...
. .
. , ..
. • . " -
rn ,
:.,..
. !'..) . :.'.". 4 ' • , -.' ,, ::::,. , .e . ......., ::. .: . .
_ ..
..,:.: •-._-,....,.. f'::;:-. , • . l ' k
~,.:, :. ''' .4 .:f:i - ;
i.. 4 .
• . ,:, :3.q. --,'••• i 4 ii , ..
. e
....„ 1
:"...,. :
rin
~-; , ..
. - .
~.. tt-0.1 ' 7 . 4•••
m•:.• •,-\-447.: i; -:.,:z .;; ,. ' -. ....-i •
~-.;, - , :: 1 3,::. ...•:''. • -.,•:, ":::,', "•:.,:•• .4, ; ', : ...;:,-:. is ":..::
•••••••. :. •
,i. - • , • .
i 74:
I
..:..
~.
~•,..,..., ..i.:::: ..„:
", • .
,•;.:-.-,.':',':..! . ; . -t''. • ~,. ,:.:!,
• 1... t... I I
''''':.:•;::: 'c.‘ " : ' ..., : ;.:
..,,,. ~..,., .
. „.
~..,••,. . ~ ~„ ••
~.. ~..,
;.-: :,-•:. '4' , ,,,, :::: : 1•: .: ,. ,
, ...,..,......
..if. ,
i,
.?•, ,, a: •:, , 4,-;„
I .
•_••,..•
.. , ..., .
: : _.,•
,• ,
..,..-
,
BY W. LEWIS.
THE HUNTINGDON GLOBE,
Per annum, in advance, $3. 50
" '• if not paid in advance, 2 OD
No paper discontinued l until all arrearages
are paid.
A failure to notify a discontinuance attbe ex
piration of the term subscribed for will be con.
sidered a new engagement.
Terms' of Advertising
1 ins. 2 ins. 3 ins
Six lines or less, 25 37 50
1 square, 16 lines, brevier, 50 75 100
2 " 1 00 1 50 205
3 " 150 225 300
3m. 6m. 12m.
1 square, " $3 00 $5 00 $BOO
2 " 500 800 12 00
3 •11
" 7 50 10 00 15 00
4 " 900 14 00 23 00
5 4 ' 15 00 25 00 38 00
10 " " 25 00 40 00 60 00
E'r sessional and Business Cards not exceed.
ing 6 lines,one year, 4 00
Love of my Youth
Love of my youth! I turn to thee
My heart now bound, that once was free;
My step now slow that once was light,
My eye now dim that once was bright—
To thee, my love ! I turn to thee.
Love of my youth, to thee I cast
One more sad look—it is the last—
in dark sorrow and earth's deep gloom
I rest; but ere I reach the tomb
To thee my love, I turn to thee.
Love of my youth, to thee I speak,
Hced me , for I am growing weak,
Heed you my last, my dying sigh
But oh ! before this flesh shall die,
To thee my love, I turn to thee.
Love of my youth—my light my life,
For thee I join in earthly strife,
For thee I weep, I mourn, I sigh ;
For thee my love—for thee I die—
I die for thee, my love, I dic.
TH POST OFFICE
BY J. B. FOSTER
The mail has arrived ! welcome news to
those who are expecting to hear from friends
near and dear to them. But first of all that
crowd the office is the business roan. With
consequential air and stately step he strides
along and demands rather than asks for his
letters. They are instantly delivered and he
hastily scans their contents; a smile of pleas
ure steals across his features, as he reads of
profitable investment and quartet ly divi
dends. And then, curses, not loud, but deep,
are muttered as he finds some scheme foi ac
quiring wealth has tailed.
Next, perhaps, a timid maiden, anxious to
hear from her lover, inquires, with a falter
ing voice, and a blushing face, if there is a
letter fur her ;it not as is too frequently the
case, she turns away in sorrow to wait im
patiently the arrival of the next mail.
