D. A. BURELSR, DDITOR AND PROPRIETOR.
VOL.
We and the . Mowing beautifial tribute to the
warner, of Dr. Otrautine, in the National Int&
firmer. Ahhousli unaccompanied with the wri
ter's sass, no one anqtukinted with hie glowing
and stneethi 'ie. can WI to recognise in it the
pen of the Nee. Taoism B. Baum, one of the fi
nest mikes in the *matey I
CHALMERS
Funs Britain'a coma lut arrival brought
The Matting rows that likotia's moral king,
Whose Ups and pen so long have wisdom taught,
Had purl away to where the Angels Ling
A nun beloved rte* OA* hawthorn land,
htim where it liAs fts northern mountain towers
To where its Yiurow Mike twin minors stand,
And doubling all their hestherberweide ow'ss
Profaned, sinome, replete with simple aims
And large deigns ; the generous friend et Men,
On whom his race drew unprotested claims
. For reeranis rich fia Emery useful plan.
With giant Inn he grarOd the wand Cloth
M 41110141 it lons, to his credentials true,
Where peasants flailed o'ex hills and data dams,
And from kiiitabbatk tones instruction dm,.
In Fifeahirs sales be drefd his Eltepiard's crook,
And then where spire. adorn the noble Clyde ;
Then Where 'bop crags Edina'n homes tierlook,
And isernho, Taste, and Genius all reside.
Hosseiee was heard mid Kirks and letteetFlialls,
nfescial Truth in accents loud and bold
Prom Highland eaves to London'i ranging wills,
He strewed his way with grains of moral gold,
But off& life this was the greeted deed— .
Those cords which chained the Kirk at Wind
sor's put,
He rent intwain—and from the boundary Tweed
To. Orkney isles he severed Church and State.
N ow, in that Kirk's selected evergreens,
one - event hL honored name embalms,
With Isaias' men who pase'd thin' purple scenes,
To muter robes and victory's splendid palms.
For be mms up the Premier's sparkling ore,
His home, and robe, and Academie 011106.
And, Hirt his Biros who lived in days of yore,
, 4 % For oteliKienCe eoent'd the plumes ofpowsr and
pleas.
Before that time Baronial Halls were proud
Te own this guest, and lofty feudal domed
Kept *pea pls.. But when he nobly row'd
To free the Kirk, be tum'd to Cottage homes—
Where peasants came, and in their tartan frocks
Their homage paid,from Dee and Avon
F rem Null!' and Spey and wild exterior lochs,
All elantherituf dawn from every mountain cliE
My dirge is e'er. This theme we freely yield
' Tend/samella rich in mare elegiac lays,
Who pensive harps and louder cyntbshi
By Anglia's lakes or Scotia's mossy-braes.
A nd, as New Zealand birds, whose powerful songs
Are said like sweet and pensive bells to sound,
8o may Britannia's bards, in concert throngs,
A requiem sing at his sepulchral mound
But yet a bard in mountain blue who spends
His /Ming days, may pluck one cypress bmC
And send it on to where Edina bends
O'er that dark pall which wraps ha moral chief.
Rierepol Cotter, ( Va.) Arne 28.
HEROISM—WHAT IS IT I
4 .00 e invnfler makes a villain,
Mises a here—DOA" Portius.
The day was, and perhaps now is to
some extent, when ,to be a hero was to be
a villain, a cut throat; when to gain this
title it was necessary to tread the rough .
and thorny road of carnage and desolation,
amid the revelry of Flittering spears, and
the roar ofthundering can non. But, thanks
to the influence of Christian truth, and en
lightened reason, a new era is dawning up,; .
on the world, the age of moral chivalry
—when heroism shall be manifested, not
on bloody fields of human butchery, and
amid dm smoking ruins of burnt cities, but
en the bread field of moral conflict, where
ninny deeds of pitmend rivalry shall decide
the claims oftbeaspiranut for fame. The
tnaa who sacrifices the 'mast for his race
in propigating truth, who shall breast with
the greatest moral courage the assaults of
tyrant riot* shall best deserve the name
of hero.
Who does net say speed the hour 1' And
who does sot give a hearty response for
tlitewassitwation of that period,
Whoa men shall call
brother—each shall WI to each
Foci um his
His We of hv►-sad puss god holy !perch
nook tor the owl's high itotivol.
Erracri or Nue° Ezaircsrartots.—
The slaves constituted formerly the wealth
of she planters; now, as free and Romans
rated laboters, they ate the soul of our is
land commerce, and as each, are the wealth
of the merchants. Let us look back at the
commercial revolution which has taken
Otte in Tinsidad since the dawn of freed
om. The' signs of comperative wealth
among the laboring people every where
appear. The great change in their condi
tion has , greatly stimulated nude of every
idesesiption. Mechanics of every class
haws socreased a hundred fold among the
tower eider of society; these are rapidly
tieing to respectability and wealth, and
Mom ono very distant day to act an im-
Irwruallati - ist the internal trade and al-
Taira of the colon.. In consequenee of the
possession of ntemey by the people, our is
land imports has s iacressed to a most sur
prising teak, in the course of a few years.
