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WILLIAM BREWSTER, } EDITORS.
SAM. G. WHITTAKER,
Song of the Bachelor.
."Queen :Vary's Escape."
Funny and free are the bachelor's reveries,
CheerHy, merrily passes his life,
Netting. know; ho of connubial deviltries,
Troublesome children and clamorous wife;
Free from society, care and anxiety,
Charms in variety fall to his share,
Bacchus' Misses and Venus' kisses—
This, boys, this, is the bachelor's fare.
A wife, like a canister, chattering, clattering.
Tied to a dog for his torment nnd dread,
All bespattering, bumping and battering,
Hurries him, worries him, till he is dead.
Old ones are two devils flaunted with blue devile.
Young ones are new devils, raising despair ;
Doctors and Larsen, combining their curses,
Adieu to full purses and bachelor's fare.
Through, such folly, days, once sweet holidays,
Soon are embittered by wrangling .d strife;
Wives turn jolly days to melancholy clays,
All perplexity , and vexing one's life,
Children are riotous, maid servants fly at us,
Mamma, to quiet us, growls like a bear ;
And 'Molly is brawling, and Polly is sn
While Dad is recalling his bachelor's titre.
When they are older grown, then they are bold
_ er grown,
Turning your temper and spurningyour rule,
The girls thro' tbolislineso passion or mulishness
Parry your wishes and marry a fool.
The boys will anticipate, lavish and dissipate,
All that your buoy pate hoarded with care ;
Then tell me what jollity, fun and frivolity,
Equals in quality, bachelor's fare ?
WWI PICAOAVV I S COT.
PROM A SUIPMASTEICS LOU 1100 K,
On my last voyage to Bristol the owners
of the ship went with me. The whole
cargo belonged to them, and they not only
wished to do some business in England but
they also had a desire to travel some. lice•
side the three owners, I had four passeng
ers in the cabin. The passage irons New
York to England on that occasion was the
most severe and stormy I ever mado. I
have experienced heavier storms, but nev
er such continued hard weather. The old
ship was on a strain the whole of the tune
and though I run her into the Avon, with
out losing a lift, or an important spar, yet
she had received much damage. Her
main mast was sprung, her rudder during
ed, her timbers strained, and for the last
week her pumps had to be kept going all
the time, owners, passengers, officers and
all, doing their share of work at the brakes.
As soon as we could get the cargo out,
the ship hauled into the dock for repairs,
we found, upon examination, that it would
be a week before she could be fit for sea;
and if she had all the repairs she absolute
ly needed, it would take her nearer two
weeks. A contract was made for the job,
and one of the owners agreed to stay by
and superintend the work. 'I his left me
at liberty, and I began to look around for
some place to visit. I had heard much of
Salisbury Plain. The famous stonehedge
was there, and so were three other relics
of Roman ant British antiquities. Accor
dingly to Salisbury Plain I resolved to go.
When I went on board the ship to make ar
rangements with the owner, who had re
mained there, I found one of the passen
gers just leaving. His name was Nathan
Leeman. Ile was a young man, not more
than thirty years of age, and I supposed
him from his features and idiom, to be an
Englishman. I told him I was going to
Salisbury, and he informed me that he was
going the same way.
Leeman had been intending to take the
stage to Devizes, and from thence to take
some of the cross coaches ; but I had re•
solved to take a horse and travel where,
nod how, and when I pleased, and he lik
ed my plan so well that he went immedi
ately and bought him a good saddle and
It was about the middle of the forenoon
when we set out, and I found out that Lee
man intended to visit the curiosities with
me, and then keep on towards London, by
the way of Andover and Chertsey. he ha
ving sent his baggage on Olean Salisbu
ry by the great mail route, which ran ma
ny miles out of the way. I foudd my
companion excellent company, and on the
way he told me passages from his omen life,
He was born in England, but this was the
first time he had been in the kingdom since
he was fourteen years old, and I was led
to infer that at that time he ran away from
his parents. During the last six years of
his resident's in the United States, he had
been engaged in 'Western land speculation
and he was now independently rich.