And now an old and trembling mother ap
proaches the office ; she has been thete every
day for weeks, expecting to hear from her
long absent and only son. A tear dims her
eye and rolls down her careworn cheek as
she receives the customary and emphatic no!
to her inquiry. She retraces her steps slow
ly and waft sorrow. The office is no more
crowded—the letters are nearly all delivered;
and the clerks are busy with theit books.
How much joy is felt by those who hear
from long absent friends—hom much sorrow
is experienced by those who are disappoint
ed in the nonreceipt of letters which were
expected ; or by sad intelligence that may be
contained,in those that ate received, none
ceu
•'ls there a letter here for my mother ?"
asked a young Snd really beautiul girl, who
had just entered the office. The quick. rest
less glance of her mild blue eye told plainly
that she feared she should again be disap
pointed.
"What name ?-" asked the clerk without
once looking at the beautiful being that stood
before him.
"My mother's name is Morton, Lucy Mor
ton."
"M-M-Morton," muttered the clerk, "there
is no such letter here."
The girl stood a moment in silence, then
bursting into tears she hastily left the office.
She traversed many streets, and at last enter
ed an old house in one of the obscure streets
in the city.
"No, mother," said she, as she entered,
"there is no letter to-day ! what will become
of us and she sank into a chair, and cov
ered her face-with her hands.
"Ellen," said her inother, who, though
worn down by care and suffering, was still
beautiful, "do not despair, we shall not suffer
and to-morrow perhaps the letter will
come."
"To-morrow, mother, so you have said ev
ery day—and every day we are disappoint
ed. No, mother, he will not.", - •
"He will, Ellen, I am sure that he will ; it
is our only hope, and I cannot give it up, so
let us have good courage and hope for the
best."
. "But mother, what can we say "to Mr.
Brown 1 you know we promised to pay him
the rent to-day.". •
4 'We cannot do it now."
"And what wi:l he say ; I dread to see
him
,; I hope tie will not call to-day."
"We must tell him the truth, Ellen, and I
hope he will be willing to wait a day or two
longer."
"He said he would wait only till to-day.
"But perhaps he.will:”
"And if he will not V
"Then we can leave hie house and go- 2 )
"Alas I I do not krow, my child, where
we can go. But we shall riot suffer, my
trust is in higher power than man."
The conversation was here interrupted by
a knock at the door. Ellen quickly wiped
the tears from her eyew, and admitted—Mr.
Brown
"I have come," said he,, for what you .owe
me—you are ready to pay I presume."
- "I am sorry," said Mrs. Morton, "that it
is impossible to pay you to•day, but—"
"You can't pay
"Not to-day."
"So you have said every day for a month."
"And must say so still, for it is not in my
power to meet your demands."
"When can you 1"
"I have informed you that I am expecting
some money from my father ; as soon as
that arrives you shall be paid."
"When will that be 3"
"I cannot tell yo-. 1; I expect it every day."
"Weil," said Mr. Brown, rising to go,"I'll
tell yon one thing which you can dependup
on. You have put me off with promises now
for more than a month; and I will be put off
no longer. If you pay me thirty dollars be
fore to-morrow night, Iwill be satisfied. If
not, you must leave this house."
"But have some charity for us and—"
"I have; charity you know begins at home,
and 1 must have the molly for the support of
my family. So only till to-morrow night
will I wait." Thus saying, he left the house.
The mother and her daughter were long
silent; at last Ellen said—
" Mother, I will go, and if possible, find
some work that I can do."
"I cannot spare you. my daughter."
"But, mother, something must be done,
we can get no sewing to do because the
times are so hard, they all say. We have no
money and no way to procure any, unless I
can find employrn9nt."
" C What can yod do, Ellen."
"Anything, I care not what—sweep house,
work in the kitchen, anything rather than
see you suffer."
"Well, Ellen, wait till to-morrow, then
you may see what you can do."
"No, mother, I will go now, for that will
be so much time saved; and if I find a place
I shall be ready to go to work one day sooti
er." So saying, she put on her bonnet, and
bidding her mother good-bye, departed on her
errand.