--73unidad S)userolor.
Nothing can be more unfounded than
the setion that stove of reading, or of sci
ence.," of any kind of knowledge, unfits
at man for his daily occupation, or makes
him discontented with it..
SIMILES.—Men we like bugles; the
more brass they contain, the farther you
can hear them. Lades - "are like violets ;
the more modest and retirirg they appear,
the better you love them.
Tint Tomour.—There is a world of
meaning in the following from an old scrap
book :
U OM wisitest to be vise,
Keep there words before thine eyes :
What thou speaker, and how, beware,
Of whom, to whom, when and where.
The Parent who would train the child
in the way he should go, should go in the
way he would train the child.
MAN IS a name of honor fora king
AVM the Saturday Courier.
BY 01101101 LIPP•ID.
It was at the battle of Brandywine that
Count-Pulaski a p peared in all his glory.
As he rode charging there into Ole thick
est of the battle, be was a warrior to look
upon but once, and never forpt.
Mounted on a large Mack horse, whose
strength and beauty of shape made you for
get.the plainness of his capparison, Pules
ki himself. with a form aix feet •in height,
massive chest and limbs of iron, was atti
red in a white uniform, that was seen from
afar, rttlieved by the black clouds of battle.
-His face, grim with the scars of Poland.
was the face of a man who had seen much
trouble, endured much wrong. It was
■tamped with an expression of abiding
melancholy, bronzed in hue, lighted by
large dark eyes, with the lip darkened by
a thick mustache, his throat and chin wore
covered with a heavy beard, while his hair
fell in raven masses, from beneath his
trooper's cap, shielded with a ridge of glit
tering steel. His hair and beard were of
the same hue.
The sword that hung by his side, fash
ioned of tempered steel, with a hiltof iron,
was one that a warrior alone could lift.
It was in this array he rode to battle, fol
lowed by. a band of three hundred men,
whose faces, burnt with the scorching* of a
tropical sun, hardened by northern snows,
bore the scars of many a battle. They
were mostly European ; some Germans,
some Polanders, some deserters from the
British army. These were the men to
fight. To be taken by the British would
be death, and death on the gibbet; there
fore they fought their best and fought to
the last gasp, rather than mutter a word a
bout "quarter."
When they charged it was one man,
their three hundred swords flushed over
their heads, against the clouds of battle.—
They came down upon the enemy in ter
rible silence without a word spoken t not
even a whisper. You could hear the tramp
of steeds, you could hear the rattling of
eir scabbards, but that Was all.
Yet when they closed with the British,
you could hear a noise, like the echo of a
hundred haminers, beating the hot iron on
the anvil. You could see Pulaski him
self, riding yonder in his white uniform,
his black steed rearing aloft, as turning his
head over his shoulder he spoke to his
men : " Ibrwarts, ifrtukrn, forwarts !"
It was but broken German, yet they un
derstood it, those three hundred men of
sunburnt face, woundssand gashes. With
one burst they crashed upon the enemy.—
; For a few momenta they used their swords,
' and then the ground was covered with the
dead, while a living enemy scattered in
.panic before their path.
It was on this 'battle-day of Brandywine
that the Count was in his glory. He un
derstood but little English, so he ',Take
what he had to say with the edge of his
sword. It was a severe Lexicon, but the
British Bohn learned to read it, and to know
it and fear it. All over the field, from
yonder Quaker meeting-house away to the
top of Osborne's Hill, the soldiers of the
enemy saw Pulaski come, and learned to
know his nameby heart. '-
That white uniform. that bronzed visage,
that black horse' with burning eye and
quiyenng nostrils; they knew the warrior
well; they trembled when they heard him
say, "Forwats, brndern, forwards 1"
It was in the retreat of Brandywine, that
• the men of Sullivan, baillr armed, poorly
led and shabbily clad, gave way. step by
step, before the overwhelming discipline .
of the British host, that Pulaski looked
like , a battle-fiend, mounted on his•demon
steed.
His cap had fallen from his brow. His
bared head shown in an occasional sunbeam,
or grew crimson with a flash from the can
non or rifle. Hi. white uniform was rent
and stained ; in fact from head to foot, ne
was covered with duet and blood.
Still his right arm was free—still it rose
there, executing a British hireling, when it
fell—still his voice was heard hoarse and
husky, but strong in its every tone—"For
warts, Brodern, forwarts !"
He beheld the division of Sullivan re•
treating from the field, he saw the British
yonder stripping their backs in the mad
ness of pursuit. He looked to the south
for Washington, who, with the reserve,
under Green, was hurrying to the rescue,
but the American Chief was not in view.
Then Pulaski was covulsed with rage.
He rode madly upon the bayonets of the
pursuing British, his sword gathering vic
tim after victim; even• there, in front of
their whole army, he flung his steed a
cross the path of the retreating Americans,
he besought 'them in broken English, to
turn; to make one more, effort; he ebopt
ed in hoarse tones that the Any was not
yet lost !