We took dinner at Bradford, a large man
ufacturing town, six miles southeast of
Bath, and as soon as our horses were res
ted, we set out again. Towards the mid
dle of the afternoon the sky began to grow
overcast, and we had the promise of a
storm. By five o'clock the great black
clouds were piled up in heavy masses and
it begat to thunder. At Warmanster, we
had taken the direct road to Amesbury, a
distance of fourteen miles, and when this
storm came close upon us we were about
half-way between the two places. I was
in no particular hurry, and as I had nn de
sire to get wet, I proposed we should stop
at the first place we came to. In a few
moments we came to a point where a small
crossroad turned off the right, and where
a guide board said it was five miles to Debt
I proposed we should turn in this by-1
way and make for Debtford Inn as fast as
possible, and my companion readily con
sented. We had gone a mile when great
drops of rain began to fall, but, as good for
tune would have it, we opted a small neat
cottage, not more than a furlong ahead,
through a clump of poplars. We made
for this place and reached it before we got
wet. There was a good sized barn on the
premises, and a long sheep shed connected
with the house. Beneath this shed we
drove, and just ns we alighted, an old man
came out. We told him that we had been
caught in a sto-m, and asked him if he
could accommodate us over night. Ile
told us we could have the best his humble
place could afford, and if we would put
tip with that we should be welcome. As
ed the landlord, doggedly—for Air. Vaug
han owned the little farm, it afterwards ap.
soon asour horses were taken cure of, we ?seared. 'All I know is, that you have
followed the old gentleman into the house. had the house and the land, and that for
Ile was a grey headed old man, certainly two whole years you have'nt paid me a
on the down hill side of threescore, and penny. You know I told you a month
his form was bent by hard work. Ilis ago, that you should have just one more
countenance was naturally kind and bone- I to pay ine. The month was up last night.
volent, but there were other marks upon Cats you pay me V
his brow than those old age. The moment I 'No !no !—God knows I can't.'
I saw him I knew he had seen much suf. 'Then you must leave the house.'
fering. It was a neat room to which we 'Wh en
were led, a living room, but free from dirt er n n i g h t !,
and clutter. An old woman was just buil- 'You do not mean that, You will not
ding a fire for supper, and as we entered turn us out as quickly as— ' ll °
she arose from her work. 'Out upon your posting. What do you
'Some travelers, wife, caught in a show. mean b y t h at ? y ou had notice a month
er,' said the old man. ago. Ilow long a notice do you suppose I
'Surely, gentlemen, you are welcome,' give If you have'nt had time in a month
the woman said in a tone so mild and free to move, then you must look out for the
that I knew she spoke only the feelings of consequences. To night you must move
her soul. 'lt's poor fare we can give, but it you '.runt a shelter, you may gm,
the heart o' the giver must e'en make up old house at the horse pond.'
for that.' I 'l3ut you know there is not a window in
I thanked the good people, and told i i t .'
them I would pay them well for all they
did for us
Speak not of pay,' said the woman, ta
king the ten-kettle from the hob and hang.
ing it upon the crane.
'Stop, wife,' uttered the old roan tremu
lously. 'Let not your heart run away with
ye. If the good gentlemen have to spare
out of their abundance, it becomes not such
sufferers as us to refuse the bounty.'
I saw the woman place her apron to her
eyes,'but she made TM reply. The door
close by the fireplace stood partly open,
aid I saw a room beyond, a bed, and I was
sure there was some one in ii. I asked
the old man if he had sickness.
'Yes,' sail he, with a sad shake of the
head. 'My poor boy has been sick a long
while. He's the only child I have—the
only help I have on the little farm—and
he has been sick till the spring and summer
I've taken care of the sheep, but I could
not plant. My wife, God bless her,shares
the trial with me, and I think she takes the
'No, John, don't say so,' uttered the
wife, 'no woman could do the work you
'1 don't mean to tell too much Marga.
ret, only 3"ou know you've kept me up.'
