farmers-with a fear of Burgess before their eyes -talked of the blessings rather than the evils attending their daily labors. they could get pure liquor, have been temperate men ever since from necessity, and so would the world be, if its denizens should come to the same sensible conclusion. "said THE Temperance cause, of which so much is said at "the North," is quietly working its way MR. VAN BUREN is attracting a great deal of atamong the people of our Southern States, and we tention abroad by his courtly manners and happy are gratified with the unexpected fact, that Missis- faculty of "fitting in" to all sorts of society. The sippi is to-day the most thoroughly Temperance same qualities that made him so happily escape State in the Union; while Louisiana and Alabama from political committalism in this country, earry are rapidly abolishing the retail traffic from all their him triumphantly through the mazes of European interior towns. It would seem that the people of society. Mr. Clay was very fond, in his social the South come to "their conclusions" on the sub-moods, of talking of men and things of Washingject in the most philosophical way, and that their ton. Of Mr. Van Buren he had many amusing celebrations are gatherings where the utmost friend-reminiscences; the one following was perhaps his liness of feeling prevails. We have heard a very favorite. He said, that when Mr. Van Buren visillustrative story which will bear relating. Some ited at Ashland (just before the publication of the years ago, when the "Sons" first commenced their fatal Texas letters), he was his guest for several labors in Louisiana, the first anniversary celebra-days, and on one occasion he, with Mr. Van Buren, tion of a number of societies was held at Baton visited a race track in the neighborhood, to witness Rouge, the capital of the State. It so happened, the display of choice-blooded stock. Mr. Van Buthat, at the last moment, there was a "lack of ora- ren was entirely unknown to the people present, tors," and a committee was hastily organized to and followed Mr. Clay about with a smile of approsupply the deficiency. The gentleman selected bation at every thing he witnessed. While saunterwas Thorpe-so widely known for his Sketches of ing around, Mr. Clay said to one of the jockeys, Southern Life. It was in vain he urged, that, al- 'What horse is that?" "Martin Van Buren" was though a "temperate man," he was not officially the reply. Mr. Clay "nudged" Matty, and called enrolled among "the order." All objections were his attention to the fine proportions of his nameoverruled, and the extemporaneous speaker com- sake. While thus occupied, a plain old farmer came menced his address. Among the audience were a along, and learning the stallion's name-much to majority of the members of the Legislature, and the "old Hal's" amusement-remarked, “I should not peculiarity of the occasion had called out many like to have a colt by that critter." "And why other "hard cases." After the usual preliminaries, not?" said Mr. Clay, with emphasis. Why," the orator proceeded to plead the cause of temper- the farmer, in an oracular manner: "You see the ance, and assumed a position that had a "tremen-colt would slip his halter; he never could be dedous effect" among some of the heretofore scoffers pended on." Mr. Van Buren was greatly edified, at the "reform movement." Thorpe contended, and Mr. Clay had his own amusement in repeating that if people would indulge in intoxicating liquors, the story. they should never touch them except they were pure, and exactly what they were represented to be. THE following incident, which has been sent us (Great sensation among the hotel keepers.) He by a correspondent in Albany, in this State, "for went on to say, that, in the days of the Revolution, insertion" and preservation in "The Drawer," the intemperate man was only known by his rubi- we are informed may be relied upon as "perfectly cund nose. That, as he continued to indulge his true." The incident, it may be added, occurred in appetite, the nasal organ first assumed a suspicious the year 1834, twenty years ago, and was known redness that gradually grew brighter and brighter, to many of General Jackson's friends at the time: until the carmine tints corrugated into spots, and "A widow lady, in rather straitened circumassumed the glowing brilliancy of rubies; then Na-stances, had been keeping a boarding-house in ture, in her profusencss, threaded these splendid | Washington City; and during the general prostrasettings with azure veins, and the nose, once so tion of active business, growing out of the currency comely and pale, projected out in front as a beacon arrangements of that date, had become in arrears; light, informing all men that its owner carried the and that she might be enabled to pay some of her sign of a consumer of good liquor; and finally, most urgent debts, sent such of her furniture as she when said nose was gathered home to its fathers, could possibly spare to auction. it warmed up, as with a ray of sunshine, the sur- The purchaser was a clerk in one of the govrounding pallor, and even to the last shed a genial ernment offices; one of those public loafers,' of glow over the use of the social glass. But alas! which there have always been too many at Washcontinued the speaker, the times have changed. Inington and elsewhere,' who run in debt as far as these degenerate days, the intemperate man-how-they can obtain credit, and without ever intending ever much he may try to hide the habit from the to pay. The lady called on the