..,,_,..'H' 2 « . '•nix - tinoxc o'n
BY JAS. CLARK.
VISIT OF THE QUEEN IV
IRELAND.
02 "While official persons ate freptiring
Celebrate the visit of the Queen with festivities
and, illuminations, a poet in the Irtshnian
breathes such a welcome to the Rdyal guest as
follows
THE SECOND ADVENT.
Shout yourselves hoarse, ye supple slaves!
God grant it do you good !
But carpet fit st the frequent graves,
Nor let the dead intrude=
Make bonfires of those ghastly bones,
That ne'er have buried been,
And drown in Pman hymns the groans,
Of Skull and Skibbereen !
She comes ! make every window bright !
Prepare the wotthless
.Twould wring her woman's heart outright
To learn one half your woe.
Reveal not how they [led or died
Who loved you to the last ;
Bet loose, in one day's tinsel pride, •
The future and the past.
Even while Royal galleys Wait
Fair seas and fav'ring skies;
Far to the south with doleful freight,
A lonely vessel flies
Oh ! turn your thoughts from all the glare
That cheats your eyes around,
And see your noblest pining there,
Your best and truest bound.
Alas ! for them 'tie vain to weep. , ..
Assume a cheerful smile,
And rouse the tones of joy that sleep
Long silent through the Isle—=
She knows not, and can never know.
What sufferings ours have been— ,
Then daub with red the cheeks of woes
And fly to greet the Queen !
THE LYNCHERS,
A WESTERN INCIDENT.
enAPTEIt 1.
kvllLto ALARMS AND PRIVATE QUARRELS
THE ACCUSATION.
During the troubles with the famous
and daring Chief Black Hawk, when the
inhabitants on our Western frontier were
never safe from the depredations of his
tribe and allies, American citizens dwel
ling even at a distance from the seat of
war, were frequently annoyed by un
friendly visits from the red men of the
forest ; consequently, many families in
the eastern and northern parts of Illi
nois,
were led to desert their homes, and
seek safety by banding together and re
retiring to fortified places. Few, how
ever, at so great a distance from the
disputed territory, suffered from the
attacks of the Indians ; after their
first panic had in a degree subsided,
even while straggling bands of plan.
derers were scouring the country, the
inhabitants for the most part, returned
to their deserted homes.
Stephen Moxon was a brave, resolute
settler whom nothing could intimidate.
While many of his neighbors fled to
forts for security, he calmly went to
work to fortify his own house, which lie
was determined not to leave. He knew
that such flying parties of savages nev
er stopped to lay seige to a place, and
if he and his son, a bold young man of
twenty-five, could, with the assistance
of his wife and daughter, keep the Indi
ans at bay for a season, there would be
nothing to fear.
"With wre and Mary," he used to
eay, "to load our rifles, George and
can pick of a few redskins, I am think
ing, before they can do much harm to
its."
So Moxon and his family remained at
home, while all his neighbors fled. To
these, 'however, there was an exception.
There was a young man living close by
Who could not think of deserting the
neighborhood and leaving Mary Moicen
behind. Accordingly he resolved to re
main, and 'would have made the house
of Moxon his home for the time, had he
been on geed terms with Mary's family.
As it was, there having been a quarrel
between him and George Moron, the
brother of her he loved, he chose rather
to shut himself up in his house alone,
than form any compact with the family.
Notwithstanding this difference be
tween Richard Watts and George Mox
on, Richard and Mary were betrothed ;
for their love and confidence in each
other were unbounded.
After the first panic, occasioned by
the depredations of the red men, had
subsided, many who had left their homes
in the neighborhood, learning that Ste
phen Moxon's family had not been mo
lested, resolved to return and follow his
example.
It was then that Richard Watts would
have made Mary his wife, notwithstand
ing her brother's opposition ; but she
prevailed upon him to delay his claims
until George could be brought to give
his consent. With regard to Stephen
Moxen himself, he was neither for nor
against Richard, but left the two young
Men to adjust their own differences, and
Mary to do as she chose.