They did not understand his words, but
the tones in which he spoke thrilled their
blood.
That picture, too, standing out from the
clouds of battle—a warrior convulsed with
passion, covered with blood, leaning over
the neck of his steed, while his eye seem
ed turned to fire. and the muscles of his
bronzed face writhed like serpents—ghat
picture, I say, filled many a heart with new
courage, nerved many a wounded arm for
the fight again.
Those retreating men turned, they faced
the enemy again—like grey-hounds at bay
before the wolf—they sprang upon the
necks of the foe, and bore them down by
one desperate charge.
It was at this moment that Washington
came rushing on once more to tha battle.
Those people knew but little of the A
merican General who called him the Amer
ican Fabious, that is a general compound
of prudence and caution, with but a
spark of enterprise. American Fabius !
When you will show me that the Roman
Fabius had a heart of fire, nerves of steel,
a soul that hungereth for the charge, an en
terprise that rushed from wild% like the
Skippack upon an army like the British
at Germantown, or started from ice or
snow, like that which lay across the Dela
ware, upon hordes like those of the Hes
sians at'l'renton—then I will lore'. Wash
GETTIISBIJEG, PA. PRIDAY EVENING, JULY 9, 1847.
ington down into Fabius,. This compar
ison of our heroes with the barbarian aeon
gods of Rome only illustrate the poverty
of the mind that makes it.
Compare Brutus, the • assassin of his .
friend, with Washington. the Savior of the
people ! Cicero, the opponent Or Cat:dine,
with Henry, the champion of a continent!
What beggary of thought ! Let us,learn
to by a• little independent, to know our
great men, as they were, not by compari
son with the barbarian heroes of old Rome.
Let us learn that Washington was no
negative thing, but all chivalry and genius.
It was in the battle of Brandywine that
this truth was made plain. He beheld his
men hewn'down by the British, he beard
them' ahyiek his litine,smd regaidleis of
his perional safety, he rushed to join them.
:Yea, it was in the dread of the
retreat that Washington, rushing forward
itithltexery centre of the me2ee, entan
gled in the enemy's troops on the top ore
hill, south-west of the Meeting house,
while Pulaski was sweeping on. with his
grim smile, to have one more bout with
die eager red coats.
Washington was in terrible danger—h'
troopers were rushing to the south—the
British troops came sweeping up the hill
and around him, while Pulaski, on a hill
some hundred y ards distant, was scattering
a parting blessing among the horde of Han
over.
It was a glorious prize, ' this Mutter
Washington, in the heart of the British
army.
Suddenly the Pounder turned—his eye
caught the sight of the iron grey and his
rider. He turned to his troopers ; his
whiskered lip wreathed with a grim smile
—he waved his sword—he pointed to the
iron grey and its rider.
There was but one moment:
With one impulse that iron band wheel
ed their war horses, and then a dark body,
solid and compact, was speeding over the
valley like a thunderbolt, sped from the
heavens; three hundred swords rose glit
tering in the faint glimpse of sunlight--and
in front of the avalanche, with his form
raised to his full height, a dark frown on his
brow, a fierce smile on his lip, rode Pulas
ki. Like a spirit roused Mt° life by the
thunderbolt
.he rode 7 .his eyes-were fixed
upon the iron'grey and its rider—his band
had but one look, one will, one shout, for
Washington !
The British troops"had encircled the A-
Meriean leader—already they felt secure of
their prey—already the head of that trai
tor, Washington, seemed to yawn above
the gates of London.
But that trembling of the earth in the
valley yonder—what means it!
That terrible beat of hoof—what does it
portend ?
That ominous silence—and now that
shout—not of words or of names, but that
half veil, half hurrah, which shrieks from
die Iron Man as they scent their prey 1—
What means it all 1
Pulaski is on our track 1 The terror of
the British army is in our wake !
And on he came—he and his gallant
band. A moment, and. he had swept over
the Britishers—crushed, mangled, dead,
and dying, they strewd the green sod—he
had passed over the hill—ho had passed
the form of Washington.
Another moment I And the iron band
hid wheeled—back in the same career of
death they came i Routed, defeated, and
crushed—the red coats flee the hill; while
the iron band ;weep round _ the form of
George Washington—they encircle him
with their forms of oak, their swords of
steel—the shout of his name shrieks thro'
the air and away to the American host they
bear him in a soldier's battle joy.
It was at Savannah that night came down
upon Pulaski. Yes, I see him now, under
the gloom of night, riding forward towards
yonder ramparts, his black 'stead rearing
aloft, while two hundred of his own men
follow at his back.
Right on, neither looking to right nor
left, he rides. his eye fixed upon the can
non of the British his sword gleaming over
his head.
"Forwarts, Brudern, forwarts !"