auctioneer, the aucworld is known by his sunken eye, his attenuated tioneer called on the official, who proposed to pay cheek, his shriveled up and contracted nose; that, as soon as his month's salary was due. by its very death-like look, shows too plainly of The month rolled round, and June succeeded the ruin going on in the system. The reason was, March, and September June, without payment benot that human nature had changed, but that ardent ing made, to the great distress of the widow and spirits had; and what was once a thing that made uneasiness of the auctioneer. After further appli"the heart glad," was now a slow but sure poison; cation, the office-holder refused absolutely to do what once made the face glow with health, now any thing, alleging that it was wholly out of his prepared it with the expression of the grave. The power to pay. The sum was too large for the aucreformation produced by this argument reached tioneer to pay out of his own pocket, or he would many of the "most obdurate," and several sup-have paid it himself, so deeply did he feel for the posed "irreclaimable cases" making a solemn oath at the moment that they would drink no more until 66 poor creditor. "In this perplexity he concluded to call upon the President, and state the case, hoping that he might | of having seen one or more of those good men gathsuggest some mode of relief. He waited therefore upon General JACKSON with his narrative. "When he had heard the story, the old man's eyes fairly flashed fire: ered to his fathers. At length the great reaper bore away the shock of corn that stood ripest in Heaven's harvest-field. The good old preacher rested from his labors. The sexton soon followed, and "Have you got Mr. P- -'s note?' asked Old was buried near the gate. He had long served Hickory.' "No,' was the reply. "Call on him at once, then, and without speaking of the purpose for which you want it, get his negotiable note, and bring it here.' "The auctioneer accordingly asked P- for his note. "What do you want with the note?' asked the office-holding 'loafer;' 'I don't know of any body who would take it.' But sitting down and writing it, he added: "There it is-such as it is.' faithfully, safely passing one after another of his aged brethren into the house of death; and with the burial of the pastor his work was accomplished, and he laid himself down to sleep at the door. And now the old church was silent. The last words of admonition had been given; the last song of praise had gone up to Heaven; and the last prayer had found acceptance at the mercy-seat. Silent, all silent! "At the head of the grave-yard was buried the pastor, as if he still watched his flock. Directly in front was the chorister; and in a semi-circle around The auctioneer promptly returned to the Presi-him were the officers. The remaining portion of dent and handed him the note. He sat down, without saying a word, and wrote on the back of the paper: "ANDREW JACKSON.' "Now, sir,' said the General, 'show Mr. P the endorsement, and if he does not pay it, just let me know it.' "The first man the auctioneer met as he entered Gadsby's Hotel was Mr. P. "Ah! how d'ye do?' said he ; 'have you passed the note?' "Not yet,' said the other; but I expect to, without much trouble, for I have got a responsible endorser upon it.' "Nonsense!' said P-; who is it?' "The endorsement was shown him. He turned pale, then red; then begged the auctioneer to wait a few moments;' then went out, and in a very short space of time returned with the money, which was at once paid over to the widow, to the gratification of all parties." It would not have been very strange if this story should have transpired at once; nor would it have been very wrong if the Jeremy Diddler had been turned neck and heels out of office; but the following is the only sequel: "P-kept quiet in relation to the subject for years; but finally, on a remark being made in his presence that General Jackson never endorsed for any body whatever,' remarked that he himself knew better, for the General once endorsed for him;' and he produced, as evidence, the very note, to the great surprise of all who were not acquainted with the circumstances of the case. "As party bitterness has died away, 'and in view, lastly, of this subject,' let us take up the old slogan: "HURRAH FOR JACKSON "" It is very seldom, reader, that you will come across any thing in your reading more beautifully described than the subjoined limning of a deserted country village-church-a "hospital of souls" long since gone to their account-a silent church, with its tottering tower ever pointing up to Heaven, and its congregation of dead slumbering by its side, preaching a sermon audibly to the soul: "Many years ago, an assembly of Christians worshiped in our church, and all were very old. The officers were white with age. The pastor had reached his eighty-ninth year-a venerable old father in Israel. The ground where he rests is watched always by guardian angels. We have not many like him in our congregation. "Years passed, and each in its flight could boast the ground was occupied by graves corresponding with the form observed in the arrangement of the pews in the church. "The grave-yard was adorned with a quiet beauty. Willows were bending around the place, and flowers blossomed on every grave. A clear stream, from an unfailing spring, ran near the graves, gently murmuring; and pinks and violets bloomed in rich profusion along the path that led from gate to gate. There was a holy worship there. Choirs of birds sung praise, and every bud