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TUE TIOGA COUNTY AGITATOR is pub
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Business Cards, not exceeding 5 lines, paper ih
eluded, 9i pet year.
The Young Soldier of Seventy-Six.
A TALE OP THE BEVOLUTION.
Among the youthful, but bold and fearless
asserters of American rights during ibis pe
riod (the American Revolution) was a young
man, or rather we should oalfhinn a boy, by
ihe name of Arthur Stewart. He had enter
ed the army of the Revolution at the early
•age of fifteen.
He was born and reared in the good old
Bay Stale (a State worthy to claim such a
boy). He had manifested very early in life
a fearless and warlike ".He ac
cordingly joined a company of volunteers,
during the disastrous period \ij/ I7tW’76,
and during a giealer part of th
ary war.jjvas a
(he American army which TvasAndflwihe
commtuu]x2£«£kffii EahiaiitJ Gapp./Weath
er beo commanded the company to whlcmfie
Captain well understood t#e
warliko_merits of the but he wa/
not personally known to General Putnam, sjf
indeed it would have been mere luck and I
chance if he had been. He had already sig
nalized himself in one or two hard-fought 1
battles, and but for his extreme youth would 1
at the time of which we are about to speak,
have been promoted to the rank of ensign or
lieutenant. The incidents of the following
story occurred just on the eve of the battle
of .
The British army was lying encamped
within two miles of the Americans. The
(wo armies had been patching each olher’s
movements for several days, without coming
to a general engagement. At length, on the
eve of the 22d of , ;the Americans and
British were making preparations for the
night’s rest, expecting on the morrow to try
the precarious fortunes of a general fight.
The captains of the several American com
panies were busily employed in choosing sen
tinels, who were to stand guard- during the
night. Capt. Welherbee bad already select
ed from his own company (we think by lot)
all his quota of men except one. He was
anxiously engaged in making out the full
number, when, as good fortune or bad would
have it, we don’t know which, Gen. Putnam
passed that way. As he approached, the
captain was in the act of calling from the
ranks, Arthur Stewart, a beardless boy, to
act the part of a sentinel that night. The
General, with mingled .emotions"of surprise
and contempt, stepped up to the captain, and
faking him a little aside, said, “ Captain
Welherbee, what is the meaning of this?
Are you so thoughtless and imprudent as to
take this stripling for a sentinel ?—a boy who
has just left his leading-strings, to discharge
the responsible duties of a soldier? You
know that the British army is almost within
gunshot of the American lines ! Are we not
in imminent danger of being surprised this
night in our camp, or at least of having
British spies sent here to reconnoitre us in
our sleep 1 I beg you to look a Mule to this.”
“Your fears ate entirely groundless,” said
Captain Wetberbe: “I know (he boy. I
would be willing to sleep under the very guns
of a British fort wiili Arthur Stewart for a
sentinel! There’s not another soldier in my
company that I would sooner trust than him,
either for a sentinel or anything else. 1 war
rant you he will do good duly to-night.”
“Do as you please, then,” said the Gene-
Sral, “1 have confidence in you ; and he
Sturned upon his heel and left the captain. It
■ happened that this conversation, though in
s' tended to be carried .on one side, was over-
S heard by the company, and particularly by
■ Stewart. We ; don’t know bow it is, but
I there is an unaccountable sensibility in the
I organ of hearing, when we suspect we are
■ ourselves the subject of remark, especially
I animadversion.
“I’ll come up to you for this, old Gene
ral,” said Stewart, as he listened with breath
less anxiety and anger to hear what was
coming next. “You’ll find that lam not
the cabbage slump you take me to be,” mut
tered Arthur to himself, his eyes all the while
snapping with scorn and fury. “I’m a boy
it is true, but old Put may know before he
[dies that boys don’t always work at boy’s
[play.”
