the glorious
thought—was not set in blood through the
hands'of man!
“Harry,” said a voice in a whisper,
cedding from ihe grave where Ihe prisoner
had seen a dead body tossed bet a few min.
utes before'; “make no alarm; ’tis your old
comrade, Dick Marlin, of Washington’s Life
Guard, come to save you. Make soniefex
cuse to turn your back towards the hole where
I have hidden myself, and I will cut the rope
where you are tied. When that is done, 'and
you bear me groan, kick over the lantern and
make for the east corner’of the-grave yard.
I will come.. Things are ready for escape.
Remember, make no alarm!”
The prisoner fell'as if he had won empires
upon empires! His life was theta safe.
: “Come, rogue your three minutes are up'.
Sambo, the rape’ there !”
. The prisoner, without getting off his knees,
turned round so that he faced the lantern, his
back towards tho grave. The negro advan
ced with the halter to place it around his neck.
The scene was striking. In the foreground
stood the soldiers, gazing with no very pleas
ant emotions, by the, dim light upon the poor
prisoner, Cunningham was in the centre,
his brutal and harsh features lighted up with
the expression almost of a devil, preparatory
WELLSBORO, TIOGA COUNTY. PA., THURSDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER'24,’IBS7.
to seizing his victim. Scoundrel you have
no victim this time.' Just as the negro got
within arm’s' length of the prisoner, the latter
felt that the thongs were cut that bound his
arms. He was fret!"
But why starts the black, his eyes protru
ding from their sockets, as if' death was be
fore hhn 1 The halter drops from his hands;
be is paralyzed wilb fear. Slowly from Ibe
grave rises the dead body of the soldier he
bad himself rolled into it.
“Got ’amfghty, the dead hab riz !” said the
negro solemnly.
Cunningham beheld the sight and so did
the soldiers. The vision was awful— so ap
parently contrary lo human reaspn—that with
one accord all fled, except the negro and the
prisoner. The former rolled on the ground,
exclaiming:
“Spar me, massa ghost! spar me dis lime,
I nebber hang, .another sojer!” and he rolled
over the graves, shivering as if struck with
an ague fit.
Iu the meantime, the prisoner and his com
rade, who had so opportunely rescued him
from an ignominious from (he
grave yard and made for Lispenard’s woods,
which then skirled the North river near about
where Canal street ends.
• - There they found a boat in which Dick
irflfcrtin crossed alone from (he Jersey shore
siS hours before to save his comrade. Reacfa-
'tog the Je/sey side, just below Bull’s Ferry
■'ffl an Keur, they struck into the woods and
reached The camp of Washington, near West
Point, abbAf-fiight the next day. The morn
ing after, in Jifoeralwders, two new Lieu
tenants were commissioned in Washington’s
Life Guard, the reader can inkmne
they whre.
A brief explanation perhaps is necessary.
It always surprised the English commanders
how Washington knew so well the move
ment’s made in their lines. Washington, in
many desertion a duty. He knew
who among his private soldiers to ask this
from, and never in a single instance, was bis
confidence betrayed. Death upon the gal
lows followed the poor private often, but he
never compromised the commander.
Hofiinann the Poet---His Insane Fan-
The last number of Putnam's Magazine
calls attention to (he fact ihat ibis gentleman,
now an inmate of the Pennsylvania State
Hospital, is the author of the far famed song,
“Sparkling and Bright” one of our country
men’s favorite melodies. There is something
so strikingly sorrowful in the thought that a
man of such powerful mind as Charles Fen
no Hoffman should fritter out the days of his
life among madmen, thatthe heart can scarce,
ly repress a sigh when the recollection brings
it to reflection, and still we love to call im
pressions of him and his works to memory.
Poor Hoffman I the fruits of his pen will be
read forever—they are among the sweet gems
of American Literature.
We well recollect when the poet was placed
in his present situation. Wo were then an
apprentice in ihe office of this paper, and had
been engaged in reading one of his thrilling
productions. The day after we had finished
it, our surprise and sorrow may be imagined
when we heard that the man whose brilliant
pen had previously given us so much pleas
ure, had been placed in the Lunatic Asylum.
This was about four years ago. The local
column of the Herald, was then under the
charge of Mr. Adamjßaum —a man who
loved Hoffman’s works' as much as ourself—
and on the day after his incarceration he pub
lished one of the mostj beautiful articles on
the subject we have eyer read from his pen,
which was extensively copied by other papers.
Since then we havej seen Hoffman on two
or three different occasions at the asylum.—
The editor of Putnam describes him as being
once, a large, ruddy man, but so
now. . His'face is shrivelled up, andms whole
body shows the effects of lime and disease.