A call from the sick room took the wife
away, and the,old man began to tell me, in
ans•vr to my inquiries, some of the pecu
liarities of the Plain, for we were on it
now, and 1 found him well-informed and
intelligent. At length the table was set
out, and the clean white spread, and were
invited to sit tip. ‘Ve had excellent white
brend, sweet butter, some stewed damsons,
and a capital cup of tea. There were no
excuses, no apologies—only the food was
before us and we were urged to help our
selves. While we were eating the rain
ceased falling, but the weather was by no
means clear, though just as we moved from
the tabls a gleam of golden light shot thro'
the window from the setting sun.
It may have been an hour after this—it
was not more than that—when a wagon in
which were two men, drove up to the door.
The old man had just come from the barn,
and it was not yet so dark but we could see
the faces of the men in the wagon. They
were middle-aged men, one of them habi
ted in a sort of a hunting garb, and the
other dressed in black clothes, with that
peauliar style of hat and cravat which
marks the officer. I turned toward our
host for the purpose of asking if lie knew
the newcomers, and I saw lie was very
pale and trembling. A low deep groan
escaped him, and in a moment more his
wife moved to hie side, and put her arm a
" LIBERTY AND UNION, NOW AND FOREVER, ONE AND INSEPARABLE. "
HUNTINGDON, PA., WEDNESDAY, APRIL 30, 1856.
round his neck. She had been trembling,
but that groan of her husband's seemed to
call her to herself.
'Don't fear, John,' she said softly. They
can't take away ow love, nor our souls
Cheer up. I'll be a support to ye, John,
when all else are gone.'
A tear rolled down the old man's cheek,
but when another started, he wiped it away
and having kissed his wife he arose from
his chair. Just then two men entered.—
Ile in the jockey coat came first, and his
eyes rested upon Leeman and myself.
'Only some travellers, Mr. Vaughan,'
said our host.
So Mr. Vaughan turned his gaze else
where about the room, and at length wire
fixed upon the old man.
'Well,' said he, 'what about rent ?'
'We haven't got a penny of it yet, sir,'
answered our host, trembling,
'Not a penny! Then how'll you pay me
'Alas ! I cannot pay it. You know \Val.
ter has been long siolt. and every penny I
could earn has been paid the doctor. You
know he was to earn the rent if he had
don't know anything about It,' return•
'Beggars shouldn't be choosers,' remar
ked Mr. Vaughan. 'lf it hadn't been for
hunting up this officer, I should have been
here this morning. But it Isn't my fault,
Now I can have a good tenant right off,
and he wants the house to-morrow. Su
there's not a word to be said, I shall take
your two cows, and your sheep and if they
go for more than twenty pounds, after ta
king out the expenses, you shall have the
The poor peasant •gazed for a moment,
half wildly into the landlord's face, and
then sank down into his chnir,and covered
his face with his hands.
'My cows !my sheep !' he groaned spas
modically. 'Oh, kill me and have done
with it !'
'ln God's name, Mr. Vaughan,' cried
the wife, 'spare us them. We will leave
the cot, and wo will work with all our
might until we pay you every farthing, but
do not take away our very means of life.
Aly poor boy will ore ! 0 you are rich,
and we are poor !'
'Nonsense !' uttered the unfeeling n'llan.
used to such stuff. I make a living
by renting my farms, and this farm is one
of the best I have. A good man can lay
up inure than ten pounds a year here.'
But •ve have been sick,' urged the wo•
'That isn't my fault. If you are pau
pers, you know where to go to get taken
care of. Now I don't want another word.
Out you go, tonight, unless you pay me
the twenty pounds, and your cows go too.'
I was just upon thu point of turning to
my companion, to ask him if he would not
help me to make up the sum, for I was de
termined that the poor folks should not be
turned out thus. The woman had sunk
down, she too, had covered her face with
her hands. At that moment Nathan Lee
man sprang to his feet. Ells face was
very pale, and for the first time I saw that
tears had been running down his cheeks.