Then that black horse; plunging for
ward, his fore feet rotting on the cannon of
the enemy, while his warrior rider arose
in all the pride of bis form, his face bathed
in a flush of red light. -
That flash once gone, they saw Pulaski
no more. But they found him yes be
neath the enemy's cannon, crushed by the
same gun, that killed his steedyeo, they
found them, the horse and rider, resting to.
gether in death, that noble face glaring in
the midnight sky with gluey eye: •
Bo in hos glory he died. He died while
America and Poland were yet in chains.—
He died,, in the stout hope that both would
one day be free. With America,.thte hope
has been fulfilled, but'Poland—r-- • ,
Tell me, shall not the day Came, when
yonder monument, erected by'those warm
Southern hearts near Savannah, will yield
up its dead?
Etor Poland will be free at iast as sure as
god is just, assure as he governs the Uni
verse. Then, when recreated Poland rears
her eagle aloft again, among the banners of
nations, will her children come to Savannah,
to gather up the ashes of their hero, and
bear him home, with the chaunt of priests,
with the thunder of cannon, with the tears
of millions, even as repentant France bore
home her own Napoleon.
Yes, the day is coming when Kosciusko
and Pulaski will sleep side by side beneath
the soil of Re-created Poland.
FATE OF A GAMBLER. -A tavern keep
er in Harrisburg died lately under peculiar
circumstances. He was in the habit of
card playing, for which his house was re
sorted to by a number of persons, and
while engaged in the game, holding the
cards in his hand, and in the act of laugh
ing, he fell back and instantly expired. He
had said some time previously, on being
talked with in regard to his habits, that he
intended to play cards "as long as he liv
ed." He carried out his design.
DAGUERREOTVPIL-A woman's heart is
the only true plate for a man's likeness.—
An instant gives the impression, and an age
of sorrow cannot efface it.
.FEAR6BB AND FREE."
A HUSBAND'S REVENGE.
DT Wi. T. Rovouts„ JIR
Seventeen handfed and seventy-nine;--
'Twas a cheerlesa evening in October: the
sun had already set; a young moon was
struggling with the dark clouds that at in
tervals obscured her bright 'disc, u they
were borne along by the resistless fury of
the angry wind which howled dismally
among the naked branches of the leafless
forest trees. Now it came in fitful gusts,
scattering the fallen' levee, and whining
piteously at its leek cif power. Now it in
creased in strength, snapping the decayed
breathes, and bending the tough boughs
of the stu rdyl oaks.
Anon it 'welled into an overwhelming'
blast, twisting the gnarled trunks, and,
with a deafening creel uprootiag and over
the mighty lords of the
then sinking into a sullen moan, it howled
a mournful requiem over its spent and de
parted strength.
Dark indeed. and dismal was the night,
and furious the warring of the' elements,
bid taker and more diental were the re
flexions, and more fierce the-Nvonilict that
raged within the breast of the injured pa
triot, who forms the subject of our narra
tive.
MN Charles Forman was a young far.
men residing within a few miles of Hack
ensack. At the dm outbreaking of our
Revolutionary troubles, he had shouldered
his musket, and tearing himself from his
young and lovely wife, had fought, aye,
and bled in Freedom's cause.
He wait with the 'army at Morristown,
when, having received intelligence of the
t
illness of his wife, he ed, and obtained
leave to visit his home. i
He had travelled onfoot and alone for
two days—had crossed the rugged "Blue
Ridge,' and on the evening of the second
day had reached his humbde dwelling.—
As he neared the house, the evidences of
a Tory visit were—even( at nightplainly
discernible. . .
Wiih a beating heartlie crossed the lit
tle cour yard, and ettlbd upon the door-step.
His heart sank wipiu him, as he lifted the
latch, and found/the door was, fastened.—
Gently he knocked, - feraing to disturb his
suffenng wife; again knocked, and
again, but knocked in vain. There was
no cheerful light, as of late was wont to
beam from .his little window, to comfort
those withitt;and'diredt the Weary; way
worn wanderer to a shelter. No smoke
issued from the chimney; no blazing
hearth was there; and save the flapping
1 of the shutters; and the rustling of the vines
that overhung the . pnrckall else was silent.
He could endure suspense no longer:
and forcing the door he stood within the
hOse. in was darknevis there. He gro
ped hie way to the bediide, but it stood
tenantless. He called upon his wife by
name—no answer came ! "SARAH !" he
cried; and the winds howled the louder,
as if in mockery of his agony.. Witli a
trembling hand he produced his tinder-box,
and lighted the lamp that stood in ha ac
customed place, upon the mantel!
Great Heaven what a sight did its pate
rays reveal to him. Extended upon the
flour lay the body of his wife, with her in
fant clasped to her breast—both cold in
death! Blood, too, was there—the lifer
blood of his guileless urge, and innocent
babe—s cold, coagulated pool !
"Oh, God ! my wife, my child I" h
shrieked—his brain reeled, - and tottering a
few paces he fell at her side. Boon he re
covered himself, and lifting them gently
from the floor, he placed them side by side
upon the bed, and stood silently gazing
upon the placid countenance of his young
wife, beautiful even in death.