He still retains the fine military bearing hdw
ever, which he gained in the army, aodjfor
hours will pace up ai|d down the long aisle
of his “division,” givipg orders to his feljows,
whom he imacines his soldiers, and “prepares
•them for ihe march.” Then again, at times
he will become in a‘ sort of pensive mood,
seeming to appreciate his posh ion and mourn
over it; but this is seldom. He is generally
vigorous and jovial, as he was in days gone
by. , j, ,
.Every visitor of intelligence who visitsjhe
asylum calls to see J Hoffman. He receives
them all with a hearty greeting, will ask them
to sup and drink with him, and when they
leave invite them, to “call often.” On the
last occasion that we saw him, after silting
in his cell and indulging in a pleasant chat—
no, not. pleasant, for!the feeling of his condi
tion prevented this-—be ordered at several
limes soma of his fellows to fetch wine and
glasses.; They would .just stare at him, and
,he would seem to,forget it, until suddenly the,
order would be repeated and again forgotten.
■He generally labors under the idea that his
place of confinement is o garrison, of which
he is the commander, and is only prevented
from enjoying the outside fey advice, of bis
physicians, fie will, frequently endeavor; to
prevail on the superintendent to grant him
liberty, to. roam through the country, for a
while, and when this is refused ..will, submit
quietly. Hoffman wears a cocked hat con
tinually; and wafks with a ; cane; His ap
pearance bears the marks of eccentricity and
genius ;" but the former may not have been
the case before' his insanity.- 1 His-voice is
clear, commanding, but still cheerful. — Har
risburg Herald.
An old,,,bachelor, on seeing the, word*
‘‘Families supplied” over the dopr of an
oyster saloon, stepped, in, and said he would
take a wife and two children.
cies. '
The Quaker's Corn Crib,
A man had been in the habit of stealing
corn of his neighbor, who was a Quaker.
Every night he would go softly to the crib,
and fill his bag with the eats which the good
old Quaker’s toil had placed there. Every
morning the old gentleman observed a dimi
nution' of his corn pile. This was very an
noying, and must be stopped—but how?
Many a one would have said, “Take a gun,
conceal yourself, and'Wait till he comes, and
fire !" Others would have said, “Catch the
villain and have him sent to jail.”
But the Quaker was not prepared to enter
into any such measures. He wanted lo pun
ish the offender and at the same time bring
about his reformation if' possible. So he
fixed a sort of a trap close to the hole through
which the man would Ihrust his arm in get
ling the corn.
The wicked neighbor proceeded on his un
holy errand at the hour of midnight, with
bag in hand. Unsuspectingly be thrust his
hand into the crib tp seize an ear, when, lo I
he found himself unable to withdraw it! In
vain he tugged, and pulled and sweated, and
alternately cried and cursed. His hand was
fast, and every effort to release it only made
it more secure. -After a time the tumult in
his breast measurably subsided. He gave
over bis useless struggles, and began to look
around him. All was silence and repose.
Good men were sleeping comfortably in their
beds, while be was compelled lo keep a long,
dreary, and disgraceful watch thiough the
remainder of that long and tedious night,,
bis band in constant pain from the pressure
of the cramp which held it. His tired limbs,
compelled lo sustain his weary body, would
fain have sunk beneath him, and his eyes
would'have closed in slumber, but no I there
was'no rest, no sleep- for him.
There he must stand and watch the prog
ress of. the night, and at once desire and
dread the return of morning. Morning came
at last, and the Quaker looked out of the
window, and - found that, he had at last
“caught the man.”
What was lo be done ? Some would say
“Go out and give him a good cowhiding just
as he stands, and then release him ; that’ll
cure him.” . But not'so with the Quaker.
Such a course would have sent the man
away embittered, and muttering curses of re
venge. The good old man huiriedon his
clothes, and started at once to the relief and
punishment of his prisoner.
“Good morning, friend,” said he, as he
came in speaking distance. “How does thee
do ?”
The poor culprit made no answer but
burst into tears.
“O, fie !” said the Quaker, as he proceed
ed to release him. “I am sorry that thee
has got thy hand fast. Thee put it in the
wrong place, or it would not have beert so.”
The man looked crest fallen, and begging
for forgiveness, hastily turned to make his
retreat.
•‘Stay,” said the persecutor, for he could
have received a blow with much belter grace
than Ihe kind words that were falling from
the Quaker’s lips. “Stay, friend, thy bag
is not filled. Thee needs corn, or thee would
not have taken so much pains to gel, it.