Thus time passed on, until one day,
it chanced that George and Richard were
hunting in the same piece of woods, and
tnet near the banks of n stream, close to
a large and deep mill-pond.
We will not describe the interview,
nor dwell upon its consequences; suf
fice it to say that tileorge did not return
home that night, and that Richard, al
though he was seen by teveral of the in
habitants without game of any descrip
tion, was spotted With blood, and that
he had received a knife wound in the
shoulder. .
On the following morning the neigh
borhood was alarmed, and search was
made for George Moxon. It being the
autumn, there were leaves upon the
ground, which enabled the young man's
friends to discover near the mill-pond a
spot where a struggle had taken place,
and where some dead body had evident
ly been dragged away, and thrown into
the water,
Added to this, the hunting knife which
Richard Watts was known to possess,
was found near the spot crusted with
blood.,
"This," said Stephen Moxon turning
to the friends who accompanied him,
and as he spoke his eye flashed revenge
fully, his features were pale, and his
firm lips compressed—" This, gentle•
men, smells of murder! My son has
been killed !"
"And Richard Watts," added his
friends with one accord, "is the mur
derer. Revenge!"
At the time of which we write, and
in that portion of the country in which'
the scene of our story is laid, but little
law existed, except the law of force ;
and individuals were but too apt to take
upon themselves the revenge of their
own private wrongs.
The Moxons .had powerful friends
throughout the settlement, ninny of
whom were ready to consider the quar
rels of that family as their own, and to
act accordingly. In consequence of this,
as soon as it was known that George
Moxon had been killed, and that ,Rich
ard Watts was the murderer, there was
a Consultation among the friends of the
deceased, to decide upon the course
which should be pursued.
An old hunter named Ford, a shrewd
rough impetuous character, put himself
at the head of George's friends, deter
mined, us he said, to see that the right
thing was done, and vengeance taken
due.
It was rightly deemed that it would
be a difficult task to capture Richard in
his own house; anti Ford accordingly,
having given his accomplices all neces
sary instructions, proceeded to Rich
ard's residence alone.
The young man met him at the door,
and greeted Ford as he had always done.
The latter, rough as he was, could play
the hypocrite, and did so, not desiring
that Richard should suspect the object
of his visit.
"Have you heard the news, Dick?"
asked Ford.
4 , ‘‘ hat nettisl"
"That's it ; what news"! It is hard to
say it, but I must confess I believe it—"
"What I" interrupted Richard.
"That George Moxon has been mur
dered," said Ford, looking his compan
ion full in the face.
Richard turned deadly pale, but soon
recovered himself and answered calmly:
"How—and when'? 1 had not heard
of it."
Ford described the spot, and added
that the murderer had evidently tied
some heavy object to the body and
thrown it into the mill-pond.
Richards perturbation was visible.
"I am sorry to say," replied Ford ; "that
sbine have thought you—"
"I !" echoed Richard, with a start.
"The fact is," pursued the hunter,
"circumstances are against you, and it
will be necessary for you to explain
where you were last night, what has be
come of your hunting knife, and how
those spots of blood came on your dress,
considering that you brought home no
game."
"This is a dark piece of business,"
said Richard, turning pale. "I am in
nocent, but there may be some difficul
ty in explaining these things to the sat
isfaction of all. 1 believe you my friend
What would you advise me to dot"
"1 would say, go at once with me to
Moxon's house, and give what explana
tion you can on the subject. If you are
innocent, which I should be sorry to
doubt, tt will be easy to prove yourself
Deceived by this rppearance of friend.;
ship in his visiter, Richard resolved to
follow his advice, and set out to accom
pany him to i\loxon's house.
On arriving there, he was surprised
to find some half dozen .stout, resolute
men assembled, apparently awaiting his
arrival, while neither Mary nor Mrs,
Moxon were in the room.
"Here," said Ford, "is the place to
give your explanations, and recollect
that your life depends upon your words.
We believe that you tilled George Mox
on, and we are his avengers."