Stewart had taken his post as sentinel dur
ing the former part of the night. It so hap
ped that Gen. Putnam had occasion to pass
le the lines. On his way out he did
incounter Arthur Stewart, but another
tel, who, ascertaining it was (he Gene- 1
immediately allowed him to pa,ss without
lountersign. After being absent a short
he made towards the lines, as though he ]
ided to return. In coming in he unfor
tely encountered Arthur Stewart.
ho goes there 1” says the sentinel,
ien. Putnam,” was the reply,
ft e know no Gen. Putnam here,” says
sentinel.
mi I am Gen. Putnam,” said he by this
growing somewhat earnest.
Give me the countersign!” says Stewart,
so happened that the officers of the
had only a day or two previous adopt
new countersign, and the General had
iwfaat unaccountably forgot what it was,
: least could noil at this moment' of his
.’nifty call it to mind.
1 have forgotten it,” was the reply.
p is 18 a pretty story from the lips of
utnam. You area British officer sent
pare as a spy,” returned Stewart, well
mg who he was, for the moon was shin
c l ,er strength, and revealed to him
r . es Gen. Putnam i but he had
j ,D " ,s own hand, and he meant to
warrant you I am not,” said the Gene
-10 he made a motion as though he
Id pass on.
ass that line, air, and you are a dead
tillered Stewart, at tfie time cocking
THE AGITATok
jprtjotciy to ttjr of tiyt of iFmOom t&e SpreaO of f&tnltijg Jlrform.
_ *
WHILE THEBE SHALL BE A WHONO UNSIGHTED, AND UNTIL “HAN’S INHUMANITY TO MAN” SHALL CEASE, A'GITATION MOST CONTINUE.
yoL.xv.
his'gun. “Stop where you are, or I’ll make
you stop,” said the sentinel. The General
disregarded him as before.
Hastily drawing up his gun, and taking a
somewhat deliberate aim, he snapped; but
the'gun, from some unaccountable reason or
other, refused to discharge its contents.
“Hold! bold!” said the General.
“I do hold,” says Stewart. “The gun
holds its charge better than I meant to have
it,” immediately priming his gun for another
encounter.
“You are not priming that gun for me?”
said the General.
“That entirely on circumstan
ces; I warn source more not to pass those
“But I atiT said Putnam.
‘T deny it can give me the
countersign, the young man.
Here the General was balked. He strove
with all his might to recall the word, but in
'vain. , ' -
‘\Boy,” said he, “do you know me? I’m
Gem Putnam.”
f officer more like. If you are
'JSen; Putnam, as you say, why don’t you
the countersign ? So sure as lam
imy son.'rf you attempt (o pass the
*fine, Itwiilinake 4pld meal of you. I’m a
setinel. / I know duly, though there bo
some people io thrf world marvelously in
clined to question itiy ,
At allShis the General finding further par
ley useless, desisted, ajhd the boy deliberately
shouldering his gun, Began with a great deal
of assumed haughtiness.to pace the ground
as before. Here was redoubtable Gene
ral Putnam, the hero of a/hundred battles,
kept at bay by a stripling of seventeen.
This, if we mistake not, would have formed
a fine subject for a painthr’a pencil.
. Gen. Putnam, finding vlhat the boy was in
earnest, for he had alarming proof of it,
durst not for his life proceed a step further.
He waited until Stewart was relieved, who
finding that he was in truth Gen. Putnam,
allowed him to pass without the countersign.
But the General’s feelings were terribly ex
cited. He knew In his inmost soul that the
boy had done nothing but his duly, still he
felt he had been most egregiously insulted.
Had Stewart permitted him to pass without
the countersign, and he had proved to be a
British officer, the boy, according to the rules
of war, would have heen shot for his pains.
Putnam’s intellect reasoned, but his feelings
by no means coincided with his reason.
It is a terrible warfare when a man’s feel
ings thus come to an open rupture with his
sound judgment, and such cases are by no
means rare.
Gen. Putnam threatened, on returning to
his quarters, to severely punish the boy ! but
after a night’s rest over the subject, he felt
somewhat different about it. A sense of
honor and justice returned, and calling the
boy to him on the morrrow he said :
“You are the young man who stood senti
nel at ,” naming the place.