Ellen returned at night, but she had been
unable to find any employment.
"Our prospect darkens," said she, "and
what to do now I know not."
"I have still hopes of hearing something
from my father," said Mrs. Morton.
"Is he wealthy 1"
"Ile is."
"How come it that he lets you suffer,
then V
"I have never told you, Ellen, but now I
will. I married your father against his ex
press commands, and he refused to aid him
or me in the least. But now, that your fath
er is dead, and we are suffering, I think he
cannot refuse to lend us assistance."
"How long since you heard from him 2"
"I have not heard fiorn him for three or
four years ; and have not seen him . since I
was - married."
"You wrote to him 1"
"Yes, after your father died. I thought he
could not refuse us assistance when we were
actually suffering; and I still expect his aid."
" , What made you leave New Orleans, mo
ther If you had staid there you would
have been near your home, and would have
known whether your father would assist you
or not. And now we must wait for the arri
val of a letter by mail. But perhaps after
•.tl. grandfather is dead."
"He may be. Men : but I think I should
have beard of it if such had been the case.—
And even if he were dead, my brother,George
would have received my letter; he told me
the I..st time I saw him, that he was still my
brother, although my father had disowned
me."
"Then you had a brother."
"Yes—a good, kind brother; would that I
could see him. But, Ellen, we will talk of
these things no more to-night! it makes me
feel sad when I think of my youthful days,
when I was free from care, and happy."
"And yet you forsook your home for—"
"Yes, Ellen, for your father ! He was all
that was noble, kind and generouS, but he
was poor ; that curse always followed him.
Arid it was the thoughts of that, more than
anything else, which finally caused his death,
and left me when you were - very young, to
struggle on alone. But I will not repine ;
perhaps my suffering is a punishment for my
disobedience to my father. God knows I
have suffered enough already."
The night wore slowly away, and to Mrs.
Murton and her daughter the morning brought
no consolation—unless hope for the future be
called such. And it is, for the miserable
have no other medicine but hope. After all
—no matter how great misfortune, or what
suffering they endure—will feel a thrill of
pleasure as they look forward to the future.
Even the eye that has long been dimmed by
sickness, will kindle with renewed lustre
when they may be restored to health and
strength in the days to come. If we could
but know the amount of suffer ing and wretch
edness that it is yet concealed in the misty,
unknown future, we should be deprived of
one of the greatest blessings of life—and that
is the anticipation of better days. - 'Tis hu
man, nature and as such is right, for those
who only look upon the dark side of life, are
daily conjuring up fears, which are worse
than the reality, and unhappy presenti
ments oftentimes work out their own fulfil
ment. Then let us all hope for the best and
be satisfied with such a lot as is meted out to
us by Him who rules the stormy sea, and
guides aright our wandering barque.
Again Ellen prepared for her daily visit to
the post office; and it was their only hope,
and in that they had been disappointed so
often that it seemed to Ellen that disappoint
ment was-her lot.
—She entered the office with trembling
steps.
The clerks were all busily employed in de
livering letters, for the southern mail had
just arrived. She waited till nearly all had
been served ; and approaching the desk she
asked the usual question expecting to hear the
same answer, yet hoping for the best. The
clerk looking over the letters—
" Morton did you say 1"
I-lUNTINGDO'S, OCTOBER 17 0 1855,
"Yes sir."
"Here is one," and handed to her a lkige
letter or packet. With joy she seized it, and
dropping from her hand a single •twenty five
cent piece, was about to leave the office.
"Here," said the clerk, "this is not enough;
the postage is half a dollar."
"Half a dollar !" exclaimed Ellen.
"Yes, it is a double letter."
Ellen stood a moment in silence. Then
sloWly advancing to the desk she put the
letterinto the clerk's hands, took her money
and turned away.
"Are you not going to take it '1" asked the
clerk.
'.l.'cannol!" she exclaimed, while in spite
of all her efforts to restrain her feelings, the
tears started from her eyes. "I cannot I
have no more money." The last words died
upon her lips as she left the office.