There is sn elottqaue in silence, when
the heart is too full foo l .uneranc,,,tind a
solemn voice in silent ,grief. :Vein were
our attempt to desieritie theAulittsof . fltel•k
ing, the crush of emotions that filled the
heart of boor Charles, as he bent ovei' the
body of his murdered wife. No word es
caped him, no sigh, no tear drop started.
but his bosom heaved quickly, hislip quiv
ered. his eye rolled wildly, and with is de
moniacal glare. He seemed u though his
very faculty of mind was intent upon one
word, which should speak the fullness of
his misery and desperation, and his lip
struggled to give it utterance! At length
it came. "Vengeance!" and be started at
the hoarse unearthly tones' of his own
voice. "VengeanceP' and the dark Winds
swept away theecho as it fanned. " Vat
grance I" and his wild and solemn vow
stood eternally recorded.
All that night he watched by the bodies
of his wife and ohild,—and the next-mbrO
ing__ buried them with his own hands,
Availing over their graves, bitterly to a
venge them.
Ache was returning from his melancholy
task, he found lying upon the grass near
the door, a large hunting knife still red with
blood. Upon the haft was carved in rude
characters the name, "C emits Sierra."
This Smith was a violent and cruel Tory
partisan (a companion of the notorious
Vttnbuskirk) who, with a company of out
casts like himself, and a few negroes, made
frequent incursions into the upper-coun
ties of New Jersey, and were notorious
for other cruel and barbarous treatment of
the patriotic females.
Years ago, when the wife of Foreman
was quite young, he had professed an at
tachment for her, which she by no means
encouraged, and the offer of hie hand was,
as might have been expected, refused.—
Even then he swore she should have cause
to repent it, and still nourishing a deadly
hatred, he had taken advantage of the ab
sence of her husband, and paying a visit
with his troops, to Hackensack. with his
own hand dealt the blows which deprived
both mother and child of life.
"This knife," exclaimed Charles as he
glared upon its reeking blade blade, "this
knife, which has rendered my life a blank,
and utterly darkened my future, shall yet
drink thy heart's blood, inhuman monster !"
And after carefully wiping the blade, he
placed it in his heh, and entered his deso
late home.
For more than an hour he sat in silent
agony, the big drops coursing down his
haggard cheeks, as he brooded over his
wrongs and dreamed of vengeance. Then,
starting suddenly to his feet, he cast one
last, long, lingering look upon each famil
iar object,and rushed from the house, vow
ins as he shut the bolt, never to return
while Smith lived to murder and destroy.
A week had passed ; 'twas midnight,
and from a small house, situated on the
verge of a wood, about a mills...to the east
ward of White Plains, there issued shouts
of boisterous revelry, interrupted only by
occasional snatches of some rude baccha-
Dalian song.
otnith and hie men, were indulging in 1 ,
their accustomed nightly debauch, after
haying returned - from a successful expedi
tion. Near the house stood Charles For
man, leaning upon a fence, carefully mark
ing the progress of this, drunken party;
his dark eye flashing fearfully, as the con
otant. clanging .of glasses was heard, and
his teeth gnashing with rage as the dying
cadence of a drinking song came upon his
ear. Suddenly 'he aroused himself, and
clutching the fatid knife, he moved toward
the house. Pausing a moment at the
thresholdita collect his strength, ho burst
open the door, and stood confronted with
dm foe.
..Pingeance r! he shouted, and ere the
half-drunken wretches could stay his hand,
•he seized the wry leader, and dashed. hint
to the floor. "This," cried he, plunging
hit knife . into his bosom, "for my murdet
ed wife, and this," plunging it still deeper,
"for my innocent babe I Haste with your
guilty soul to die father of lies, and tell him
that a widowed husband,. made childless
by thy. hand, has sent thee to deserved tor
ments I" , .
he
rushing upon the affrighted Tories,
he plunged his knife , indiscriminately into
those who were nearest him, until over
powered by „numbers. he fell dead upon
the floor, muttering between Lis clenched
teeth, "Sarah" and "Vengeance !"
COLONEL 'YELL
Col. Vim., who died so gallant a death
at the head of a small detachment of his
regiment at Buena Vista, was himself the
authority for the following' hiry, Which
forms the -conclusion of a Baltillo letter
fromth? spirited correspondent of the St.
Louis Ripnblican: - -
The Arkansas regiment of Cavalry had
reached camp, and had their fires lighted."
Some of us gathered around the tent of the
Field 01fieelit — to — dry out ch,thei 'lnd tell
ovet the troubles of the day's mirth. Bat
ing talked off some of the 111 hutnor gather
ed on 'the road, one of &Infantry ofilittun
turned to:Col. Yell and iddresteti him :
"Well; Colonel, that's a good story they
told oti one of your men at the Presidie."
' , What is thati" inquired the Colonel.