“I was,” replied Stewart.
“Did you know the man who encountered
you there last night 7”
“I suspected who he might be,’’ returned
the boy.
“Why did you not let him pass 7”
“I should have forfeited the character of a
sentinel had I done it,” said the boy.
“Thai’s right,” said the General “you did
just as I would have done myself had I been
in your place. We have nothing to fear
from the British or the enemies with such a
sentinel as you are,” and taking a piece of
gold from his pocket be presented it to the
boy, at the same lime charging him never to
forfeit the character which he had already
acquired. Shortly after he was promoted to
the rank of ensign.
Shingling a House. —James H ,
was a young man who commenced life with
every flattering prospect, and a wife and chil
dren soon blessed him. Unhappily, by slow
degrees be became—to make a long matter
short—a drunkard. One evening he left his
wife in tears, as was too common, repaired
to the house of a man who sold him the poi
son, and drank so much that he sank down
in a kind of stupefaction easily mistaken for
sleep. All his companions had deserted him.
Near midnight the landlord’s wife came into
the bar-room and said to him :
“ I wish that man would go home, if he
has one to go to.”
“Hush! hush!” says the landlord, “be
will call for something else directly.”
“ [ wish he would make haste about it
then, for it is time every honest person was
abed,” said his wife.
“ He’s taking the shingles off his house
and putting them on ours,” said the land
lord.
At this time James began to come to his
senses and commenced rubbing his eyes, and
stretched himself as if ho had just awoke,
and said he thought he would go home.
« Don’t be in a hurry, James,’ said (he
landlord.
“ O, yes, I must go,” said James, and off
he started.
After an absence of some weeks, the land
lord one day met and accosted him.
“ Halloo, Jim, why haven’t you been to
see us T”
“ Why,” said James, “ I had taken shin
gles enough off my house, and it begun to
leak,so I thought it was jime to stop the leak
and I have done it.’
The tavern-keeper, astonished, went homo
to tell his wife about it, and James ever since
has let rum alone and attended his business.
He is now a happy man, and his wife and
children are happier than ever.
Honesty—a term formerly used when a
man paid for his newspaper.
WELLSBORO, TIOGA COUNTY, PA., THURSDAY MORNING. DECEMBER 31, 1857.
Reader, have you ever been dead 7 I have
been. I will tell you the story, of death.—
Dr. Benajab W. Somers, of Essex county,
New Jersey, was my physician. I shall not
curse him now. Time has taught me that it
is better to bless than to curse. And 1 feel,
bitter as my malison might be, that a mere
miserable condition were not possible to him
than the consciousness of his murderous wan
tonness must bring upon himself, hardened
as I fear bis nature is. But let that pass.
I will tell you the story of my death.
I died at the age of twenty-three. A stal
wart man, who on my father’s farm mowed
my swath or hoed my row with the best, in
an unfortunate hour I became the victim of
the practice of medicine which then prevailed,
but which now, happily, is nearly disused.—
1 had some sort of fever. No doubt I was
ill enough. From my right arm one day the
physician took ounces of blood—how mgpy
I knew not; certainly, in liquid measure, a
gallon of the red fluid flowed. I did not
mend that .day; at least, 1 suppose I did not,
for on the next day he cut my left arm and
thence a like measure—the crimsom measure
of half a life. I was a dead man then. But
a shudder or two always must come before
the conscious soul lets go its hold upon the
frame. Wiih me the shudders were in the
shape of cold sweats. There were three of
them. By the clock—so, some one at my
bed whispered—the chill and sweat lasted
six hours. Six dim, dark centuries they
were to me. The third—its commencement,
its fierce chill, its dead cold compared with
which ice were a pleasing warmth—its dread
slow march, I remember, but nothing more.
In the midst of it, I lost all sense of life and
its pains. The great gates of the valley of
death rolled on their ponderous, hinges and
shut me in.