"Villain!" muttered Richard, turning
HUNTINGDON, PA., TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 18, 1849.
fiercely upon his betrayer, and seizing
him by the throat ; "take that for your
treachery l"
In an instant the young man was
borne down by the friends of Georg 6,
and bound like a culprit ; finding rears•
tance vain, he submitted patiently to
his fate.
"Now," said Ford, "If you have any
thing to say, we will hear it—but be
brief."
"I have nothing to say before a mob
like this," replied Richard indignantly ;
"take me before some acknowledged au
thority, and I will tell all I know about
the matter. Let me warn you, howev ,
er, to beware how you treat me, for I
am an innocent nine."
"You murdered George Moxon," said
Ford, "we, his friends, are his avengers.
We will give you until to-morrow mor
ning to prove your innocence; when, if
you fail to do so, you must suffer the
penalty."
Richard eyed his aecusers sternly and
in silence, but opened not his mouth as
they led him away to a close, narrow
apartment, which was chosen as the
place of his confinement.
CHAPTER H.
IMPENDING FATE-PLACE OF EICECLTTION
Under the same roof with Mary Mox
on, Richard was not permitted to see
her face.
"Does she not know I am here"(" he
said to himself. "Does she know that
I am accused of taking her brother's
life—and am I a murderer in her eyes"(
Would 1 could speak with her."
From this the prisoner fell to reflect
ing on his probable fate.
"Thut cursed mob ! they will lynch
me before I am proved guilty!"
Richard was spirited, and had little
fear of death; yet the thought of the
terrible destiny that threatened him
caused him to shudder. He could only
hope for some escape.
He was alone in a distant room, the
window of which was fastened on the
outside as well as within, and the door
of which was guarded by two ofthe aven
gers of blood. Richard could therefore
think of nothing but submission to hix
fate.
When the prisoner was least expect
ing it he received a visiter.
It Was Mary Moxon! The friends of
George had given her permission to see
him, hoping that she might induce him
to confess, in order that their proposed
deed of blood might bear more the ap
pearance of justice.
Mary was scarce eighteen, tall, well
formed and beautiful. On the present
occasion she was very pale, and her
eyes and fair cheeks showed the traces
of recent weeping.
Richard ad , :ran • C'ed and would have ta
ken her hand ; but she repulsed him,
not angrily nor harshly, but with an ap
pearande of solicitude and sorrow.
"Touch me not," said she, "until I
know whether you are innocent of this
horrid crime, or guilty. Toll me now
truly,Richard," she continued, fixing
her eyes upon his own, "tell me before
God—did you kill my brotherl"
"Mary," , replied Richard, folding his
arms and regarding her with a look of
tenderness and pity, "if you do believe
that I took your brother's life, you do
right to spurn me—l blame you not if ,
you shudder and grow sick at the sight
of me ! But have you so mean an opin
ion of me as to credit the false reports
you have heard?"
"Then you are innocentl" said Mary
eagerly.
"As innocent as yourself !"
6, 1 knew it, I felt it !" sobbed the girl,
hiding Fyn face in her hands.
Was it the strength of love, that over
came every other feeling, or knew she ,
not what she didl She who shunned
the prisoner a moment before, now sank
into his arms and dropped her head up
on his bosom.
And Richard strained her to his heart
forgetting, at the moment, that he was
charged with shedding her brother's
blood !
But the transport was soon passed,
and Mary, recovering her self-possess
sion, asked him if he knew nothing of
her brother.
" Nothing," replied Richard, "more
than this. We met in the woods at the
spot where they say I killed him, high
words passed between us, and blows en
sued.
"0, Richard !" groaned the young
girl.
"In the struggle I dropped my knife
from my belt. He seized it, and gave
me this slight wound in my shoulder.-
1 had not thought this of your brother,
Mary, and with a feeling of deep sor
row, I bared my bosom, and bade him
strike, if 1 had ever given him cause to
hate me thus, to death. He seemed touched, and ung the knife upon the
ground, but was too proud to acknowl
edge his error; .1 would not stoop to
touch the blade that had been used to
wound, but turned away, leaving him
there. This, Mary, is all I know of the
matter, as I swear before the all-seeing
eye of Ileavenl"
"Richard," murmured Mary, "I can
not but believe you— but they—can't
you bring some proof of your innocence!