'Look ye, sir,' he said to Vaughan,
'how much do these people owe you V
''Twenty pounds,' returned he, regarding
his interlocutor sharply.
'And when did thisamount come due in
this year 1'
.lt was due just one month ago. The
rent is twelve pounds, but I allowed him
four pounds for building a bridge over the
'Show me the bill.'
The man pulled out a large leather pock
etbook, and front thence he toolc a bill. It
was receipted. Leeman took out his purse
and counted from thence twenty golden
sovereigns. He handed ;,hem to the land
lord, and took the bill.
believe that settles the matter, sir,' my
companion said, exerting all his power to
'Yes, sir,' returned Vaughan, gazing
first upon the men who had given him the
money, to see if he was in earnest, and
then turning to the window to see if the
gold was pure. 'Yes, sir,' he repeated,
'this makes us all
'Then 1 suppose we can remain here
'Yes ! provided I can have my pay for
the month that has elapsed and whilst the
'lt is right you should have your pay,
sure. Come to.morrow, and I will arrange
it with you—only leave as now.'
Mr. Vaughan cast one more glance about
the room, but without speaking farther he
left, and the officer had to follow him, with
out having done anythiw_ to earn a fee,—
As soon as they were g•ine, the old man
started to his feet.
, Sir; said he, turning towards Leeman,
, what means this ? Do you think 1 can
ever pay you back again ?'
'Sometime you can; -Named my corm
'Yes, yes. John,' said the wife, some
time wo shall surely pay bint.'
'Alas ! when 1'
'Any time within a month will answer}'
Both the old people looked aghast.
'0 ! You have only planted more mis
ery for us, kind sir,' ccieJ the old man.—
We could have borne 'to have been strip
ped of.our goods by ti o landlord, better
than we can to rob a noble friend. You
must take our stock— or, caws and sheep.'
'But not yet,' resume.; Leeman. Once
you had a boy—a wild wayward child.'
'Yes,' murmured the old man.
'And what became GI him ?'
For some momenta t:ie father was silent
but at length said,
'Alas he fled from home, long years ago.
One nijit—we lived t' en for frorn here,
a lot of other youths, most of them older
than himself, and went into the park of Sir
Thomas Boyle and carried away two deer.
Be was detected, end to escape punish
ment, he fled,—and 1 Lave—not—seen
him since. But Sir Thomas would not
have punished him for he told me so after.
'And tell me, John Leeman, did you ne
ver hear from that boy P
'Never,' answered the old man.
As soon as I heard my companion pro.
nounce the old man's name, the truth
flashed upon me in an instant, and I was
not alone in my conviction. The quick
heart of the mother had caught the spark
of hope and love. At that moment the fire
upon the hearth blazed up, and the light
p ured out into the room, my companion's
face was fully revealed The woman rest,
and walked towards him. she l a id h er
hand upon his head, and trembling she
Tor the love of heaven don't deceive
inv. But speak to ate—let ate call you—
'And I should answer, for that is my
name r spoke the man, starting up.
'Aid what should you call mo ?' the
.Nly MOTHER r
The fire gleamed more brightly upon
the hearth, and I saw the aged woman up
on the bosom of her long lest boy. And
then I saw the father totter up and joined
them—and I heard the murmured words
of blessing and joy, I arose and slipped
out of the room and went to the barn; when
I got there I took out my handkerchief
end wiped the tears from my cheeks.
It was an hour berme I returned, and
then I found all calm and serene, save the
mother, who was still weeping, for the
head of her returned boy was yet resting
upon her shoulder, and ber arm was about
his neck. Nathan arose as I entered, and
with a smile lie bade mo be seated.
'You know all, us well us I can tell you,'
said he. 'When we first stopped here, I
had no idea of finding my parents here, for
when I went away, sixteen years ago,
left them in Kingsthrope upon the Ken. I
knew them, of course, but I wished to see
if they would know me. But from thir
teen to thirty is a changing period. I think
God sent mu here,' he added in a lower
tone, 'fur only think what curious circum
stances have combined to bring 'no to this
It did seem truly as though some power
higher than our own had brought all this
about. But at all events, there was a high
er power thought of that night beneath the
peasant's humble cot, for God was praised
again and again.