Come let us fill it,” and the poor fellow was
obliged to stand and hold the bag while the.
old man filled it, interspersing the exercises
with the pleasantest conversation imaginable,
all of which were like daggers in the heart
ot bis chagrined and mortified victim.
The bag was filled and the string tied, and
the sufferer hoped to be soon out of the
presence of his tormentor, but again his pur
pose was thwarted.
“Slay,” said the Quaker, as the man was
about to hurry off, having once more ottered
his apologies and thanks. Stay, Ruth has
breakfast ere this; thee must not think of
going without breakfast; come Ruth is cal
ling.”
This was almost unendurable. This was
“heaping coals” with a vengeance. In vain
the mortified neighbor begged to be excused.
In vain he pleaded to be released from what
would be to him a punishment ten limes
more severe than stripes and imprisonment.
The quaker was inexorable, and he was
obliged to yield. Breakfast, over, “Now,”
said the'bld farmer, as he helped the victim
shquider the bag, “If thee needs any more
corn, come in day time and thee shall have
it,” ,
With what shame and remorse did that
guilty man turn from the dwelling of the
pious Quaker I Everybody is ready to say,
that he never again troubled the Quaker’s
corn crib. 1 have something still better than
that to tell you. He at once repented and
reformed, and my informant-tells me that
he afterwards heard him relate, in an experi
ence, meeting, the substance of the story 1
have related, and he attributed, hia conver
sion, under God’s blessing, to the course the
Quaker had pursued, to ;arr,esl him in his
downward course.
A man came to the window offide ’tother day
and says he to Emerson, the- Clerk : “Any
thing for ■me'!” The namef’ “Well,
what’s the.'--name 1” continued : the affable
clerk.” “Name?” “Name.” “Oh, ah yes',
why hang if, in the mukiplibity of my affairs,
if I havn’t really forgotten my own name!”
said the gent, and he moved' on to let others
in. Pondering the rnatlef’ovdr, the oblivion?
man passed down the avenue, when he ran
afoul of a' friend, “Ah I .-good morning,
Mr. Poller !’ j “Potter! that’s if thank you,
for I’m banged if I hadn’t forgotten my, Own
Damp. Potter ! ,bj George, thaPs it,” And
the oblivious individual left hisTftiehd in haste,
to see if there was a letter in tho. opce for
-~John Poller! , ’ ’
A Drove of Irish Bulls,
■ The Fallowing piece of '‘composition” says
the Philadelphia Sunday Transcript , may
be “hacked” against anything ever produced.
It was written half a century ago by Sir Boyle
Royche, a member of the Irish Parliament
in the troubled times of “ninety-eight,” when
a handful of men, from the county of Wex
ford, struck terror into the hearts of many
gallant sons of Mars, as welt asithe worthy
writer himself. The letter was addressed to
a friend in London, and it is old enough to
bo new to nine out of ten of our readers i
"My dear Sir, Having now a little peace
and quietness, I sit down to inform you of the
dreadful bustle and confusion wo are all in
from the blood-thirsty rebels most of whom
.are, thank God, killed and dispersed. We'
are in a pretty mess ; can get nothing to eat,
and no wine to drink, except whiskey ; and
when we sit down to dinner wei are obliged
to keep both hands armed.—While I write
this, I hold a sword in each hand, and a pis
tol in the other. J
I concluded from the beglnihg that this
would be the end of it, and I see that I was
right; for it is not half over yet.j At present
there are such goings on that ieverything is
at a stand still. I should have answered your
letter a fortnight ago, but I did not receive it
until this morning. Indeed scarce a mail ar
rives without being robbed. No longer ago
than yesterday, the coach with|the mail from
Dublin was robbed near this The bags
had been judiciously left behind, for fear of
and lock there was nobody;
in it hut two ootsicie passage rsffiffi) had,
nothing for the thrives to take.p'Lasl'Thurs
day, notice was given that a gang of. rebels*
was advancing here under thejFrench stand
ard, but they had no colors, npr any drums
except bag pipes. J
Immediately every man in the place, in,
eluding men, women and children ran out lo
meet them. We soon found dur force much
too little; we were too near to think of re
treating. Death was in evefy face, but lo it
we wen! r and began to feel a 1 ive again. For
tunately',’ the rebels had no guns except pis
tols and pikes, and as we had! plenty of mus
kels and ammunition, we put them all to the'
sword. Not a soul of them Jescaped, except
some that were drowned in the adjacent bogs,
and in a very short time nothing was heard
but silence. Their uniformsj were all of dif
ferent colors, but mostly green. After the
action, we went to rummage a sort of camp
which they 'had left behind j them. All we
found was a few pikes vyithopt heads, a par
cel of empty bottles of water, and a bundle
of French commissions filled with Irish names.
