THE STAR OF THE NORTH.
■ W. Weaver Proprietor.]
VOLUME 3.
THE STAR OF TUE NORTH
Is published every Thursday Morning, by
R. W. WEAVER.
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BOVIS, 2TOT STATIONS.
YVho shall nidge it man ' r °m msnner ,
Who shall know him by n- 9 dreai •
Paupers may be fit for princes,
Princes fit for something less.
Crumpled shirt and dirty jacket
May be, clothe the golden ore
Of the deepest thoughts and feelings—
Satin vests could do no more.
There are springs of crystal nectar
Ever welling out of stone ;
There are purple buds and golden,
Hidden, crushed, and overgrown.
Cod, who couuti by souls, not dresses,
Loves and prospers yon and me,
While be values thrones the highest
But as pebblos iu the sea.
Man, uprais'd above bis fellows,
Oft forgets his fellows then—
Masters—rulsrs—lords—remember
Tnat your meanest kinds are men '.
Men by labor, men by feeling,
Men by thought and men by fame,
Claiming equal right to sunshine
In a man's ennobled name*
There au foam-embroider'd iceans,
There are little weed .clad rills,
There are feeble, inch high saplings,
There aie cedars on the hills ;
But God, who counts by souls not stations,
Loves and prospers you and me,
For to him alt vain distinctions
Are as pebbles in the sea.
Toiling hands alone are builders *
Of a nation's wealth and fame,
Titled laziness is pensioned,
Fed and fatler.'d on the same ;
By the sweat of others' foreheads,
Living only to rejoice,
While the poor man's outraged'freedom
Vainlyjlifteth up its voice.
But truth and justice are eternal,
Bom with loveliness and light,
And sunset's wrong shall never prosper,
While there is a sunny riglu ;
And God whose world-heard voice is singing 1
Boundless love to you and me.
Will sink oppression, with its titles,
As the pebbles in the sea.
EMMA, TUE BAILOII GIRL.
BY MRS. WARD.
The following story is not merely "found- '
ed" on fact—the chief incidents are literally j
true, and the scene is from nature. The |
real name of the heroine was Arnold, and ,
she was the daughter of a lieutenant in 11. j
Majesty's navy. His pernicious habits drove j
his child from his roof, ami she, exchanging j
clothes with a village play fellow, hired her
self ss cabin boy on board a vessel bound i
for the Cape. An accident brought her !
under the notice of a surgeon on board the
•hip, amf the events followed as I have re
lated them in the tale.
Between the fishing village of L————
and the town of E , there once stood
on the slops of a hill, facing the sea, a row
surrounded by neat gardens,
where those bright flowers throvo which
enlighten many a tenement, sheltered only
by the cliffs of our coast. The first of these
attracted the eye by its tasteful transforma
tion from a common building to the pic
turesque residence of a fragile looking lady,
who was seldom seen except when she
would step beyond the bowery porch, twined
with clematis and passion -flower, and sha
ding her eyes from the glare of the ocean,
would gaze up the r oad watching for the
post-man.
Few knew her history, hut it was under
etood that against the consent of her father,
•he had married a young and handsome
lieutenant in the navy ; that, soon nfior her
marriage, her husband had gone lo son, and
that aha had improved the poor cottage after
eueh a fashion as her taste dictated and her
•lender means permitted, and was now ex
pecting bis return.
Within a hay window bf this dwelling a
breakfast table was laid, and at this sat the
lady, with a child of five yeais old beside
her. Both had been enjoying the fragrance
of the sunny garden, and the pale lady's
eyes brightened as she had looked on her
preparations of wolcome. Her dress, as
well as L'? ( child's, was of the plainest fash
lon, yet exquiatoly noai. The little girl,
(rilh her doll upon hor knee, uufJf °ul m!"
a merry laugh from time to time, at the
gambols of a kitten, at it tried hard to over
come the gravity of its sober mother, who
sat blinking her eyes in tho sunny eastern
window, but lstely gave no heed to her
daughter's repeated entreaties that she would
•'only just look at Dot;" sha'was scanning
the shipping list of a newspaper with ner
vous haste and trepidation.
i'Off Dover, H. M. frigate 'Rainbow,' ar
rived on the 4th inst from Jamaica; the ship
praceeds to the Downs, where a court mar
tiki will assemble for the trial of Lieutbnant
Richard Temple, R. N., under arrest for
being drunk on duty."