"That's too bad !" said the clerk to one of
his associates, as she went out.
"What's too bad !"
"Why, this letter."
"What of it
"The girl, did you see her I"
"No."
"She was handsome as a picture and she
has been here very often for a letter, and now
when it has come she cannot have it."
"Why not P'
"She can't pay the postage."
"Well, let her wait till she can then."
"I have half a mind to pay the postage
myself."
"You had better, I guess ; maybe she'll
pay you."
"I would if I know where she lived, or
who she is. It is too bad to charge fifty
cents for a letter. More than she can earn
in a week, in these hard times. But its none
of my business. If she comes again though
she shall have the letter if I have to pay for
it myself."
When Ellen returned home she found Mr.
Brown already there.
"Was there any letter 1" asked her mother
as soon as she entered the house.
"There was but•—"
"Where is it ? was it fro New Or
leans ?"
"1 don't know where it was from, but I
have—"
"Let me see it quick," said Mrs. Morton
"1 have not got ►t."
"Not got it 1 why ? have you lost it I"
"No CI could not pay the postage."
"What have you done with the money
that we have saved for more than a month
to pay postage with ?"
"I have got the money mother, but the
postage is half a .dollar. Perhaps Mr. Brown
tivill advance the money and—"
"No I won't advance money ! you need
not think of that," said the hard-hearted
landlord.
"But perhaps it contains money."
"So you said once before, and I let you
have the money and I have never seen it
since."
"But we were disappointed then."
"Yes, and may be again ! I don't believe
you have any letter in the office. It's only
a sham to put me off."
"I shall say no more !" said Mrs. Morton.
"Then" said Brown, "I must commence
business." And soon an officer entered and
commenced moving the little furniture that
Mrs. Morton owned. "There is not half
enough to pay me now," added Brown ; but
it will be better than nothing."
Mrs. Morton watched their movements
with tearful eyes, but without saying a word;
she knew it would be of no avail. The room
was in a few moments stiipt of all it con
tained. Calling to Ellen, she said, "Come,
my child, we will seek somewhere a place
for the night, and perhaps we may find kind
er friends."
But Ellen was not there. As soon as the
officer had entered the house she had left it.
With hasty steps she retraced her way to the
Post Office. Almost breathless, she entered
and looked around for the clerk• with whom
she had conversed when there before. But
he was nowhere to be seen. Her business
was urgent and she approached the other
clerk, and asked for the letter. He handed
it to her, saying at the same time, "You
have got the money then, have you, my
pretty lass 1"
"I have not'," she said, "but will you not
take this ring, and let me have the letter ?"
at the same time she held out a plain gold
The clerk thinking he might possibly make
something to himself by taking the ring and
paying the postage, took it to examine.—
There were words engraved upon it, and he
read,—"from E. P., to his sister .Lucy."
"Let me see that," said a well dressed
man stepping up to the clerk. He took the
ring and alter looking at it a moment, turned
to Ellen and asked,
•
"Where did you get this 'P"
"It is my mother's sir."
"Your mother's 7"
"Yes sir !"
"What is her name !"
"Lucy Morton."
"Where is she ? conduct me to her—
Hence," turning to the clerk, "here is your
postage ;" and handing the letter to Ellen,
he said, "Come I will go with you," and they
left the post office together.
When they reached her home, Mrs. Mor
ton was anxiously awaiting for Ellen's return.
"Where have you been ?" she asked : "they
have taken what little we had left, and we
are now alone with nothing in the world."
"But mother exclaimed Ellen, "this gen
tleman has paid for our letter, and here it
is."
"Thank you, sir, for your kindness to a
poor woman," said Mrs. Moi ton. And
opening the letter, a shower of bank notes
fell upon the floor.
"'Tis from my brother !" she exclaimed.
"Yes" said the stranger "it is."
"And you—you are my brother George !"
and ahe fell upon his neck and wept tears of
joy.
"Yes," said George, (for it was indeed
him) "I am your brother, and you are my
long lost sister."