"One of intir ArkatuaisiWys• was stand
log guard just after dark. when an officer tif
the day came around.. 'Who cooties there ?'
hailed the sentinel. 'Thy officer of the
day,' was the reply. 'Well, said them
try,'you had better begetting to your tent,
for the officerdifte 'nigh/ will be round
here presently, and he'll give you Jesse.' "
"They tell a heap stories on my,men
that are not true," said the Colonel, after
a hearty camp , laugh had subsided.."and
that is one of them. But I'll tell putouts
that actually did happen to me whewl was
officer of the day.
was going the rounds after midnight,
and tante to one of my Seen whO had nev
er been on guard before. Re hailing 'Mb°
comes there rin a thundering voice ! I an
swered, 'The officer of the day.' 'I don:t
know any such man; said the sentinel,
bringing his gun down to a ready. 'Stand
back, he shouted.
Well, but,' said I; lon know 'me, and I
am officer of the, day.
'I don't know any, body is the .eight;
said he. _ , ,
.lIM, I have the countersign, and am go
' litiehyszunds.'
. titlfstA know anythingsbout the rounds.'
said thirsentimd, getting mad, thinking 1
was tampering with him... 'My orders
were to let nobody, pluts t sign or cowiter
sign, an
t i e
I tell yonwhat it is, Mr. Officer,
you'd be rbe off. far she's cocked."
"W e l what did you do, Colonel 1" ask
ed ado nat a time.
"W . what could Ido I ,I heard the
tick as he brought the gun to his face, and
saw the fellow would shoot—so I sloped I
It won't do to fool with a lincitenisseker."
Poor Yell '•will no more toll his jokes at
mess table or camp fire.
A Mom Droosta.—An inquisitivelian
kee, seeing a laborer, employetLin digging
in a retired spot, i nquired what he was
digging for.
4 am digging for Money," was the
prompt reply. •
The fact, of course, was duly heralded to
the curious in each matters, and the mon
ey digger was visited by 3 or 4 credulous
fellows a •hen the following dialogue ensu
ed:
"We are told that you are digging for
money."
"Well, I aint digging for any thing else,
and if you are wise you had better take
hold also."
"Have you any luck 1"
"First rate—it pays well!"
No sooner said than done—the fellows,
thanking the generous digger for giving
them an invitation to share in his golden
prospects, off coats and went to work in
good earnest, throwing mit many loads of
earth, till at length getting very tired the
following colloquy took place ;
"When did you get any money last?"
"Saturday night. "
"How ,much?"
"Four dollars and a half."
"That's rather a small business." •
"It's pretty well—six shillings a day isi
the regular price for digging cellars, all o
ver town !"
The visiting loafers dropped spades and
vanished, quite put out wit* the nian that
dug for money at the rate of six shillings a
day !
..Jo.hn, can you tell me the difference
between attraction of gravitation and at
traction of cohesion ?" ..Yes, sir ; attrac
tion of gravitation purls a drunken man to
the ground, attraction , of cohesion prevents
hie getting up again."
ETHAN SPIKE'S FIRST AND LAST Vls.
l'I"I'0 PORTLAND.
"Portland is the all darndest place lever
seen. I was down there hi '33, to see a
little about my goin' to Legislatoor, and
such a ruin time as 1 had, you never heer'd
tell on. Did I ever tell you about the Ice
cream scrape I had ?"
We answered in the negative, and he re.
sumed—
"Wall, I had been down thar, two or
three days, pokin' about in every hole an'
tho't I'd seed every thing thar was to be
seed. But ono day towards sundown I
was goin' down by a shop in Middle street
dint looked wonderful slick—there was all
manner of candy an' peppermints au' jes
samints au' what nots at the windows.—
An' then Mar war signs with gold letters
on them, hangin' around the door, tellin'
how they sold Soda, Mead, an' Ice cream
thar. I says to myself, I have heern
good deal about this 'crc Ice cream, an'
now I'll be darned if I won't see what
they are made of. So 1 puts my hands
into my pockets an' walked in kinder care
less an' says to a chap standing behind the
counter—
"Do you keep coy ice creams bete?"
"Yes, sir," says he,"how have?"
"I considered a minit on't says I—a pint,
The young fellow's face swelled out, an'
he liked to have laughed right out, but ar
ter a while he asked—
"Did you say a pint, sir?"
"Sartin," says I, "but p'raps you don't
retailom I don't mind takin' a quart."
"Wall, don't you think the teller snort
ed right out. Tell yer what it made me
feel a sort o' pisen, an' I gate him a look
that sobered him in a minis, alt' when I
clinched my fiat sn' looked so at him,
(here Air. Spike favored us with a Mal di
abolical expression) he hauled in his horns
about the quickest, an' handed me a pint
of the stuff aa perlite as could be. Wall,
I tasted a mobthfull of it, an' found it as
cool as the north aide o' Bethel hill in Jan
uary. I'd half a mind to spit it out; but
just then I seed the confectioner chap grin
nin' behind the door, which riz my spunk.
Gull smash it all, thinks I, I'll not let that
white livered monkey think I'm afeared-
I'll eat the darned stuff if it freezes my in
ertia, I tell yer what, I'd rather skinned a
bear or whipped a wild eat, but I went it.
I eat the whole in about a minit.