Mrs. Temple sat paralyzed with the paper
in her hand; the child and the kit'.en con
tinued their play, and when Margaret, the
only attendant on the cottage inmates, en
tered the room to remove the breakfast
things, she found her mistress transfixed like
a statue in her chair There was a sharp
lap at the porch door. It was a post-man
who had brbught baok a letter which he had
curried on by mistake.
BLOOMSBURG, COLUMBIA COUNTY? PA., THURSDAY, MAY 29, 1851.
The thoughtful Margaret sent the little
girl to the next cottage to tell Captain YVil
mot, their kind neighbor, and an old naval
officer, that " mamma was in very great
trouble/' and to ontreat that he would come
to her forthwith.
" Under arrest !—disgraced, disgraced !
my Uichanl, my husband! oh, my husband!"
Mrs. Temple was sitting on the floor as
she uttered these despairing words, with an
open letter in her hand; but there was not a
tear upon her clay pale lace, though the
whitened lips were rigid with great agony.
"My friend, my friend !" she cried, as the
good old Captain of the navy raised her in
J his arms from the ground, "my friend, tr.y
only friend, 1 shall never hold head
again."
Truly, she had need of his friendship, end
as that poor, pale, afllicted creature cast her
se.'f in utter abandonment upon the old
sailor's breast, the tears poured down his
bronzed auu honest face upon her shining
hair.
For three long weeks the miserable wife
of tho drunkard, Richard Temple, wailed in
all the agony of suspense the issue of the
court-martial silting on board the "Rain
bow." Evening ufter evening Captain Wil
mot found her pacing her little drawing-room
her eye glazed and tearless, bat with thoso
black circles round them, that marked how
restless had been her state by day and night.
Oh, the agony of suspense ! how the dread
predominates over hope !
The fatal nows came at last. The broken
hearted wife ceased to pace the lloor, the
faithful servant and the weary child sat be
side tho bed side ot the sufferer, and Cap
tain Wilmot awaited the arrival of Richard
Temple.
When tho unhappy man knocked at the
porch door of his cottage home, it was
opened by Margaret, iu deep mourning;
there had been some delay in communica
ting wilh him, and ere he could be prepared
for the shock, he learned from Captain Wil
mot that his wife's constitution had suuk un
der the mind's affliction, and he sat down
beneath the roof she had adorned for his re
ception, a widowed and a ruiucd man.
Seven years passed away. Captain Wil
mot was lying in the church yard near the
child's unfortunate mother. Margaret, com
pelled to leave the service of the misguided
Richard Temple, had married a widow a
fisherman, with one son, aud happy was the 1
wretched little girl when she could escape
from her miserable home to the fireside of
her former nurse.
Perhaps, hail God spared Ihe gentle wife
lo the ruined Richard, he might have re
covered in some measure, his position; but
God was merciful; and had spared the fra
gile creature a burden too heavy for such as
her to bear.
The cottage sho had ornamented was soon
dismantled, the garden became a wilderness
of weeds; a vicious woman had ere long
taken Margaret's place, as house-keeper,
and poor Emma was sent to a day school at
L . The few people who rememberod
her mother, looked with mingled pity and
horror on the child's unwashed face, closely
clipped hair, and torn and soiled clothes, as
she wondetl her way, sometimes alone,
sometimes with a troop of children as rag
ged and ditty as herself, between her dese
crated home and the pretty school house in
a by-street of the great sea-port.
She had one friend in the world besides
Margarot; this was Margaret's step son, a
boy a little older than herself and when she
could not visit her former nurse, for her fath
er, in his drunken fits, would sometimes
keep her at home to spile the abandoned
woman he chose to place at his table—such
as it was—sho would bound down to the
beach and forget her misery for awhile, as
she sailed her little ships in the pools under
the cliffs, or at tiroes dared to venture out
in the red-sailed wherry with Edward's bluff
but good natured father.
The two children were very merry one
day; it was noon in a sultry summer's
mouth, and a troop of giddy creatures were
launching their tiny boats in a shady creek.