"But how came you hero P,:
y .-w~N ' ~~)~
"Father has been dead some time, and I
received your letter. As soon as I learned
your situation, and where you were, which [
did not know before, I sent off that letter
as quick as possible, and came directly on af
ter you. I met my niece at the post office,
where I had gone to learn tidings of you.—
The ring which I gave you when we were
playmates, I knew, and I determined to sur
prise you as I have. And now your days of
sadness are past, for my home is yours ; my
wife will he glad to meet my sister and her
beautiful daughter !"
"What, woman ! not gone yet 1" said Mr.
Brown entering the house, "money all over
the floor, too." For in their joy they had
'forgotten to pick up what had dropped from
the letter.
"We are going instantly," said George,
and if my sister owes you any thing more
than you have got by.the attachment of her
scanty furniture, I will cancel the debt. So
good day sir."
In a few days, Mrs. Morton, with her
brother and daughter, started for the South,
where a good home with every comfort of
life awaited them. And thus we leave them.
—Colebrook River, Jan., 1854.
A Scene on the River Platte.
BY A LADY LOOKER ON.
Affairs of a private nature rendered it ne
cessary for me to communicate with my hus
band, and as letters were, in all respects, un
safe, I thought it better to go myself (I was
at Montevideo, and he was in command of
the Brazillian blockading squadron, up the
river Platte, before Buenos Ayres.) An ex
cellent opportunity presented itself in a bra
, zillian corvette, commanded by an elderly,
civil, and good natured Frenchman.
MI being arranged, I took leave of my
children, recommending them to the kind of
fices of my friend and neighbors, and embar
ked on the 25th of January, 1826.
It was very cold weather, and the air of
the Platte is peculiarily piercing; we tried to
heat a stove, which the captain had kindly
procured for me, but it choked us with smoke,
and we were obliged to relinquish the at
tempt, which, perhaps, was not to be regret
! ted ; very warm clothing, and as much exer
cise as possible on deck, being far better
methods fur aleviatnig this sort of discom
fort. The French, generally, in their pri
vate arrangements, are more economical than
we are ; the captain had little closets fitted
up in his cabin, where he carefully kept
locked up his china and glass ware, and all
such stores of provisions as he could conve
niently keep in them; what was wanted he
regularly gave out himself every morning,
and he kept the keys in his own pocket—
notwithstanding all this, we had a most lib
eral and excellent table, the finest coffee
have tasted on board ship. Our mess was
composed of the captain,' the pilot and my
self; the pilot was, I believe, the only En
glishman on board, all the rest were French,
Brazillians and negroes. i had brought with
me some needle work, hooks and writing ma
iterials, which with the grand occupation of
keeping myself warm, quite filled up my
time for three days of my voyage.
Earl y on the morning of the 26th, I sus
pectedby a certain movement and hubbub
on board;that we were approaching our des.'
tination—l rose and began to make my toil
et as quickly as possible. The captain pres
ently kcocked at my door, and informed me
that we had reached the squadron, and should
presently speak; he therefore begged to know
what he should say about me—for the good
man seemed shrewdly to suspect that I had
taken upon myself to go, nobody knew why,
where everybody thought I had no business
to be. I replied "merely say that I am on
board, if you please sir." Accordingly, in
a few minutes after the Commodore had hail
ed him, I heard the intelligence bawled out
through •his trumpet in good Portugeese.
My husband's boat was along side in a sec
ond, soon followed by those of several of the
other commanders, and we sat down to such
a breakfast as they had not enjoyed for many,
days; after which we took leave of our kind
host, inviting him to dine with us on the fol
lowing day.
The weather was beautiful and we passed
a very pleasant day in visiting several of the
principal vessels.