I do not recollect the circumstances of fu
neral and interment. In fact, Ido not deem
that I was buried. The weight I Pelt above
me 1 knew was no more than ten feet of
earth, in a quiet nook, with daises springing
from it. The mountains were, resting on me.
I realized their weight. Straight up to the
light—if light existed—as under the centre
of the central mountain I lay, it was many
miles through solid rock. I was not imbed
ded in the rock, tike a cold toad, caught in
during the formative era of the geologists.,—
It lay upon me. I fell all its weight. Sense
had gone, but consciousness was with me.—
Oh, how I suffocated and smothered I But
dead ns I was, consciousness cruelly clung to
me. I had died—why could I not cease t<\
be ! Time had passed away ; there was no
day, no night. But if mortal measure could
indicate the period I lay alone, and dark, and
sufiocated> beneath that weight, centuries
might have flown above my head.
The silence was as dread as the suffocation
was terrible. There was no sound. All was
still, dark and hopeless. Had the mouniaio
roared as it crushed, it would have been an
alleviation. But it did its work without
sound, without remorse, like Fate, grim
silent.
. I have said there was no measure of time
to tell how long this measureless weight press
ed me down. There came a relief. A sense
of bearing came to me, or, the internal fires
of earth had rolled nearer to me. I heard
(heir voice, distant as yet, like the wind in the
leaves of ten thousand fofesls—like the surge
of a thousand unseen oceans- I felt its heat.
But it was far away. A new sense of suffo
cation came upon me. This suffocating force
now surrounded me, came within me, and
pressed me out., The suffocation within me
was like some vast expanding force, but it
did not lift the weight of the mountain that
was upon me. That still held its awful pres
sure. But I heard the Titans breathing as
(hey fed the fires. This state lasted—who
shall say how long?
Then came —was it true? —could I believe
it I—a dim sense of sight. I saw, dimly and
afar, the forms of those giants who fed the
central fires of the planet. They moved si
lent and grim, watching their work and when
a rill of molten rock glided apart from (he
mass, they staid it with their ponderous feel,
and scooped it back to its place with vast
hands.
Then the mountain began to lift and swell.
It seemed slowly to rise—the hundreth part
of an inch. Then, part of the way back it
sank. It might have been a year in rising
that little space. But at the lime I could feel
that it was rising. Into the chinks it made
as it rose, pressed, hot and| fierce, vapors of
sulphur from the fires. These enveloped me
more closely than even the mountain’s weight.
I prayed that (he mountain would again shut
down and press them out. Its black, lead
suffocation, with all its eternal weight, was
belter.
But the vapors thinned as the mountain
slightly, almost imperceptibly, lifted. Great
God ! I felt the touch of a human finger—.
a live finger. It lay beneath my arm, in the
arm pit. I felt it plainly—the artery throb
bed against it. Was there life 1 Was it life ?
No, no. The touch died away. I'had no
arteries—no human sensation. It was a
dream of the sleep of death. I awoke from
it—awoke to eternal death, the mountain’s
weight, and the hot fiery vapors. Unyield
ing, they pressed me still within and without.
Again—was it a'gain a dread dream? 1
had a sense of light, veiled and clouded light,
as through a sleeper’s unopened lids. The
light, dim as it was, was steady and contin
ued. I watched it long—long ! Ages were
the only measure, if measure beyond the
grave there could be. But so dim it was that
hope grew sick, and died, and rotted within
me; and 1 fell back into the old, desolate suf
focation—the eternal, the varying pressure
From Emerson’s and Putnam’s Magazine.
The Story of Death.
of ihe mountain’s weight. Mqrp ages went
by.
The ill at r- light, and p
. .»en all at once was light, and a voice,
and a, human band. Light, sound, touch,
Sashed at once upon me. How they mingled
and throbbed with the dead suffocation. It
was too much. Now, on the eve of relief.
I had my former prayer answered. Sensa
tion passed away. 1 was not. Annihila
tion had now come.