They will not credit your words, but
unless you prove what you say—O,
Richard ! I shudder to think of the re
sult !"
At this moment one of the self-styled
avengers came in and informed Mary
that her time was up, and led her away,
regardless of tears and distress.
"What did he say to your asked her
father in the presence of Ford and two
of his companions.
"That he is innocent."
"What morel"
With tears and frequent sobs the poor
girl went on to tell all Richard had said.
"Ha l" cried Ford, "he owns, then,
that they quarrelled ! What a lame
evasion to say that George struck him
with a knife, and that he did not return
the blow. What say you friendsl"
"He must die !" was the reply of all
says Moxon, who regsrded his agonized
daughter in silence.
Mary passed a night of unspeakable
anguish, and Richard one of anxiety and
hopeless sorrow. Yet he was calm, and
slept several hours before the light of
morning stole through his window.
Breakfast was brought into to him by
Ford, who at the same time informed
him that he had but two hours longer to
live. Such is the rash, merciless haste
of the lyncher !
Two hours passed away.
It was a beautiful autumn morning,
although there was a pervading melan
choly breathing in the drowsy, smoky
air far different from the brightness of
a summer day. It seemed a morning
heaven never designed to witness a de
liberate bloody vengeance !
Yet Richard was led out to suffer pun
ishment for the crime he was charged
with having committed, and it was by
the light of that morning's sun that he
beheld the preparations for his execu
tion.
It was on the borders of a grove. On
the one side was the beautiful woodland
and on the other a broad expanse of prat
rte, undulating like a troubled sea fixed
with all its billows, and stretching as
far away as the eye could penetrate the
hazy air.
Mary, wild with despair, and crushed
by sorrow, remained at home'while her lover was led to execution, and her fath
er, stern and stoical, was with her,
choosing rather to witness her grief than
the death of George's murderer. The
execution was to take place under the
direction of the blood-thirsty Ford.
Richard was to be hung. Already a
rope was attached to the lowest limb of
a stunted oak that stood out from the
rest of the forest trees, and a temporary
stage was erected for the devoted youth
' to stand upon, while the cord was ad
justed to his neck.
"Now, Dick," said .Ford, "let us see
your agility—jump upon the block."
"Untie his hands," said another, "se
that he can die like a decent man."
"As you say," returned Ford.
And Richards hands were according
ly set at liberty. He (hen stapped bold
ly upon the staging, and looked around
upon his executioners.
Ford would have mounted with him
to adjust the rope.
"Nay, be not at that trouble," said
Richard, with nn air of disnified author.
ity, which awed the old hunter ;
"I will
tie the rope myself But just hear me
say a few words far the benefit of your
consciences after you have murdered
me. I know you will hang me, and that
in half an hour I shall be a corpse ; but
even now, on the point of dropping into
eternity, I swear that you are murder
ing an innocent man. My blood is upon
your heads !"
, That is a bold lid" said Pord. with
a grim smile.
— "lnsolent villain !" exclaimed Rich•
and—"to insult a dying man! But know
I can resent all insult still."
The words had scarce escaped his
lips when he leaped like a tiger upon
Ford and hurled him to the ground.—
Then, before his companions could re•
cover from their surprise, he dashed
through them, and bounded down the
declivity like a deer.
CHAPTER 111,
TBE DOUBLE RACE
"Shoot him down! shoot him down !"
cried Ford, springing to his feet in a
rage.
But two of the company had rifles
with them, and as it would appear, nei
ther of them chose to take the individu
al responsibility of his death: for while
the fugitive was in full view, they fired
their pieces, with no more effect than if
they had been loaded with dust. With
4 6 - V
ati j inrtt 14
n curse upon their unskillful hands, Ford
dashed down the hill in hot pursuit of
Richard.