On the following morning ' the squadron
got under weigh, and anchored us as near to
Buenos Ayers as possible. The Brazillian
vessels were much too heavy for service on
the River Platte, and drew too much water,
an incalculable disadvantage to them during
war. however, we were able to get near
enough to have a very interesting view of
the city and harbor and having retired from
the dinner table, where most of the comman
ders were our guests, I sat on the poop, sur
veying with peculiar and somewhat painful
interest, the novel scene before me. The
vessels of our gallant enemy seemed to me
alarmingly closes and as to Buenos Ayres,
although it looked so pretty, quiet, and invi
ting, I could not help secretly wishing it
farther off
The gentlemen soon joined me, and took
their coffee, and were each on- board their
own vessel before dark. I felt rather fatig
ued. and was in bed by nine.
The scene still haunted me, and I could
not help so.) ing to my husband, with a voice
betraying a little apprehension, "suppose our
Buenos Ayres friend were to take it into their
head and pay us a visit to-night ;"
"Let him come," was the reply ; and then
"noncense, my dear go to sleep," which-or
der I obeyed with dutiful promptitude.
I recollect awaking shortly afterwards,
with a start of terror; strange and confused
noises were around me—"the enemy is
among us !" rung in my ears; my husband,
already up, cried out "Very well ;" and t hen
saying to me, "I will be back in a minute,"
he left me. I crept out of bed, huddled on
some clothes, and poked my feet into my
husband's large slippers, because they lay
closest to the bed. The shots whizzed fear
fully above my head, and well I knew that it
was a mere chaßce whether or not they en
tered the cabin windows. My husband soon
returned, with the steward, and taking,me by
the arm, dreW me as quickly as possible on
deck. and then down the companion ladder;
the steward collected all my traps, and fol
lowed us. We went into the gun room,
which lay quite aft, beneath the poop cabins
—it was hued on each side with small.sleep
in,7 cabins. In one of these (a spare one
which had not been occupied,) he placed me,
recommending me to lie down underneath
the bed place, and having thus disposed of
me, returned to his duty. The firing at this
time was tolerably warm;' the little cabin,
from the circumstance of its being a spare
one, was filled with rubbish, and on looking
underneath the berth ; I found it was occu
pied in the same way ; and the whole was so
small, close and sickening, that I began to
think I might as well be shot as smothered.
I looked into the gun room, where a marine
officer was seated composedly by the powder
magazine, which lay open before him ; I de
cided to take my station here on the flour,
leaning against the side of the cabin I had
just emerged from.
The fire began to slacken—sometimes it
ceased altogether, and was renewed at inter
vals which gradually became longer. Ido
not think my companion and I exchanged a
single syllable—he was a little, quiet, elderly
man, and as notteng from the magazine was
yet wanted on deck, he had as snug and idle
a time as myself; he nodded and napped un
til some sudden repetition of the firing rous
ed him ; then he crossed himself, sighed and
napped again.
About the middle of the night my husband
came down arid begged I would turn into the
little bed, and try to take some repose. The
night had became so very daik, that it was
probable the struggle would not be renewed
until dawn, when the enemy would, he pre
sumed, try to get back in their stronghold,
which he should prevent, if possible; as yet,
he thought little damage had been done on
either side.
I according crept into the little bed, which
the ste , yard cleared and prepared; an unusu
al stillness prevailed the whole vessel, and I
soon sunk into a feverish and cirparny re
pose.
No 'dawn found its way into our abode; but
I was conscious of a stir beginning through the
ship. I looked into the gun-room; the dim lamp
was still burning, and the little man still nod
ding; we were both, however, thoroughly
shaken out of our drowsiness by a sudden and
tremendous broadside, given by our vessel,
which was succeeded by various demands
for amunition stores, so that the old gentle
man began to be fully and actively employed,
the fire on both sides being kept up with un
remitting warmth. The steward, with pro
fessional coolness, apologized for want of cof
fee, but brought a tray with wine, bread,
'old fowl, and p:e, which he secured with.
'care.