From annihilation—or from the utter blank
of consciousness—f awoke, with pain and fa
tigue, and still the sense of weight unutter
able, to find that there was indeed light and
hearing. The touch—it was a live hand—
a human hand. God I the merciful and kind I
it was my own father’s hand. It was his
finger beneath my armpii. Now I feel it
meet the artery;,! myself felt, in sympathy
with him, the throb, I had come back to
life. Death was over.
Though it was no dream, this awakening
—I knew it to,' be real, yet for hours I held
but a slate of semi-consciousnes. But I knew
that death was over—rl knew I Jived. I rec
ognized the various members of my family in
my room. I heard my father’s voice, sub
dued, but joyful, proclaiming his unwavering
faith, during all, that I was alive.
Then the doctor came. He entered the
room where I lay.
“The boy is alive, doctor !” exclaimed my
father.
“Nonsense !’’ was the heartless knave’s re
ply—this devil of a doctor. At times I feel
I must hale him, this doctor who had college
warrant on parchment to murder and bury
beneath mountains.
“He does live, doctor V’ persisted my fath
er. “Feel beneath his arm !”
The doctor pul his hand—his faithless, cold
skilless hand, beneath ray arm.
The little life there was to me recoiled
from the contact, fled back to its sources, and
gave no response to his murderous touch.
“There is no beat there,” said he, con
temptuously, turning to my father. “It was
all your fancy.”
My father put his hand beneath my own
again. Trembling, faith shaken, wavering—
his touch told all that, as he pressed the ar
tery long, and no thr.qb responded. The lit
tle rill of life was too faint and weak to flow.
Long he held his finger there, and through
it I could feel his hope die away. He with
drew it at last, and he gazed on the face of
his dead son. He looked long. He was a
kind, good father. I know where the grass
grows above his grave. He gazed long, and
turned away as one who bade farewell.
An hour passed. He came back resolute,
hope dauntless in his eye, as if some inspired
frenzy made him hope against hope, and bear
his faith into the presence of despair.
He touched again the artery beneath my
arm. He felt the throb. It was fuller and
faster, as hope seized and animated me and
him together, The pulse was clear, small,
and weak, as it might be, it was still marked
and clear. He felt it, and knew it was no
fancy.
He brought wine, and put a teaspoon filled
with it to my lips. The palate and nostrils
felt the sensation. They slightly moved.—
The shadow of a color came into my face.
He knew 1 lived.
My recovery was slow. For three days
my sustenance was a halfleaspoonful of wine
passed to my lips every two hours. After
that they gave me a whole teaspoonful at the
same intervals. I gained strength slowly.—
At length 1 was able to get up.
Bull was a cripple forever. From that
hourj have not been able to lift my right
arm from~my_side.j Below the elbow' the
limb is powerlessT'"My left hand I cannot
raise above my head. I was bledhin both of
my arms. -t
Sometimes, without thought, I make an ef
fort to raise one arm or the other beyond the
line which the paralysis has fixed. Then on
a sudden all grows dark before me; my head
swims, and for on instant I feel the awful
mountain’s weight upon me. The spasm
passes away, and I ITve again.
1 commenced no action for damages against
the doctor. Aside from the lad that he did
not then possess means to respond to the pos
sible verdict, my friends with the prejudices
of lime, would have dissuaded me from suing
him at the law. Courts and the “faculty,”
in those days believed in blood, and the lat
ter took it when it would. '■
Do not deem, reader, that the foregoing
is any tale of imagination. It is a story of
the baldest fact. 1 live in New Jersey, be
tween Plainfield and Westfield, in Union (for
merly Essex) county. My name I am free
to impart—it is John R. Miller. Thirty-four
years have passed ; but the memory of every
hue and circumstance of those dread ages of
death is distinct and vivid still. For often,
even now, a thoughtless movement of either
crippled limb brings their terrors bodily back,
and once again, thank God it is but for a mo
ment —I lio suffocated and pressed beneath
the mountain’s breast.
“Common talers,” said Mrs. Partington to
herself, as she waked out of a little nap in
which she had been thrown on Sunday by a
soporific preacher. “What has common talers
to do with the gospel ? The preacher had
alluded to some commentators, the odd sound
of which tickled her ear and awakened her.