Troops are now stationed all around >he
country, which exactly squares with my ideas.
1 have only lime lo add'that l am, in great
haste. (
P. S. If you do not receive this, of course
it must have been miscarried, therefore I beg
you will write and let me know.
Getting Used to it by Degrees—Some
where about here. Writes a Southern corres.
pondenl, lives a small farmer of such social
habits, that his coming homb intoxicated was
once no unusual ihing. His wife urged him
in Vttin io sign the pledge, j
“Why, you see,” he would say, “I’D sign
it after awhile, but I "dent like to break off at
once ; U ain’t wholesome. iThe best way is
to get used to a thing by degrees, you know.”
“V.ery well, old man,” his helpmeet would
rejoin, “see now if you don’t fall into a hole
one of these days, while you can’t take care
of yourself, and nobody hear to help you
out.” , ,
Sure enough, as if to verify the prophecy,
as he returned home drunk one day, he fell
into a shallow well, and after much useless
scrambling, he shouted for the “light of his
eyes” to come and help him out.
“Didn’t I tell you so ?” said the good soul,
Showing her cap frill over the edge of the
parapet; “you’ve got into a hole at last and
its only lucky that I’m in hearing, or you
might have drowned. Well,” she continued,
after a pause, letting down the bucket, “take
hold.” * % '
, And up he came,'higher at each turn of
the ivindlass, until the ols lady’s grasp slip
pirig.fcom the handle, down he went to lie
bottom again. This occurring more than
once, made the temporary occupant of the
well suspicious.
“Look here,” he screamed in a fury, at
the last, splash, youre doing that, on purpose
-r-\ know you are!”
“Well now, I am,” responded his old wo
man tranquilly, while winding him up once
more. ‘‘Don’t you remember telling me its.
best to get used to it by degrees I I’m afraid 7
if I bring you right up of a sudden, you
wouldn’t find it wholesome 1”
The old fellow could not help chucklingnt
the application, of his principle, and protested
he would sign the pledge on'the instant, if
she would let him fniPfy out. This sha dfdv
and' packed him' off to sign the pledge, Wet
as he was. ‘ 1 ■ -
“For you see,” she added very' emphati
cally, “if you ever (all into the ditch again,
I’ll leave you there—f will 1
A ludicrous incident look place at the'Junc
rion Hotel, Lafayette, la., upon the arrival of
a train from Indianapolis;- A gentleman and
lady'inspired'with sudden recognition were
observed to rush frantically into each other's
arms, ahd the Tun of it was, that after a
hearty 'embrace, they discovered (hat both
.‘‘had the advantage.’’ They were strangers,
but the lady, mistaking him' for her “dear
cousin Charlie,” had’embraced him, while he
with a half defined recollection of having seen
her before, went inlemoris and’‘got squeezed.’
Their ’mutual embarrassment bn rite discov
ery can \yc)l bo imagined.
Advertisements will be charged 31 per square of
Iburlecn lines, for one, or three insertions, ami dix
cents for every subsequent insertion. All advertise
ments of less than iburiecn lines considered as a
equate. The following rates will bo charged toe
Quarterly, Half-Yearly and Yearly advertising:—,
3 months, '6 months. 12 mo’s
1 Square, (Himes,) - SS 50 54 50 SG 00
2 Squares,- -I 400 s- . 6 00l ■ 8 Ofli
i column, ,- - - . 1000 15 00 ' 20 Oft
1 column.- - . , -13 00 30 00 40 011
All advertisements not having the number of in-,
scilions marked upon them, wilt be kept in notil or
dered out, and charged accordingly- - ■ !
Poster?, Handbills, Clll.ahd LcUcr Heads,and all
kinds of Jobbing done in country establishments,
executed neatly and promptly. Justices’, Consla.
bles’ and other BLANKS, constantly op hand an(j
printed to order.
wm.
NO.IX.
A B’uov at School. —One of the juven*
lies, though considerably advanced, present
ed himself not long-since for admission to %
public school near the Dry Dock. He wap
shown to a seat)-and in the course ol the
morning the master resolved to enter into a
little examination of the youth’s capacities
and knowledge, prior lo ; assigning him to n
class; Calling to the b'hoy to stand up, ha
asked;
“Do you.know anything of grammar!”
“I don't know anything else,”
“Very well! Now attend—ln ihe begin
ning God made the world ; parse world.’'