On the following morning, I resumed
my journey alone, but had to promise that
I would surely call there on my return. I
went to Salisbury, from thence to Winche
ster, and thence to Portsmouth, to see the
great ships of war. I returned to the cot
in eight days, and spent a night there.—
Money possessed some chnrms for it had
not only given to the poor peasant a home
for the rest of his life, but it had brought
back health to the sick boy. An export
enced physician from Salisbury had visited
him, and he was now able to be about. I
remained long enough to know that an ear
thly heaven had grown up in that earthly
cot. Nathan Leeman told me that he had
over a hundred thousand dollars, and that
he should take his parents and brother to
some luxurious borne, when he could find
ono to his taste.
That was some years ago. I have recei
ved some letters ftotn Leeman since, and
he is settled down is the suburbs of Brad.
ford, on the banks of the Lower Avon,
where he has bought n large share in sev
eral of the celebrated cloth factories of that
place, and I am under solemn promise to
visit him if ever I land in England again.
Food for the Sick.
What shall I eat ? Ilow often this
question is asked by the sick, or those with
delicate appetites. Nature demands food
hut the appetite does not crave for it, and
the tnintl of the feeble invalid cannot fix
upon anything that he will relish.
It stay relieve such sufferers to point
out a few suitable articles of food such as
are easily preparel, and as usually tempt
Here is one peculiarly New-England-
'rut some codfish to bits the size of a
pea, and boil it a minute in water to fresh
en it. Pour off all the water and add
some cream and a little pepper.
'flaw or smoked beef may ba prepared
111 tut- way. .ros
an tTg and stir it in, instead of cream.
These preparations are also good for a
relish fur a family for breakfast or ten.
Another excellent dish for sick or well,
and economical withal, is made by taking
a few cakes of pi!ot-bread and soaking
them till partially soft, after breaking them
into inenthfuls, cut a slice of fat salty pork
into very small pieces, fry it crisp, pour it
over the bread, and heat the whole in a
stove or oven, or in a spider.
Another plan is to pour over the bread
a sweetened butter gravy, or wine sauce
or the juice of stewed fruit or preserves
All are good.
A very excellent food for delicate atom•
achy may be made by sweetening water,
cold or hot, with refined sugar, and crumb
ling it into stale bread.
Bread and cider used to be a favorite
food in Yankee land, in old times. Swee
ten the cider, and crumb into it toasted
Beef tea is very well nourishing, if
rightly prepared. Take perfectly lean
parts of fat beef cut into cubes half an
inch square, and soak it some hours in
cold water, and then boil all together
for an hour. You may improve this by
adding a toasted cracker to each bowl full.
Mutton or chicken tea should be mode
in the same ray, and rice may be adJed
to either, to make food as well as drink.
Sometimes a piece of codfish or a slice
of fat salt pork, roasted upon live coals,
tempt e convalescent appetite when
nothing else will answer.
In making porridge oreorn or oat
meal, be careful to cook it well. Don't
think it done till it has boiled an hour.
Rice gruel does not need so much cook
ing. It should not be given to a person
of constipated habits. Simple boiled rico
is a delicate food for the sick.
Arrowroot, tapioca. falina, corn starch,
ore all the attune character—highly conceit
trated food. A good gruel may be made of
either, and flavored with sugar, nutmeg,
lemon. &c. Stalo broad, very dry, crum
' bled and made into gruel, is perhaps the
most digestible. Stale bread, toasted very
dry and then brown, and steeped in water
a lung time, makes a good drink for the
sick, and furnishes considerable nourish
In all cases of sickness, when the appe.
tite craves fruit we would give it, ripe and
fresh in its season, or preserved and cook.
cd in the most simple manner. Apples
for the sick should always be roasted. So
If the friend of the sick possesses a lit
tle skill and neatness in the preparation of
dishes, the patient need never say, “what
shall I eat ?"—X. I: Tribune.