“Common taters” she continued, “Well all
sort of taters are bad enough, and many of
them are rotten clean through, and if he is
calling his hearers such names heaven knows
where he will stop. Common taters, indeed I
I’ll send him up a peck of uncommon ones
to-morrow and show him that all of them
ain’t alike.” She left the bouse with a very
indefinite idea of what he meant but deter
mined to set him right on the potato question.
©tur eomasoufrence.
Hudson, Wis., Dec. 1857,
Friend Cobb : It has been a long time
since 1 have encroached upon! either your
valuable columns, or upon the; patience of
your readers. This seeming j delinquency
may, or may not require an explanation ; be
that as it may, I shall take the liberty of say
ing that my remissness has been caused by
my having been for the last months en
gaged in personally'experimenting on the
therapeutical effects of various medical agents
in an abnormal condition of the physical sys
tem ; and the occupation has engrossed my
attention to the exclusion of other and less
scientific pursuits ; but having completed my
experiments, at least for the present, 1 again
resume my'pen, and now “ to the resuU.”
In the matter of general newjs I can g ve
you nothing, inasmuch as youf receive such
ere we do here—at least during the winter
months—owing to the almost {otaf 4 want of
proper facilities for receiving our mafls from
the South,and East. True, Government has
contracted with one M. O. Walker, of Chic
ago, for a daily mail by 4 horse stagecoach
from Prairie Du C?hien to this place, St. Paul,
&c., but it is notoriously as true that said
Walker, in all essential points| fails to fulfil
such contract; and that not only are large
quantities of mail matter for, this vicinity in
store at Prairie Du Chien, but(thal in addi
tion to this, mail bags are frequently thrown
off by his drivers for the purpose of taking
on an extra passenger, which is said to pay
better than carrying the mail.i These bags
we sometime may get, bull I fear not. I
have not had an Agitator fdr'lhe past four
or five weeks, as we have had no through
paper mail during that time.' ;But the worst
feature of the case is, that the authorities
have full knowledge of this} delinquency,
yet make no effort for our relief.
It is but two days’ staging to Prairie Du
Chien, and from daily serviceiwe should get
at least a weekly mail, which) is more than
we average now. Complaints are useless.
Government must sustain Douglas and Dou
glas must sustain his satellites; hence, said
Walker must be suffered to take his time.
This is but a drop ) in the bucjret of our sor
rows, for what with the constitutional climax
of injustice in Kansas, the attempted frauds
id Minnesota, the blind and ruinous Mormon
policy, the rotation in the Patcjnt Office and
a multitude of minor grievances, the day of
retribution is at hand—the' judgment of an
Outraged people must redress lour wrongs in
the campaign of 1860. ;
In looking over our late eastern papers, I
discover that Colonel Forney (denounces the
Lecompton fraud in appropriate terms. Can
this be a ray of light in the political horizon j
of the East! or is it to blind! the masses of
the parly in Pennsylvania; «*ho have been |
told that Kansas was to befreerin any event?
We shall see. The Chicago Times, Douglas’s
home organ, also denounces tlie fraud in un
mistakable terms. Douglas is between Scyl
ia and Chary belt's, politically, [for should he
endorse that fraud he cannot be elected Sen
ator next fall, while he must Ipse caste in the
South should he denounce it. ] In either case
his prospects for 1860 will suffer. 1 hope he
will stand by Justice and tbps earn the re
spect of right-minded men of fall parlies.