Edward had made a feast of apples, and
ship's biscuits, and had caught some fish,
which were broiling on a real fire; and they
were just about to eujoy their banquet when
a scream from Emma, and an upward glance
dretv the attention of iho little crew to the
cliff abov9.
For there stood Mr. Temple, Emma's
father. His ashy cheeks, his livid lips, and
blood-shot orbs, gave Kim the appoarance of
some frightful ogre; and, mute with terror
they gazed on tho apparition which had
" broke up the meeting with most admired
disorder."
He sptang down fronl the busy height in
to the midst of the group.
"Oh papa, papa, forgive ma shrieked
his child, shrinking in an agony of dread
from an uplifted leather strap ; 1 will go to
school directly, indeed 1 will, but lira. Jones
said her bill was not paid, and I——" •
A bio w across the mouth silenced the lips,
from which the blood now poured; the
children flew apart like startled birds; but,
as the angry man raised the leather thong '
again, Edward made a dart at il; Temple
stepped back to bestow, a heartier blow on
his opponent, but as lie was preparing to
make a rush at the boy, Edward's father
turned the angle of tho rock, and stood be
fore them.
" Go home, Mr. Templo, fur God's *ake>
for the sake of the poor lady who is lying
under the green flag in the church yard.—
You a man," continued David, as he saw
the state of the bruised and shivoring Emma;
" you a man and strike that miserable child!
Come home with me to Margaret; Edward
go on before us," said David, who knew bis
son's disposition to well to trust him alone
with Temple. And the poor weeping child
looked back to her father hoping he might
utter one word, but he stood with frowning
brow, and made no sign. David carried her
home, and laid her in the old nurse's arms,
where she fell asleep, fanned by tha soft
breeze that floated into the homely but
peaceful fisher's hut.
Some kind people suggested the magis
trate's interfence in the case, but, then,,who
was to take charge of the unfortunate child?
Even the most charitably disposed shrunk
from undertaking the care of one, whose
father might at any moment cast his shadow
in her path, and fight for his right upon his
victim.
All distinctions of position having been
as we have seer, levelled between Edward
and Emma by the state of vice in which her
father had long lived, they sat down together
on the beach, and held a long consultation,
the result, of which did not transpire for
some weeks after Emma's disappearance
from home, for next day a cry was raised
that Mr. Temple's ill used daughter was mis
sing.
Some weeks after Emma's departure, Ed
ward was questioned on the subject of it by
a magistrate, who had, with great difficulty
collected ovidence to prove that the girl had
beon seen, on a particular night, wending
her way, through a storm of wiud and raiD,
towards the beach.
The boy's statemont, in the abstract was
a 9 follows
That Emma and he hatha long and often
consulted together on the subject of her es
cape Irom the sad thraldom she endured—
that he had given her hiß own clothes—that
he-had a friend named Brent, a steward on
board a large merchant-ship, who had often
asked him how he should like to go to see
with 1 im—that Edward knew his father and
step-mother could ill spare liis assistance in
fishing, and occasionally helping the pilots
at L , and that he had told Brent that
he had a playmate who was friendless and
poor, and who would be thankful for a berth
on board the "Dartmouth"—that he would
bring his playmate to him, and that Brent
must not betray the boy—that Brent, who .
was an honest, cautious man, had at first re
fused to hear of " carrying off" a boy to sea
who was a runaway, but that afterwards he
had consented to see the child, and finally
decided or. taking the little bruised and half
starved wretch under his care.
"And by what name," asked the magis
trate of Edward, when he had told this
strange tale, in all its details, "by what
name was the girl entered on the books of
the 'Dartmouth*'"
"We had forgotten about a name," replied
the boy ingeniously, till Brent aiked her
what sho was called; so then I put my arm
round her neck, and kissed her, and gave
her a little pinch, and said, 'Good bye,
Johnny Marvel,' and Johnny Marvel I sup l
poso she is now aboard the 'Dartmouth.' "
###***
" Mother," 6aid Edward to his father's
wife, whom he loved most sincerely, and
who was sitting crying over hor untasted cup
of lea, in a state of nervous excitement, at ,
the result of the lad's summons before the I
magistrate, "mother, don't cry; sho is hap
pier now than she was up yonder on the hill
side."