From this time we were nearly six hours
closely engaged ; we were aground three
times—a species of danger which gave me
much uneasiness. Now and then an officer
(they were chiefly Englishmen) came down,
and having poped his head, face, and hands
into water, and taken a glass of wine from
my tray returned. From them I received
the most encouraging reports, and their fa
ces, though hot, black, and dirty, looked so
merry and full of hope, that the very sight of
them did me good. I learned that several
men were wounded, but none. as yet dead, at
least that they knew of. They generally re.-
marked that the enemy fired too high—(corn
fort for me.)
I did not see my husband since midnight,
and began anxiously to watch for his coming.
I began to feel weary and dejected. I had
lost all idea of lime, and . ventured to ask my
friend, the marine, what o'clock he thought
it was; he went to his cabin for his watch,
and seemed as much surprised as I was to
find that it was between eleven and twelve.
I imagined that we must be coming to a
conclusion , the firing was no lonuer so con
stant and steady—a long pause had now suc
ceeded ; but as to what had been done, what
had been really effected, I knew no more than
if I had remained at Montevideo. At lengih
I heard my name called by my husband ; I
flew out of the gun-room, and reached the
bottom of the companion ladder, when on
looking up, the light struck me so suddenly
and so dazzlingly, that I could scarcely tell
whether the begrimed and blackened figure
that stood at the top, was my husband or not,
and even his voice was so changed and hoarse
that I hardy recognized it as he cried out,
"Come up directly—l want you particularly
to see with your own eyes, the position of
the vessels now, at the close of the action."
"I shall be very glad to come up—but—are
you sure the action is quite closed
"Yes, I don't think that we shall have
another shot, 1 shall give no more—come,
come ! and up I went. In ascending.my foot
slipped twice, which I attributed to my own
agitation : but it was no such thing-1 had
stepped in blood ! It was down this ladder
the wounded had been conveyed, and while
pausing at the top to recover from the sick
uing seusasion that I experienced, the groans
of a young wounded officer from the cabin
below, met my ear.
Alas ! how little can those who only lead
of battles, through the cold and technical
medium of a general offioer's bulletin, con
ceive of the reality ? This first slippery- step
of mine into an actual field of slaughter,
conveyed an impression which can never be
erased.
Summoning all my presence of mind, I ac
companied my husband to the side, and step
ped upon the carriage of a gun, looked
around. The first that fixed my eye was
the ship of the Buenos Ay rean Admiral, stran
ded, .t complete and abandoned wreck—there
she lay, covered with honorable wounds.
The. Admiral's flag was on board one of the
smaller vessels, atm he was effecting his re
treat in good order, I then looked up at our
own ship—to the eye she seemed almost as
complete a wreck as her antagonist. Her .
sails were floating in ribbons, her mast and
yards were full of shot—every thing was
crippled ; she had besides numerous cannon
shot imbedded in her hull,. while others had
VOL, 11, NO. 17,
passed right through the oPpoSite side ; the
decks were smeared with blood--the seamen,
overcome with fatigue, were crawling about,
or sinking with their heads on the carriages
of the guns. I then looked at our other ves
sels, which were grouped at some distance
behind; but I could not discover' that they or
the Buenos Ayreans, who were conveying
away their gallant Admiral, had suffered the
slightest damage. 1 then discovered two of
our vessels in the distance, one very far off
indeed; the nearest to us we observed had
her firtopmast shot away, but for the fate
of the other we could not then account. We
ascertained that she had left early in the ac
tion, because her captain had received a
wound in the arm.
A few hums were devoted to the rest and
refreshment of which the whole ship's com
pany stood so much in need ; but toward's_
evening repairs and cleaning had beguit i
other vessels were called to our `assistance,`
especially the one I had arrived in, and in a
day or two we were pretty well patched up,
[ took my leave next day for Montevideo.