The woodland was between Richard
and his would-be executioner, and not
daring to attempt reaching it; he shot
boldly out upon the prairie. Ford and
two of his companions followed 'him,
while the remainder stood upon the
declivity watching With intense interest
the pursuers and the pursued:
Richard was fleet of foot, but the grass
of the prairie, all dry and loose, was so
long that it impeded his progress ; yet
it did not give his pursuers the advan
tage. He was sometimes lost to sight
in the ravines and hollows, and then he
would again appear on the summit of a
bold elevation stretching away towards
the hazy, indistinct outlines of the die•
tent hills.
'The fugitive gained ground upon his
pursuers, but they seemed loth to give
up the race. Richard approached a
squatter's hut far out on the prairie.—
The spectators of the strife watched him
closely, but soon another object attract
ed their attention.
A horseman ! He was approaching
the same hut, but lie was far beyond it,
and as he spurred his charger to his ut
most speed, it seemed that it was his
object to reach the hut before Richard.
But he had ten times the distance to
compass, and Richard was already sur
mounting the acclivity on which the cot
tage stood.
What could be the meaning of that
horseman's terrible speed!
He.might well lash his horse, for in
hot pursuit behind him, were two dar
ing savages, mounted on animals fleeter
than his own
Seeing the danger of the horseman,
Richard forgot the peril he himself was
in. Swift as he had run, he now quick
ened his pace, not to save himself, but
to rescue his fellow-man.
He dashed up the hill, burst unceremo
niouslsr into the cottage, snatched a burn
ing brand from the hearth, and issuing
forth, waved it above his head.
The horseman was now close to the
cottage, and the savages were not far
behind. With unerring haste Richard
plunged the brand into the grass, and
trailed the fire in a long line across the
horseman's path. There was a strong
wind blowing towards the savages, and
the dry grass of the prairie caught the
flames like powder. The flying horse
man leaped his steed over them at the
moment they started up, and sunk with
the exhausted animal to the ground.
In an instant, a broad sheet of flame
shot upward, and swept away across
the prairie s growing fiercer and larger
as it flew Careering over the erirtfi.—
The savages saw their danger; and
wheeling their horses suddenly, about,
struck out in a broad circle to avoid the
raging flames.
Half an hoer afterwards, all that broad
expanse of prairie was seen either black
arid bare, or burning ; and far away to
the right, at a distance, the eye could
scarcely attain, might have been seen
two dark specks moving slowly along
the earth. These were the two who
had scarcely escaped the fire.
But to return to the horsental
At the moment his horse overleaped
the flames, both fell; as I said before, to
the ground. In a moment Richard Was
by his side, and to avoid the flames that
began to creep through the crackling
grass against the wind, dragged! him to
a space of furrotved ground that surroun ,
ded the squatter's hut.
At the moment Ford and his compan ,
ions came up, Richard was assisting
the frillea wan to arise ; and notwith
standing the exciting scene they had
just witnessed, they had not forgot to
seize their escaped prisoner.
"Murderer!" exclaimed Ford, grasp
ing him by the throat, "1 have you now!
He had scarcely spoken when a strong
hand dashed him aside.
"Hands off !" tried a well-known
voice, "for he is not a murderer, but my
deliverer I"
The astonished lynchers looked at the
man who had now recovered from the
shock of his fall.
It was George Moxon.
Mary was awaiting in terrible sus
pense the return of the lynchers: She
had a faint hope, that her lover might,
by some interposition of Providence,
escapenay, it was rather the shadow
of a hope.
At the moment she was expecting the
dead,awful intelligence that Richard was
who shoul dbound into the cottage but
her brother George ! In an instant she
was in his arms; but the joy of seeing
him again was turned into bitterness by
the reflection that Richard had probably
suffered for his supposed murder.
The next instant, however, her fears
were at an end. Richard was before
her ! With a shriek of delight she sank
from her brother's arms upon the bosom
of her lover.