"Ah !" sighed Margaret, "I shall never
see her again 1 know and she ffoll into a
reverie sad end tearlul.
She was right, she never did meet Emma
Temple again ; but Edward did, and that
under circumstances so peculiet as to de
mand a revelation as strarge as it is true.
The limitv of my pen will not permit me
to dwell on the career of this extraordinary
sailor girl.
Neither must I follow our little "cabin
boy" through two or three voyages which
"he" made in the " Dartmouth," always
retaining the patronage and protection of the
kind-hearted Brent when called up as "he"
grew older, to work "before the mast."
For "Johnny Marvel" soon became the
pel of the crew. Active, merry, and in
trepid, the captain was won't to point om to
passengers as "the cleverest little chap itr
the ship."
It was well that our heroine's chief de
light had been in sailing with Margaret's
husband and step son in the wherry when
ever she had opportunity. Many a stiff
i breeze had the child onosuntered, many a
lecture had Margaret bestowed or the rough
kind-hearted fisherman, little thinking what
i would be the result of such tutelage.
*•*. # • • •
Thoro was a heavy swell one day in the ;
groat Atlantic just where the trade winds
cease. " Little Jok ,; was up in the tope,
and went upon the foP yards where he sat
swinging in mid air to his own delight and
the great terror ot Brent. The sailors look-.
Ed up and shook their heads, but laughed at
the boy's bold bearing and reckless song.—
" Jack" was now nearly tifteon, and though
not robust was no longer the wretohed crea
turo he had been when Brent introduced
him with some misgivings to the captain.
As the ship rolled in the trough of the sea
the young sailor dipped with the yard al
most into tho lead-colored water, rose again
with a shout, and played at this wild game
till the captain, in angry tone, ordered him
'"down." The euddec command atarlled
him, and hurrying along the yard, his foot
caught in a rope, while at some distance
from the ground, and thus, losing balance,
he fell headlong on the deck.
Troth and Right—God and oor Country.
He was taken up inseneible and carried
down the neatest hatcbWy to a messmate's
hammock by his friend Brent; and a sur
geon, happening, with his wife, to be a pas
senger on board the ship then, bound for the
Cape of Good Hope, he was summoned.
That night a "whisper fell" among the
crew of the " Dartmouth" that the merry*
hearted sea boy was like to die; then a lady
the surgeon's wife, moved along the silent
deck, and passing the boundary of the pas
sengers promenade, was guided down the
hatchway to the lower deck, and there
stretched on a hammock, a sickly lantern
shedding its rays on her dark crisped locks,
matted with blood from a wound in the head,
was stretched poor Emma Temple, with
Brent crying beside ber.
The blue shirt collar was open, and a red
stream was trickling across the slender throat
of the girl bronzed by many a breeze, and
strongly contrasted with th| fairer propor
tions of the swelling bust; the sleeve had i
been ripped, and the rounded arm, with its
bloody bandage, looked strangely white
above the tanued and almost muscular palm.
She was removed as soon as possible to
the ladies' cabin, and gently landed ; rest
and care turned the scale in her favor, and
then the Bailors were told the wonderous
tale, that their favorite, "Johnny Marvel,"
was a girl!
After such a career, young as she was,
truth to tell, little fitted to play the part of a
lady ; all that tha kind and judicious wife of
the surgeon could do for Emma she did.—
She took her into her own establishment as
an attendaut, but a summons to England
deranging the plans she hsi farmed far her
protegee, under her own surveillance, our
heroine found a new home iu the houso of a
married offioer of rank commanding a gar
rison of importance on the froutier of South
Africa.
Her journey to this garrison was underta
ken in one ol the cumbrous conveyances of
the colony, but ere this reachsd its destina
tion it met with a common casuality, it
broke down ; and as there was a probability
of delay, our heroine resolved, with her
usual indepenJsnce of spirit, to proceed on
foot; being guided to the top of a hill, she
looked down on the town, whither she wa 8
destined, descended the rough slope, oiossod
the bridge which spanned a turbid and
swollen river, aud inquiring her way to the
residence of tha commandant, proceeded to
the gateway of the building pointed out to
hois .