Wisdom and Polly
LOVE, BABIES, AND BUTCHER'S BILLS.-
There is probably no business in which com
mon sense is less heeded than in that of love
The moment a girl begins to think of " 9 1,. ;
ante blossoms," that moment she bids far..,
well to reason, and plunges into a sort of lu
nacy from which all the eloquence in the•
world cannot extricate her,
Driving a baulky horse is a pleasant bus
iness, and so is the attempt to wean a jack
ass from thistles. But what are baulky hor
ses and jackasses compared to the "staki
ness" of a girl who has "got the devil in h e r
head," because a young gentleman with hol
low cheeks and bright blue continuations,
!lets upon the cellar door every night, and
pours his love into her through the medium
of a four-and•ninepenny flute 'I-,
Difficult as it is for a fresh cod to climb a
greased liberty pole, with a kicking boy in
his mouth, we would much sooner go abotit
to look for such a phenomenon, than to hunt
a girl with au inflamed heart that wouldlis
ten to "good advice," or who could be made to
believe for one moment, that the enjo} meats
of hymenial life depended at all on the fre
quency of bread, or the price of butcheC.s
meat. Even piodigals have not so hearty a
contempt for money. as have those whom
Cupid has inocculatea with the virus of "bea
tific lunacy." Having no appetite while
courting, they imagine that their demands
for corned beef and cabbage will always find
a substitute in sighs and huggings. How
they will deceive themselves.
Although love is a boy of limited appetite,
Hymen takes to roast beeflike an alderman.
But even grant that marriage, like courtship
could feed on flutes and fatten on a nosegay,
how will it be with the Harriets, Peters,
Johns, and Matilda .lanes that are fated to
spring from it? Will - they, think you,ffeed
on air : and rest satisfied with sugared en
dearments I Fat limn it. Children have no
respect for the poetics of life, and much pre- -
fer a pantry full of pies to al: the velvet sen
timents that even Moor's Melodies abound
with.
These. remarks, we know will be terined
" shocking" by many a• fair reader--but
shocking as they are, they are true, as scores
of them will discover, when too late to heed
the admonitions they contain. No state in
life has more uses for a fat pocket book than
mart iage
DC7 . WASHINGTON.—He was not a despot.
He founded the political liberty, the same
time as the national independence of his
country._He used war only as a means of
peace. Raised to the supreme power with
out ambition,- he descended from it without
regret, as soon as the safety of his country
permitted. He is the model for all demo
cratic chiefs. Now you have only to exam
ine his life, his soul, his . acts, thoughts, his
word; you w ill not find a single mark of
con&seetision ' a single moment of indul
gence, for the favorite ideas of democracy.—
He constantly struggled even to the weari
ness and sadness—against its extractions.—
No man was ever more profoundly imbued
with the spirit of government or with respect
for authority. He never exceeded the rights
of power, according to the laws'of his coun
try ; but he confirmed and maintained them
in principle as well as in practice, - as firmly,
as loftily, as he could have done in an old
monarchical or aristocratical state.'
no
was
one of those who knew that it is more
possible to govern from below in a re
public than in a monarchy—in a deMocratias
than in an aristocratic society.
A Polite Drunkdril"
We laughed a good deal, a day or two
since, at a scene in Williams Court. * A cou
ple of policeman had picked up a man helpless
drunk and dragged him to a Station House.
No. 2, in a borrowed hand cart. The inebri
ate was so much sobered by his ride that he
could stand, after a drunken fashion, and ta
king a handful of change from his . pocket, he
said to the office's—
"how much—hie—for the carriage? How
much ter pay, hay 1" . •
"There's nothing to pay," answered the
offteets, "and you may just waltz into the
Station House."
"Blamed I'll g-go in till I've paid for
this ride. D' ye s'pose I'm a mean cuss?—
No sir ree I pay for this' carriage like
(hie) a--. 77
Before he could finish the sentence, the
poor fellow was down among the sinners, in
the lower regions of the Station House.
Qom' "Does the razor take hold well ?" in
gonad a darkey who was shaving a gentle
man from the country a few evenings since.
"Yes," replied the customer, with tears in
his eyes, "it takes bald first rate, but it don'r
let go worth a cent."
CO' The Dutchman who refused to take a
one dollar bill because it might be altered
from a ten, prefers stage travelinc , t' to rail
mads. The former. he says, rides him eight
bouts for a dollar, while the latter only rides'
him one.'