"Wall,. in about a quarter of un hour I
began to feel kinder gripy about here,"
continued Ethan, pointing to the lower
parts of hisstomach, "an' kept on feelin'
no better, very fast, till at last it seemed as
tholvtli I'd got a steam ingen eawin' shin
glesin me. I sot down on a cheer an'
bent myself up like a nut cracker, thinkin'
I'dgrin and bear it; but I couldn't set still
twiste.d and squirmed about like an
angle worm on a hook, till at lust the chap
as 'gin me the cream, who had been lookin'
on an' inickerin,' says to me,
"Mister," says he, "what ails yer!"
"Ails, me,"•says I, "that ere darned stuff
vour'n is freezin' up my daylights,"
*aye I.
too. much," says he.
tell. you I didn't," screamed 1,.61 know
what . * m i nor an' whet's too melt without
askin' yOu, an' if you don't leave offsniek
en& I'll *pile your face."
He cottened right down and said bodkin%
mean any hurt, an' asked me it I hadn't
better take some gin. I told him I Would.
So I took a purty good horn and left the
shop. •
• "Arter I got ont," continued Ethan, "I
felt better for a rninit or so, but I hadn't
gone fur afore the gripes took me ;kin,"
eta went into another shop an' took some
more gin ; then I Sot down on the State
House-steps and there I sot and sot, hut
didn't feel a darned mite better. I begun
to think I was going to kick the bucket,
and ..then I thought of father and mother
an' of old Spanker—that's father's boss—
and
when I thought I should never see 'em
*kin' 1 fairly blubbered. But then I hap- I
pened to look up au' see - a dozen boys
grinnin' and hallo' at me, I tell yer what,
it viz my dander,—that had got down be
low ntro—rite up agin. I sprung at 'em
like a wild cat, hollerite out that l'd shake
their tarnal gizzards out, and the way the
little devils scampered was a caution to no
body. But after the 'citernent of tho race
was over, Mit wus :kin, all' I couldn't
helpgroauin' an' sereceltin' as I went along.
At last I thought I'd go to the theatrer
but afore I got there the gripes got so strong
that I had to go behind a meetin' house
and lay down and holler. Arter a while I
got tip as' went into a shop all' eat a half
a dollars mouth of baled isters and four pick
led cowcumbers, and wound up with a
glass of brandy. ')'hen I went into the
theatre and seed the plays, but I felt so
Carnally that I couln't see anv fun in 'em,
for I don't think the isters anti coweumbers
dun me me any good. I sot down, laid I
down, an,' stood up, but still it went on
gripe, gripe. I groaned all the time, an'
once in a while 1 was obleeged to screech
kinder easy. Every body stared at me an'
somebody called out—"turn him out!"
once or twice. But at last just as the nig
gar Othello was goin' to put the pillar on
his wile's face to smother her, there come
such a twinge through me, that 1 really
though I was bustin up, an' I yelled out
—"Oh dear ! oh scissors!" so loud that
the theatre ping again. Such a row you
never seed : the niggar dropped the pillar,
an' Deuteronomy—or what you call her
there—his Wife. jumped off the bed and
run, while every body in the theatre was all
up in a muss, stone lartin' some s
the upshot of it,was, the perlice carried me
out of the theatre and told me to make my
self scarce.
Wal, as I didn't feel any better I went
into a shop close by, and called for two
glasses of brandy ; arter swallerin' it, I
went hunt to the tavern. I sot down by
the winder and tried to think I felt better;
but 'twas no go:, that blessed old ingine
was still swallerin' away inside ; so I went
out an' eat a quarter's worth o' isles an' a
piece o' mince pie. Then I went back an'
told the tavern keeper I felt kinder sick {
an' thought I'd take some Castor ile,
mouthful of cold meat an' a strong glass of
whiskey punch,. an' then go to bed. lie
got the bins, which I took , ah' went to
bed.
TWO DOLLAgS Ptit
NEW SERIES-A 0. 1.
But, tell yer what I !tail ratliele a Fnior;
nialit.• Sometimes I was awalaifroanire
l
n', an' wheal was asleep d better
hin awake, for I hail sichpowerftil dreams.
Sometimes I thouglet I was shiribe a bear.
and then by some hocuspocus 'Would all
change to eather side, an' tho tarsal
ter would he a skint!? me.
•
Them 'Tire, I'd dream thili mile rain'
logs with the boys, an' jest 'as rd be a
shoutin'ont.mowelrenl—Aereshegoes!'‘
-everything would get reiersed
I was a log, an' the boys Nero pfyin . end
up with .ibeir hand spikes: Then I'd wake
up an' screech an' roar 7 —then alto sleep
agin'—to dream that Spanker had run. tit
Stith mei or that father was whnppinf mei
m some other plaggy thing, tiff 'norm'.
When I got op I hadn't any appellee tot
breakfast, an' the taverii keeper. Witt me
that if I was gain' to carry on, scramiee
are groanne as I had the night AO6; my
room was better than my coinpifit;
"I liain't," said Mr. Spike in c'efteMsion'i,
"I hain't bin to Portland sifter, bat If I live
to be as old as 81ethuSalem, I stroll Myatt .
forget that ali , fired Icu (Imam."