VOL. XIV, NO, 86
We need not attempt a description of
the joy occasioned by this meeting--the
joy of the two young men who had been:
enemies, but now were friends, of Mary
and of the stern old man her father.
George corrobo>'ated all Richard had
said concerning their last interview in
the woods and their quarrel, and eaVe
full explanation of his disappearance.—
He had been captured by a band &sav
ages, which had been pz'owling about the
neighborhood for several days; and
from whom he had escaped by breaking
his hands and mounting one of their
horses when they were least expecting
dueh a bold attempt.
When he had finished his narration;
he placed the hand of Alary within that
of Richard, declaring that Main Weuld
please him so well as to see his friend
his brother.
Let the reader imagine the rest,
bond Manners,
We have known a young man, slow;
sullen, heavybrowed, and ungracious{
who, whenever you speak to him, an
swers as if it were en effort to be even
decently civil; and who moreover, Sevin.;
ed to be quite content, and even proud of
his incivilty.
And we - lean to the charitable side
so far as to think this nothing more than
a bad habit of his which has insensibly
fastened upon him ; and that he goes
through the world—a world of mutual
dependence—little aware of the fact, that
so small a thing as his Manners is con
stantly prdduting Impressions, and fast
forming a reputation such as ten years
hence he may regret as the great blunder
of his life.
Would it not be well for every ynting
man to learn the truthful anecdote of
the rich Quaker banker, who, when
asked the secret of his success in life,
answered, "Civilly, friend, civilty !"
How much does it cost a man, either
old or young, to be truly civil in the in
tercourse of society 1 Rather, how
much does it cost a young man to form
this habit, which, if fortned; will sit upon
him, easily, gracefully, and profitably,
so long as he lives 1 Far more often de
pends on this little often despised civility
to the world, than any other single ad
ventitious circumstance by which men
rise and fall:
SUCKER CIELS AND THE SCgOOL MAK
TER.—We see in these times much pub
lished by Eastern Philanthropists, about
sending out boys and girls as teachers
to instruct our children in the way they
Should ttalk. In their anxiety for the
civilization and education of the rising
Western children, we beg them to send
us only such as are Strong of body, do
cile yet firm of mind—especially the
male portion of the tutors. We give
this advice owing to a freak or idee that
entered the noddles of a few girls down
south last Christmas, to havd a hollida'i
from their teacher. The girls barred
him out of the school room, and deman
ded as a consideration for opening the'
door, the privilege of Christmas and New
Year's days, and two pounds of raisins.
The story gdes that he acceded to those
terms ; but as soon as he got in, he bolt
ed his premises, the girls then Caught
and tied him, almost smothered him with
kisses, told him how much they loved
' him, and then carried him to a creels
about a quarter of a mile off, and soused
him bodily into the ice and water. For
all this kindness the pedagogue htta
brought a suit for damages against the
girls. We have not heard what dama
ges the jury gave. The master ac
knowledges that the girls showed no
malice, on the contrary they gave hint
several sweet kisses while he was in du
ranee, and called him a love of a teach
er I
A PALABLeHIT.—Father Mills aston
ished the boys of Torringford one Sab
bath, as he was giving an account of his
journey, to his congregation. Said he,
"I went up into Vermont, and found
many excellent farms, and was surpri
sed to see so much fine fruit. So I said
to the good people, how do you manage
to keep your fruit 1 Don't the boys steal
it? I lose pearly all mine that way."--.
"What!' ? they exclaimed, "boys steal
fruit! We never heard of such a thing.
Pray, where do you live?" "And I was
obliged to tell them," said the old man,
hanging his head, "that I lived in Tor ,
rtngford, in the State of Connecticut."
It has been decided that a breach cif
promise cannot be sustained unless a
gentleman offers himself and is accept
ed. Moonlight walks, gentle squeezes
of the hand, and all that sort of thing go
for nothing—they may be kept up until
tt►e parties are as grey as a pair of au. ,
peranuated badgers, but it takes him to
make the bargain, notwithstanding. So
girls, say "yes" the first time, and the
swain is hooked as sure as we are a cod
ash.