A sentry paced up and down in front of
the entrance ; she was about to ask which
would be her best mode of obtaining admit
tance, when the tall stripling interrupted her
with, "Bass on young woman, it is agaiust
orders to speak on my post."
The voice was Edward's.
Yes, tbere stood her early companion, her
friend, in the uniform of the 91st Regiment,
and is not to be wondered at, that a recog
nition took place in spite of rules and regu
lations. At longth Emma, at Edward's ear
nest entreaties, and after a mutual promise
to meet again, passed through the gateway,
and presenting herself to her new mistress,
entered upon her employments, without,
however, alluding in any way to the singular
circumstances attending her arrival.
Edward's in r ormation was the first she
had received touching tho scene of her early
career, for it so happened that ske had never j
revisited them from the time he had put her j
under Brent's care en the deck of the "Dart- j
mouth four years before. He had put a sor- j
rowful tale of himself to tell. His father had
been drowned out fishing, and it was not
long ere Margaret followed; he had been
iuduced, in what heat first thought an evil
hour to enlist, and said he to Emma, "what
I am going to tell will not cause you much
sorrow for your own sake. Your father did
not live long after you left; he put himself
I info a dreadful fury when he found out
i what I had to do in getting you out of his
clutches, and before my father and mother
died 1 had begun to thirtk 1 had best get out |
of his way, which you see I did at last, and
I am glad of it now, for here we are together
and I am sure this is the happiest day of my
life."
These two young adventurers upon the
uncertain sea of life, had been enjoying the
rest and peaceful recreation which the Sab
| bath always brought them in a colony where
| the observance of the sacred duty, is deci
dedly more attended to than in England, and
had extended their walk acrosti the bridge
entrance of the towu.
I have said before that all distinctions be
tween these two young creatures had ceased
in their childhood, and Emma Temple, the
household servant, now looked on Edward
as a superior being to herself. He was but a
soldier, but he had been commended for
steady conduct and good principle, and trnly
a moral might be read in the history of the
fisherman's-son with his good name, and the
g £3tleroan's daughter with the curse of the
drunkard upon * her in her dependent, and
but for Edward, friendless condition.
• ••••.•*
And ere they parted they pledged their
troth. He was to try and obtain rank and
pay commensurate with the responsibilities
of a man who marries the woman he loves;
she was to relate her story to the kind lady
whom she served, and who, although aware
of a singular episode of Emma's life at sea,
had not the slightest idea of a 'lover in the
case.
In the course of a fow months the young
man, who had long acquired the confidence
of his superior officers, was promoted to
the rank of sergeant; Emma had put by her
earnings, and with her mistress's assistance
had made up a tolerable sum wherewithal
to open another chapter of her eventful life.
• ######
The wedding-day was fixed, and a good
natured settler, who had become interested
in the romantic story of the lovers, came
forward with that considerate and liberal
hospitality which forms so agreeable a fea
ture in the character of the South Africa col
onist. He throw open his house for a festal
gathering, and summoned many friends to
share the pleasures of the bridal, and to
welcome the bride and bridegroom on the
threshold of their new life.
It was a glorious day outwardly, but the
fleecy clouds were coming up from the hori
zon, and shaping themselves into dense and
swollen masses, which giew darker by de
grees, and emitted, at sharp intervals fiery
tongues of lightning; but those evidences of
storm were far off, and in aa opposite direc
tion from tho road which, on crossing a
' stream, led to the town whence the bride
groom was hourly expected.
The ground round the homestead pre
sented the appearance of a gypsy camp,
with its wagons drawn up in shady pathways
and the smoke of fires, for it was of course
impossible to give house room by night to
such a throng of guests, a bivouac was es
tablished on the good farmer's ground, and
the travelers' cattle were dispersed about the
bushes that festooned the hills in the back
ground of the snug settlement.
A bridal assemblage is always a cheerful
sight in a country where thero is much la
bor, certain difficulties aud dangers to eur
mount, aud but little pastime. The present
Occasion bad brought many together who
cume partly from pleasure, partly from curi
osity, but all with hearty good will towards
the pair whose history had been tbo
theme of conversation in many a homestead,
in camp and in quarter.