All the b’hoy knew of Grammar was whal
he had heard that very morning from the dif
ferent classes reciting around him—but that
he had been taught that when he was fighting
in the dark be must strike straight out from
the shoulder right'and left, and it Would be
all right. “Parse world ?” he drawled oat
inquiringly so as' to gain time.
“ Yes! In the beginning God made the
world— parse world.’’
“Wall, world is the biggest kind of a noun,
masculine gender, all sorts of lenses, past,
present and future, and—slapping his bands
down on the desk with a force that shook tho
building—“lt’s governed by God ! Now
fotch your Sunday School scholars, old boss,
and see if they can beat that.— N. Y. Pick.
A Cakoiiman’s CoMPAitisos. — “Whal is
?Gqy. Walker a going to do?” asked a Caro,
linian of a Free Slate man.
“I’ll tell you what I think,” he added. “f
.think he’s just like I was once when a hoy
t’w'ay.down in Alabamma. Father had been
the shears.
vis s no chance to mend them or get
anotherjpair, so he senthot {pot to a
neighbor's to horrow'Tiis’n.
Wei l ,'?! startcdMnighly perl and determin
ed, but got there ! /ell'in with the
boys and got to playing and forgot all about
the sheep shears. Well, the boys, father
suspected 1 had been sent after something j
and he came to me and said !
"Well, Bub; didn’t yer father send ye arler
suthinl’V .
“Well, rgokup and sofrtTihinhin’, but never
thought o’ sheep shears once ; ah’ says hi
“I kem arter suthip’, but I’ll be shot ef T
haint forgot what it was, an’ father ’ll lam
me, too, when Igo back.” It’s just so with
Gov. Walker, stranger. “He’s forgot what
he'come for.”
T«ve _ Pmr.—The force of language is
apt to be much injured by the multitude of
words. 4,
A respectable farmer in Berkshire county
has the singular happy talent of not saying
a word too much. A young man wishing to
obtain his consent to many his daughter,
called upon him once when he happened to
be in the field ploughing with his oxen. It
was, past doubt, a fearful mailer for a diffi
dent man to broach, and the hesitating lover,
after running a parallel to the furrows several
limes round the field, and essaying with ail
his courage to utter the important question at
last stammered out: “I—l—l’ve been think
ing, Mr. —that as how—l—l—[
should be gl—glad to—to—m—ra—marry
your daughter,”
''Farmer—Take her and use her well —.
Whoa haw Buck."
Beecher on Bovs.—Henry Ward Beecher
is said to bo a patron saint of boys. The
boys of Brooklyn, it is said, would make him
the President of the United Stales 10-raorrow,
if it depended upon their vole. He saves
them from the police, he pays their fines
when they break windows—tells them ha
used to like to do it himself. The evening
before the 4th of July, the usual Plymouth
Church prayer meeting was somewhat dis
turbed by the firing of crackers in the entry'
and under the windows. Most ministers
would have pul on a solemn face and given
peremptory orders to seize or drive away the
boys j but Beecher smiled am! said, “That’s
somewhat annoying to us, but 1 presume the
boys enjoy it; indeed, I remember a limo
when I used to'enjoy such things mysalf.”
The Years. —They do not go from, us,
but we from them, stepping from the old into
the new, and always leaving behind us some
baggage, no longer serviceable on the march.
Look back along the way we have trodden ;
there they stand, every one in his place, bold
in'* fast all that was left in trust with them.
So'we keep our childhood, so our youth, and
all have, something of ours which they will
give' up for neither bribe nor prayer—tho
opinions cast away, the hopes that went with
us no farther, the cares thal have had succes
sors, and the follies outgrown to be reviewed
fay. memory, and called up for evidence some
day.
A western editor- thus sums up the peculi
arities of a cotemporary ; He- is 100 lazy
Jo*'earn a meal, and 100 mean to enjoy one.
He never was generous but once, and that
was whan he gave the itch to an apprentice
boy. So much for'his goodness of heart l .”
Of his industry,-ho says, “The only time ho
ever worked was when he took castor oil for
honey.”
An old gentleman of sixty-four having la
ken to the altar a young damsel of sixteen,
the clergyman said to him : “You will find
the font alythe opposite end of the church.”
“VVhat doH want «ith the font?" asked tho
old gentleman. “I your pardon,” said
the clerical wit, “I thought you had brought
the child to be christened.”
Live as long as you may, the first twenty
years form the greater part of your life.—
They appear so when they are passing—they
.sobm to be so when we look hack to them—
and they take up more room in our memory
thair a!( the years'which succeed them.
Rules of Advertising.