A CAPITAL APRIL POOL HOAX.
The Evening News, of yesterday, tells
the following story:
..COMPLETELY SOLD,—As the Citronelle
train was on its downward trip to this city
yesterday morning, an incident occurred
that caused no little amusement to the pas
sengers. As the train was approaching
Eight Mile Station, a lady quite elegantly
attired with a lovely boquet of wild flower
in hand, and face concealed from view by a
handsome veil, was discovered standing on
the platform. The train was ordered to
stop of course, to take in the fair passen
ger—and stop it did. The gallant com
mander immediately jumped out upon the
platform, and cried out, as usual, 'all aboard
at the same time raising his hat and polite
ly extending his hand to help the lady a
board. 'She, however, did not recognize
his gallantry, but stood dumb and motion
less as a shadow. The astonished conduc
tor advanced, involuntarily raised the veil,
when lo ! instead of a face of human
flesh and beauty, the words, 'April Fool,'
inscribed on a black lighted chunk,' met
his nstornshed vision. He started back,
gave the signal to be olf with an unusual
violence jumped aboard exclaiming to the
inno, eat engineer in a stentorian voico
'who the told you to stop here !"
The sequel to the story was richer than
the foregoing. When the 3lississippi
train came along, a few hours later the
conductor observed a female figura stand
ing in the middle of the track, apparently
going toward the city. The train was on
a descending grade, consisted of eight cars
pretty well loaded, and wrs going with
considerable speed. Conscious of all this
the conductor had the whistle sounded fu
riously and shrilly, yet the figure moved
not. She must be deaf, thought the con
ductor, and ordered to slacken speed and
sound another alarm—but the woman still
stood in the direct path of the fire-breath
ing locotnotive; while the distance between
the two was being rather uncomfortably
Now, really alarmed the conductor shou
ted to shut the krak. ~,,
off steam ; but it was too lute. The cars
would not stop, and terrible to relate, the
cowcatcher caught the supposed woman
and tossed her full twenty feet off, to the
horror of the passengers and the undisgui
sed terror of the assistant superintendent,
conductor and engineer, floating through
whose excited brains were terrible vis
ions of inquest, grand jurors, solicitor, &c.
When the train stepped they hurried, with
pallid cheeks and throbbing hearts, to
the spot where the poor unfortunate rested
and lo ! it was the some bit ci wood, with
the came "April Foorthat so troubled the
Citronelle conductor. Just then a merry
peal or laughter came from the neighbor
ing wood, and a bevy of girls were seen
enjoying something very much, It tarn•
ed out that they were the clever authors
of the double hoax, and they are entitled
to a premium for the success of their in
•A Remarkable Executioner
We have observed several wonderful
stories of late, respecting the skill of the
Chinese executioners, who, it is said, can
strike oft the heads of their victims so
skilfully that the poor fellows them
selves never discover their loss until n mo
ment or two after they arc dead. We re
call to mind, however, the story of a Ger
man executioner, who far surpassed the
Chinese in professional dexterity.
Upon one occasion, it happened that a
criminal who was condemned to death had
n singular itching to play at ninepins; and
he implored permission to play once more
at his favorite game before he died ; then.
he said, he would submit to his fate with-
out a murmur.
't he judge, thinking there could be no
harm in humoring him granted his last
prayer ; and upon arriving at the place of
execution he found every thin„ prepared
for the game—the pins being set up and
the bowls being all ready.
lie commenced his favorite sport with
enthusiasm. After a While, the sheriff ob.
serving that he showed no inclination to
desist, made a sign to the executioner to
striko the fatal blow while he stooped for a
The executioner did so, but a ith such
exquisite dexterity that the culprit did not
notice or feel it.
Ile thought, indeed, that a cold breath
of air was Wowing upon his neck, and
drat% ing himself back with a shrug. hia
head dropped forward into his hands. He
naturally supposed that it was a bowl
which he had grasped, and seizing it firm
ly, rolled it at the pins. All of them fell;
and the head was heard to exclaim as it
rebounded (rein the farther wall ;
“Hurrah ! I've won the game !"