Women in gay dresses, and fuii-haired
English looking children were assembled in
the settler's garden, and turning their back
upon the angry douds, looked anxiously
beyond the Koouap river up the hill. Eve
ning advanced, the thunder began to mutter
above the clouds, aud descending rolled
along the mountain ridges, and kept up an
uneasy murmur in the ravines. A ainglo
traveler on horseback wended his unnoticed
way down a bridle-road at the back of the
settler's dwelling, within which the clergy*
man, for he it was, found a table bravely
spread, but no guests. They were still in
tently gazing into the distance beyond the
river, as some twenty minutes Detore, the
figure of another traveler on horseback had
appeured between a far hill top and the now
lurid sky.
The clergyman hung his horse's bridle on
an iron hook at the gate of the farm yard, in
the tear of tho house, and took his way to
tho drift or ford where the guests had assem
bled to bid tho bridegroom tarry on his way.
There was a hoarse murmur of waters ri
sing in the distance, where the cliffs over
hung the swelling stream, and the bride
turned an anxious and searching look upon
the fanner, as after listening to the roar of
the mighty river, he exclaimed, | "Now, God
help him ! for so sure as he tries to cross
the drift this night, he ronst perish."
"But he hears our wanting," cried Emma,
as she waved her Hands to her lorei. "Seei
he laughs, and lifts liis forage cap, and stops
his horse. And he is alone ; ah ! I know
how it is<; he has been wailing for his com
rade ;* if he had not done so, he would
have been liore in the morning. Ob, Ed
ward, Edward !" exclaimed the unhappy
girl in an agony, the depths of which could
not be understood by her auditors, "Oh, Ed
ward, how could you put faith in Lira and
he a drunkard 1"
And her lover, now at the edge of the
drift, saw her distorted features, her clasped
hands, and resolved on trying to comfort her
in distress. Her surmise was too true, he
had put faith in a drunkard, and finding (hat
if he waited any longer, there would not be
sufficient light for him to make the journey
before the time appointed for tho marriage,t
he had started alone on a horse borrowed
from a friend whose household cares did not
permit his joining tho bridal party; anJ, ob
serving tho storm gathering along ihe hills,
had made such haste as the roads, strewed
with loose stones, and a horse taken off grass,
permitted.
The river lay between him and happiness.
—He oouldnot distinguish a word uttered by
the group on the opposite side, for the wa
ters roared and tumbled over the stones, and
the alder boughs swayed to and fro, as the
wind came whistling up the stream. Would
that the shriek which burst from the lips of
his betrothed, could have reached his ears
as his tired horso put its foot into the turbid
river, drew it back, snorted, and resisting
the blow of the sambokt bestowed on its
smoking flanks by the impatient rider, less
wary of his danger than the sagacious beast
turned its face toward the stony hill, and
would have retraced its path, but for Ed
ward's determination that it should ford tlie
drift.
After resisting the whip for several min
utes, the horse, as though bent onl revenging
itself on its master, plunged into the river,
rose gallantly at the stoneß over which the
restless clement tnmblod with the violence
* Every soldier has a "comrade," each
being bound to assist each other in tak.ng
chargp of his effects when absent en duty
from the barracks, helping him in accoutring
for parade, &c.
t In South Africa, where the clergyman
has sometimos a ride of seventy miles, the
wedding often takes place at night.
X Whig of eea cow's hido.
of a cascade, scattered the spray right and
left, and had just reached the last ledge of
the rocks, when its hoofs slipped under it,
and it was borne with its rider down the foa.
ming current.
For a few moments only '.He spectators on
the bank had a view of the young soldiers
face as he shook himself from his struggling
horse, spread out his arms in a vain attempt
to swim, sunk in the bubbling eddies, rose
again, and tossing helplessly in the surge,
was cast within a few feet of the bank. His
cap had fallen from his head, his brow was
knit with despair—ono more dosparate
plunge, but a flood of water that loosened
the largest fock, and carried it onward, lifted
tho youth from the footing he had for an in
stant gained, whirled him over and o'ver,
and rapidly swept him down. They heard
his cry; they rushed along tho brink of the
dangerous stream, swinging from bough to
bough when their feci failed them on the
clayey soil; they followed, though they
knew they could not help. Still that despai
ring cry, mingling with the toar of the river,
and the whistling boughs of alders and long
tressed willows, and tho crashing ol falling
rocks. Still that cry—fainter—fainter—it
dies away ; an unearthly scream/—the ago
nized farewell of ttio drowning horse, rises
with shrill powerabove the tumult, the light
ning scathes a noble treo, and the terrified
and sorrowful people como back to tell that
the hapless Edward bad passed into the illi
mitable ocean of eternity !