LAW NONSENSE.
The following; pUtting intolanginige e'J
04 body's thoughts do the satinet. We
in the New kork Elspress:*
To us it has often been a Matter of >w•
matement that a sound or sensible Itwyet
can reed ode of his own occultations, di
pleadings, without Itteghing et himself for
writing it. or at the honeerree he has put
into it. That any human beirtgi Without
long practice, could ever diffuse one ides
over so ninny itheelef or concentrate ad
much nonsense on offe,.is impossible; but
that men should be educated for such a
purpose. is astonishing. Law is the per.
fiction of human reason f but la* practice r
in too many eases, we are sorry to say (
has become the very perfection of folly.
There ran be no good reason why, when
a case conies before a court and jnry, it
should not come in a way and to a land
gunge that every body can understand.-- ,
Norman, French, or Latin formulae; or
the trunelatitins of them, ought het to apd
pear in pleadings, either to emitittiess the
jury or to deprive the juror of fhe power,
to comprehend them. Indeed it is next to
imptissible new for a man, when surd, BP
ter tending the pages of the "declaration"
served upon him, to tinderstand exactly
whet he is sued for, or What the; plaintiff
alleges against him. There are SO many
notorious and absurd lies mixed up with
the real cause of complaint that it takes a
"Doctor of Latve" to discriminate iimout
them. These things ought not trt he so.
Lawyers need not fear the simplificatiott
of law practice, or its translation into plain
English and common gentle. Law Is n
science that he who attempts td practice it
intuitively ( will be about as wisN and about,
as successful as, he who atteMpls !hip(
building or shoe-makingby instinct. There
must always be a Profession of Lawyers
I. Because men have not time to attend MI
their own legal business, (and it is eheap(
er to have it attended to,) and 2d. If they
had, they On% know how to attend to if
in the best way. Now, the more expen4
sive law is made by forms and firermfbutt
by long declarations and interminable i 3
ings, by dearly written instead of chuap o w
ral examination, the fewer will indulge id
it, and the less the profession will have, td
do. As things now stand, it is almost Ad
ways better to lose a hundred dollars than
to go to law about it. Indeed, if a man
sues you for a hundred dollars, and is tier
terinined upon pressing his suit, nine time*
out of ten, it is cheaper to pay hiM, eve*
though you never Wed a cent, than is go
to law about it: The delays ( the harrows
ing ralls, the :istraction from Moines:Bi
make law a vain remedy for redress, full
one half of the time, Thus the sitnplitiend
Lion of practire %%weld increase the Htitad ,
lion by reducing die expense: anti *hat
the lawyer lust itt long tiaras art piper,
caned declarations, pleadings ( Etc„ he
ivould more than makeup iii the itiereamerl
number of his dieing ( and the rapidity ,
with which he would then have his came.
decided,
'FtII Pnainic6.--firydilt hits ti'fittett
delightful poem—second only nihittoThanw
utopsis"—on these "gardens Of the desert;"
A poetical contributor to the liatlingtpit
(Vt.) Free Press lid* also opostrophitedl
Mum, but in a more practittal and furtikef
style, He says :
Great western waste of larttorn
Flat as a pancake, rich as grew!
Where gnats art full as big as toadsi
And 'skeeters areas big as geese f
0, lonesome, Windy greasy place,
Where buffaloes and snakes prevail! ,
The first with dreadful looking fare,
The last with dreadful sounding tee
I'd rather lite on Camel's rump,
And be a yankee doodle beggsk,
Than whete they never see a stump.
And shake to death with ferter-ientilv
SWEDISH CIfiLDREN.-.Mr. M'Donal l Ar
in his Travels through through Stiede*,..
says—" Young children, from the age of
one to that of eighteen monthw; ant *rat*
lied up in bandages, like eylitakimil wick
baskets, which are contrived so as rkkeeit
their bodies straight without intetfering
ninth with their growth. They ate um?
pended from pegs in the wait; or laid in ad
ny convenient part of the robin; With°Wt.
moth nicety, where they exist in great si=
lence and goad humor. I have not, Itestri
the cry ors child since I came to Steedett.4
FAST.—The word "Tag," is as great . *
contradiction as we hart in the WO..
The Delaware was fast; betaute th ee'
was immovable; and their the its diblp
peered veryfoat for the tentrary reiton.•—•
it was loose. A clock is calledfosi, whew
it goes quicker then tittles hut a mid it
told to stand/eat when; tie is desired to te?
mairt stationary. People fast Whit alttax,
have nothiag to eat, and tat' lasi,. sumo! ,
queotly, what: oppottnnity Offers.
Graves are hqt the pewits Of the 16:4 4
Mei* ttf the angel of elefftorl life.
Peace ;theevettfingatar
yin Us is no run, she the tine me never thit
ape rt.
,
Eateenr is the mother of itnaii
daughter le efteitohkre **ft 111110.hij`77
!.T