VOL. XXI. NO. 18.
Published by Request.
The Old Maid's Diary.
15. Anxious for coining out, and the sites
tion of men,
10. Begins to have some idea of the ten•
17. Talks of love in a cottage, and disinter
18. Fancies herself in love with some man
who has flattered her.
19. Is a little more difficult in consequence
of being noticed.
20. Commences to be fashionable.
21. Still more confidence in her own attrac
tions and expects a brilliant establishment.
22. Refuses a good offer because he is not
a man of fashion.
23. Flirts with every young man she meets
24. Wonders she is not married.
25. Rather more circumspect in her con
26. Begins to think a large fortune not
quite so indispensable.
27. Prefers the company of rational men
28. Wishes to be married in a quiet way
with a comfortable income.
29. Almost despairs of being married
30. Fearful of being an old maid.
31. An additional lore of dress
)2. Professes to dislike balls, finding it
difficult to get good pertners.
33. Wonders how men can leave the soci.
ety of sensible women to flirt with chits.
34. Affects good humor in her converstt
lion with men.
35. Jealous of the praises of women ,
H. Quarrels with her friends who are late
37. Thinks herself slighted in society.
38. Likes to talk of her acquaintances who
are married unfortunately, finds consdla•
lion in their misfortunes.
39. 111 nature increases.
40. Very meddling and officious. This is
4L If rich, as a derr.ier resort, makes lore
to a young man without fortune.
4:2. Not succeeding rails against the sex.
Psritamv for rani , : anti scandal coin
41. Severe against the manners of the age.
45. Strong predilection for religious obser
46. Enraged at his desertion.
47. Becomes desponding and takes snuff
48. Turns her sensibility to cats ■nd dogs.
49. Adopts a dependant relation to attend
50. Becomes disgusted with the world and
vents all her ill humor on this unfortunate
To Annie—The Little Bonnet.
There is a little bonnet, I see it shout
town, And a little feather on it that tosses
up and down ; Beneath this little bonnet
are two such sweet blue eyes ; Oh ! thou
cosy little bonnet—l shall waste myself to
sighs ! And what wonder? See it moving
down the crowded street ; The little fea
ther bowing over it, nodding t . ) the fairy
feet. Proudly goes the little bonnet proud
ly trip the little feet. And laughingly the
eyes beam out on every thing they meet.
Ho ! clear the way ye suckers of the white
nobs of your sticks ; Ho ! smokers of Ha
vannas, stop your puffing, ere that eye puts
a stopper on your fire with its liquid
briliancy ! Proudly goes the little bonnet
proudly step the little feet, and latighing.
ly the eyes beam out on everythig they
SNOWDEN VS BEECIIER.—In striking
contrast with the spirit of . Beecher, and
those clerical riflemen who armed their
flock with Sharpe's repeaters in the North
Church, New Haven, recently, was the
exhortation of Parson Snowden, of this
place on a certain occasion. At the close
of his preachment one Sunday afternoon,
lie addressed his congregation nearly as
follows :--"My breveren I am requested
to gib notice about a colored military com
pany that is perjected to be formed, and
I are quested to say that all dose in favor
of form's dat sojer company will meet
Chewsday evenin. Now breveren, dis
aint none o' my business, and I gib out
die notice because I are quested to do de
same. My breveren, I haint no objections
to you putting on de Silver onniments, out
in de street,and de belt and de fedders,
and de guns, but, my dear brevern, [rai
sing his voice,] I want ye to buckle on
de hull armor of righteousness afore you de
de muskets ! I want you to fight de bat
tle of the Lord afore you use de airthly
weepuns !" "Amen !" shouted the con.
gregation, and the colored company is not
(9:7. A plasterer named Charles Vibe,.
lock, who had spoken disrespectfully of
Slavery, was recently tarred and feathered
nt Cititon, Miss.