######•
As the interest of this extraordinary tale
rests chiefly on the events conuootcd with
the career of the young soldier and the sail-1
or girl, I have deemed it advisable to drop
the curtain on the scene of Edward's mel
ancholy death. But there is a sequel to Em
ma's history, which is as follows :
After the shock experienced at so fatal an
occurrence, she again obtained employment
in a respectable household, and, sometime
afterwards united herself to a sergeant of
dragoons, who, in a few weeks, was c'rde-ed
into the field against the Kafirs, and relum
ing badly wounded, subsequently obtained
his discharge, and a comfortable appoint
ment under government.
A FLIRTATION.—The Manchester Demo
crat relates the following incident, in which
one of our countrymen figured :
A young American gentleman (a Mr P
who is visiting Paris with tho "old folks")
went to a masked ball to see the elephant,
and to have some fun. His great desire was
to meet an angel of the fair sex. He first
looked alt round, waiting to make a decision
the moment he should find u fino waist and
small feet.
These beauties ho discovered in a domino
of small figure, who took MB arm and began
to intrigue with him. The lady told him his
name, the city of the United Slates from
which he was, and after all these prelimina
ries, she related to him many flirting excur
sions which he had made last year at Sara
toga and Newport. All these things whisp
ered in good English, were very puzzling to
Mr. P : and, in order to ft ml out who
was his fair companion, he invited her to
supper in a private cabinet. The lady first
refused ; but after some time she consented,
and the counle started in a carriage for the
woll known restaurut ol Vachette, where
all the Americans take their meals. A cab
inet was opened, the pelitsoupcr was ordered ;
and when they came to eat it, tho lady was
obliged to take off her mask. Mr. P. (lis
covered in her—whom ? Guess it.
give it up? She was his mother. Tt a ro
mance was ovor, ar.d ho took tho joke tho
best way he could. Mrs P. is one of the
prettiest women in Paris; and ro one when
looking at her—considering the freshness of
her complexion and the beauty of her
charms—would suppose that she had a son
twenty three yoars of age.
DANDY ALL OVER —'Good gracious!' drawl
cd out a Brummolite of the first water, who
was breakfasting with some friends one
morning—"good gracious 1 I'm dreadfully
distressed, unspeakably fatigued, already,
absolutely exhausted. are
horrid things. Why cati't do without
mornings! Will you, my dear madam,"
continued he addressing a young lady who
sat next to him, "will you be so obliging as
to try and open that muffin for me, for, posi
tively, I havn't strength ; and in the mean
time I'll make an effort to flirt with this bit
of toast."
DIDN'T MEAN THAT EVENING —A cracked
brained man, who was slighted by tho to
males, very modestly asked a young lady,
'if she would let him spend the evening
with her.'
'Noshe angrily replied, 'that's what 1
won't-'
'Why,'replied he, 'you needn't be so fus
sy ; I didn't mean this evening, but some
stormy one when I can't go any where elee.'
If you would pass for a culprit, all that's
necessary is to look like one. Ia the opin
ion of most jurors, the man that hangs his
head deserves hanging. "Carry up," there
fore. Justico is an easily humbugged as
girls.
tW A gentleman down east seeing his
pretty maid with his wife's bonnet on, kissed
her, supposing her to be the real owner.
He soon discovered his error through the
assistance of his wile.
" Iraniston," Barnum's residence in Fair-
Field, Ct., has been sold for a water cure cs
mcnt
[Tiro Dollars per Annans
NUMBER 18.
From the Albany Dutchman.
Crumbs for All Kinds of Chickens.
A POOR DEVlL.— 'fhe man who marries at)
heiress. As long as a woman is dependant
on her husband for support, he is surely ot
hor wheedling, if not of her good sense.