We have elected Randall; Rep., Govern
or of this Stale, by a small njajotily, togeth
er with a portion of the Republican Slate of
ficers and we have a majority in the Legisla
ture. j
The affliction of the East, f‘ Hard Times”
has also reached this remolej corner of the
Stales, but not to such an extpnt as it has af
fected you. We have still plenty of employ
ment for our laborers and plenty of commod
ities to pay with except cash! As the poor
can neither eat nor wear money, they do not
particularly need it. There -iq enough to do
and provisions plenty and cjteap in- propor
tion to the wages paid. Common laborers
get SI per day, while flour jis from S 2 to
$2,50 per cwt., potatoes 35 Jo 40 cents per
bushel, oats 75 cents, corn 80 cents to $l,
with an abundant supply in the country, re
ports to the contrary notwithstanding. ‘ A
few isolated settlements far back in the inte
rior will need supplies, but the older settle
ments have enough and ,tof spare, and the
needy will be supplied. The principal suff
erers will be those who are in debt and must
have money even at ruinoui rates, and this
class, I am sorry to say, is quite numerous.
Hundreds who were in reality well off", have
bought largely beyond their means to pay
during the present stringency, and hence
must be nearly or quite rumed. There is al
so another class thrown entirely out of em
ployment, to wit—fancy paper town specula
tors. There is positively no sale for such
properly, and it is hoped, fofr the good of the
community and the country that there will
never Ije again. These men have done more
to destroy the credit of the West than all
other causes combined. The intrinsic value
of properly will now rule and the buyer will
now receive an equivalent for his money.
Farms will be improved at# also town prop
erly in good locations. The spirit of reck
less speculation is checked, and in spile of
the general stagnation that <must ensue for a
season, the great financial Igaoic will in the
end prove a blessing to the real interests of
the West. S
There was never so good a lime for capital
ists to invest in Westerif property as now.
With the panic has comeja reaction of pri
ces, and properly is now nearly as far below
its intrinsic value as it was above that point
when the crash came. So many must sell,
that improved farms can [be purchased for
little more than cost of improvements, and
unimproved land for less jhan half its value
four months ago. From :all I can learn the
Advertisements will be charged 81 per square of
fourteen lines, for one, or three insertions, and 25
cents for every subsequent insertion. AH advertise
ments of less than fourteen lines considered as a
square. The following rales will be charged for
Quarterly, Half-Yearly and Yearly advertising:—
_ 3 months. 8 months. 12 idd’r
Square, (14 lines,) - $2 SO $4 50 86 00
2Squares,. . . . 400 600 800
i column, .... 1000 js 00 ■ 2000
1 column,. ... -16 00 30 00 40 00
All advertisements not having the number of in
sertions marked upon them, will be kept in until or.
dcred out, and charged accordingly.
Posters, Handbills, Bill, and Letter Heads, and all
kinds of Jobbing done in country establishments,
executed neatly and promptly. Justices’, Consta
bles’ and other BLANKS,constantly on hand and
printed to order.
no. xxn.
immigration hither will be greater next spring
than ever, and many of these lands will com
mand double their present valuation before
next winter. The time to buy cheap is now,
before navigation opens. C. - V. E.
If Mat Peel, (says the New Orleans True
Delta,) had been upon the levee yesterday,
he might have got a happy wrinkle in his line
from the performances of the genuine colored
gentry. The carle for this entertainment
was a burlesque auction sale. One of the
darkey men, selected for bis tonguey quali
ties mounted a box, and in good set auction
eer phrase announced to a large assembly of
idle negro laborers, that he was now about to
oiler them, for cash, “to de highis bidder in
dis crowd, a fus rate boy. A I, soun and
healthy, and warranted not to cut in de eye,
balk in the step, not steal chickens that don’t
>!ong to him; also ’ditional, boy wars only
one par shoes a year, ’an deys good at the
eend of it; lakes keer on his close partick
ler, an’ neber goes coning ; don’t go to sleep
ober his work, is ’pectful an’ ’bedienl; is six
feel tree inches high, weighs two hundred and
twenty pouns, an can do more work ”10 the
house or fiel dan any oder nigger. Step up
hyar, Sam, an’ show yourself to dese gem
men ! —Libely now ! Dare he is, gemmen !
’Mire him for yourselves !” >
And the sable auctioneer pointed with tri
umphanl gesture to the subject of this extrav.
agant eulogium, a scrubby, knotted, runted,
gray headed specimen of a field hand, about
four feet and a half high, who mounted the
box beside him, amid vast roars of laughter
from the crowd.