Lot her be able to pay her own way," how
ever, and he is reduced to a non-entity—a
sort of tenant by sufferance, whose presence
In the house is needed rather to account for
the frequency of children, than to minister
to its comforts, or take part in its responsi
bilities. There is but one creature more de
serving of pity than such a husband, and
(hat's a good nalured dog with four lengths
of stove pipe lied to iis tail.
A late writer, in speukiug of Bostotiians,
says, they divide their time between meia.
physics and "lancy poullry;" ar.d while they
look upon Einorson as far ahead of inspira
tion, they look upon a thirty pound roolet as
tar ahead of him.
Which is the most difficult to find, acock
eyed canary bjrd, or a wicked man that
laughs heartily ? Vice is not only as sharp
as a steel trap, but ulmost as snappish. A
rogue may raise a smile, but a good hearty
laugh is as much beyond his roach as hap
piness.
Before you pronouueeou a man's virtue
you should ascertain what salary he gels.
Our divines are rather exemplary in their
conduct—but when you come to recollect
that their virtue is lrequently rewarded at
the rate of threo thousand a year, you will
perceive that what is now termed morality,
is only another name for selfishness and dis
cretion. To teR whether u man is really
honest, let him carry a hod for 5 shilling a
day, wilh tho thermometer at 90 in tho
shade.
The passion for bare shoulders arid short
frocks has so increased with our belles thai
Dobbs says it's almost impossible to tell
when a young lady starts for a bull, whether
she is dressed or undressed.
Whether a man's pot-Ret book is full or
empty, it should be closely buttoned under
his overcoat and jacket. While a purse la
boring under a plethora will subject you to
the kind attentions of bores and borrowers,
one that has had the diarrhcca will secure
you too many attentions from your landlord
and washerwoman. The best way to com
mand respect, is to throw about your resour.
.n. as much mysterious uiiceriaiutx as pos
sible.
A genius up town has just invented a ma
chine for hatching out ideas. On a rest filled
with u rh) tiling dtolionsry, two Fpelling
books, and a copy of Tom Moork, ho sits an
admirer of Willis. At the expiration of
three weeks a progeny of half fledged
thoughts are produced, which will pass, for
poetry with uiue girls out of ten.
Since belles are so anxious to wear some
thing not worn by their rivals, isn't it singu
lar that none of them have ever thought of
putting on a little modesty 1 Wo pause, &c.
"EXTRAVAGANC*" —Such tastes in other
people as we should like to indulge in out
selves, if we only had the means. Otto half
of our condemnation is only another name
for an empty pocket book.
The less a man thinks tho faster ho writes.
Byron would sometimes labor a whole day
over a single line. The poet to Day & Mar
tin's blacknittg will write you an eu.ire ode
in fifteen minutes. People are like trees—
the more loaves they produce tho less fruit.
Tho happiost day in a man's lifo, is tho
day ho first thinks of poolty and milk maids.
There is a pink tingn about that period of
existence, in comparison with which every
other portion of our pilgrimage seems dark,
prosy, and miscellaneous.
To brighten conversation, dip it iu cham
paigns.
Whether men are ugly when they aro
drunk, depends a good deal on what they
imbibe. While lowpri cod brandy u>invari
ably given to bloody noses and thoat-cutting
beer takes to history, and bores you wifh'
' the last vvat" and Coriolanus.
Comfort and Christianity are tnoro noarly'
connected than most people imagine. Elder
Swan says in all bis experience, he never
know a man to lie converted while ho hod
tight boots on. Divines will plcoso notice.
Timon, in speaking of gossips, says they
havo got a happy faculty of marrying every
body but themselves.
Dandies divide time, not into weeks and
months, but iato shirts and dickies. A cloan
linen day is une sacred to promenados and
pomatum—a dirty linen day, on the contrary
is devoted to Moore's Melodies and an attic
bod room.
Men are like boats, the lighter their draff
the easier they skim about among shallows.
The same philosopher that will sail through
a senate with flying colors, will no sooner
drift into a drawing room, then he will find
himself hard aground on some barren or oth
er that a coxcomb will float over with all the
grace of a swallow.
FOLLV— To think that you can make perk
out of pig iron, or that you can become a
shoemaker by just drinking sherry "cob
biers."
TIIF. GLASS or FASHION— A glass of chani
paigne.