“Dar he is, gemmen! ’xamine him an’
start him at suftin, for ha ?must be sole !
What does you say !” Several colored gem
inon mouuled ihe stand and proceeded to
“xamine” him. One violently pulled his
momh open and reported—“dis nigger not
sound—one jaw toof gone.” Another tried
to straighten out a lock of his wool, with
“don’t dis h’r kink too much—nigger lazy I”
Another pretended to discover something be
sides ideas running through his wool, and
concluded “nigger’s head 100 pop’lar” An
other said “nigger’s foot too long and slim—
long foot nigger will steal and run away ;
long foot nigger ain’t worth jail fees.” An
other “nigger’s toe nails 100 long—scratch
paint off’r my parlor floor. No wants dis
nigger! Yah 1 Hy-ah! Yah ! Yah !”
“ Well, gemmen! is you done looking at
that nigger I Is you satisfy ? He is a prims
lot ! What do you say for de boy 1 Start
him at suffin ! He’s got to be sole—prump
lory sale !’’
“Ten cent!” came from ihe laughing crowd.
“Ten cent—ten cent! Going at ten cent—
ten—ten.”
“One dime,” from the crowd. “Tank you,
sar! One dime, one dime—goin’ at one
dime—d-i-m-e ! Too bad, gemmen, make
me sacrifize dis arlikel dat way ! Say ’leb
en?”
“One bit,” from the crowd. “Much ’bliged
sar ! and bit—one bit—bit—goin’, goin’—
won’t nobody sas ’leben for dis. Al, war
ranted, &c., boy goin’ at one bit—goin’ goin’
gone at ten cent ! Yours, sar, and dog sight
more dan he’s worf!’’
And he “knocked down” the property to
the quasi purchaser with a tremendous blow
on the head with the barrel stave he used as
a hammer, which broke it in the middle, and
“knocked down” the sold property off the
box without' apparently feeling the blow, so
massive was the confirmation of his crani
um. That was the greatest auction sale that
ever we saw.
An End to Kissing. — A short while since
the affectionate public was astonished by the
story of a young lady whose neck was dis
located in consequence of the ill advised re
sistance which she offered to the amicable
salute of an admirer more ardent than dis
creet. Our exchanges from Europe now
match this tale with another of an inquest
held at Leeds on the body of a young man
of 21, who fell down stairs and killed him
self in the course of an attempt to snatch a
kiss from the unwilling lips of a girl of'fif
teen. Some of our colemporaries deduced
from the fjrst of these occurrences the whole
some moral that young ladies should never
oppose the advances of their admirers. In
common fairness we are now bound to infer
from the second accident that no man should
ever attempt to take a kiss until it is offered
to him. Between the two lessons there is
reason to fear that an ancient and not alto
gether disagreeable custom may be summa
rily abolished.
A Family not Acquainted. —The Jour
nal of Commerce tells the following reply of
a boy to his mother:—“The father was of
the keep your children at a distance class,
and the boy wanting a new suit, very natu
rally asked the mother to intercede for him.
“V\ hy don’t you ask your father yourself,
my son ?” said the mother. “Why, mother,
I would ask him, only I don’t feel well
enough acquainted with him was the reply
The above reminds us of a boy who •»
intimately acquainted with his father, t lal he
calls h'irri.Sßill,.” This is going to lia oppo
site extreme..-
“How did-you like that J [ am song 1”
asked an old lady of her AUShter, n s they
stepped with the crowd °P en air
after a popular concer" . ' Qm song !” ex
claimed the youne 10 “Stonishment.
“Whv, what dr refer 'o, another ?”
“Why the firr n one he sung!” “Oh ! you
mean ‘Shel' , d .°” 1 y° u > moll, er 7”
“Well, y/' - sa d the old lad y. ‘ Ido think
that w' ’! l Was something about clams
you knotvl like cJamsso well !
pj l you like it 7”
Bates of AUvcrUsins.
A Negro Nock Auction.