and blossom-altar daily sent up its morning incense. It was the prayer of the flowers, breathed silently to Heaven, and the answer came in the sun-light and the dew. "Well, there slept that congregation, year after year, year after year; and the tomb-stones began to lean forward like old men, and the inscriptions upon them grew dim, as eye-sight fails. The bier that stood near the gate had silently rotted down upon the ground, and rank grass had entwined a shroud for its covering. The sexton's spade was rusting beside his grave; the grave-yard had itself grown old; but still there sparkled the brook, emblem of the eternal stream. The flowers grew old and died in the fall, repeating the story of those who slept beneath them; and they came forth in new beauty in the spring, silently speaking, as they lifted their buds and blossoms toward Heaven, of a glorious resurrection. "The grave-yard was still growing old, and so was the church. All within was left as when the last sermon was preached, for the good villagers feared to disturb the quiet of the old edifice. The bell was rusting in the tower; the pulpit leaned to one side, and tottered to its fall;' the pews were decaying, the cushions were rotting. Silently as the fall of autumn-leaves, the glory of the inner temple was departing. The BIBLE was upon the dusty pulpit-desk: that was undisturbed by TIME. A record for ETERNITY, there was no decay among its precious leaves. It was the SOUL of the old church; and like him who once taught from its sacred pages, it remained unimpaired amidst the ruin of the tabernacle. "Think of the silence of half a century! Fifty years of dumb time! At morning-mid-day-evening; spring, summer, autumn, winter; silent-all silent! "I recollect it one still moonlight night, about the middle of June, many years ago; very late, when every stir and sound of moving life was quieted. The still moon bathed the old church tower and the grave-yard in a flood of dreamy light. Beautiful, very beautiful! A kind of solemn gladness 66 reigned among the tombs. Every tiny grass-blade AN Eastern correspondent sends us the annexed had clad itself in a moon-beam, and stood adorned" Clear Case" in the mind of a Rhode Island juror with a diamond. The rays were busy in beautify- 'many a long year ago:" ing the grave-yard, and each flower slept with its closed leaves sealed with a dew-drop, like a child slumbering with a tear just resting on the fringe of its eyelids. The stream, as it rippled along, was all of gleaning silver. One could plainly read the inscriptions on the tomb-stones, the night was so bright. "How much of Sabbath there is among the graves in a still moonlight night! How calm-how holy!" The very spirit of solemn silence and repose seems to breathe over this scene, so graphically is it depicted. "AT some time or other," says a quaint old English author, "sickness pulleth us by the ears, and makes us to know ourselves." And as we are making our selections for our "Drawer" from the long and multitudinous collections of past years, at this season when "Pestilence walketh in darkness and wasteth at the noon-day" in so many streets of crowded cities-at this very moment-how many are watching by the sick, the dying, or the dead! It is for the living-we who have the "blessed boon of life"-to think on these things. Some there are who have preferred a sudden to a lingering death. "When one comes to the last broken arches of Mirza's Bridge, rest from pain is his only prayer. Lengthened illness, the protracted death-scene, these are not thoughtfully invoked for the helpless sufferer." Such lessons are for the living and one has most feelingly and faithfully depicted the emotions of a bereaved and stricken mourner, who has "laid them to heart:" "The months shift on and on, Years rapidly pass by, And yet still watch we keep The sick doth lie. The long, long night. "The drops with trembling hand, With nervous doubt. "The shutter half unclosed, "The moon so oft invoked, From which, with sick'ning sight, But marked our grief. "Oh, never after dawn, For us the east shall streak, With the same thoughts as then, "He was an old farmer, by the name of Kirby, and, as an Irishman would say, was somewhat 'innocent.' 'Once on a time,' as the story tellers say, the old gentleman was drawn or taken up to serve on the jury in one of the courts. He found his way to the court-house, and in due time was placed on the jury. The case before them was argued by the attorney for the plaintiff. Kirby paid the most careful attention to all that was said by the limb of the law;' and when he had concluded, thus broke forth: "Od faith, clear case, clear case!-the man's to blame-man's to blame!' "The lawyer for the defendant now made his plea, in an able argument, during which Kirby seemed much puzzled, and by sundry nods and shakes of the head manifested the confused state which existed within. When the argument was concluded, Kirby again broke forth: "Od faith, don't know-don't know: clear case clear case both sides!' "The Judge by this time began to understand the kind of character that had found his way into the jury-box, and thus addressed him: "Mr. Juryman, do you know what you have come here for?' THERE seems somehow to be a great difference in the world's estimation between a civil and a military Hero. But some deeds have been recorded of noble heroism in private, unmilitary station, which have not been excelled on the hardest-fought field that ever tasked the strategy or tested the bravery of the most renowned of the world's great generals. He was "as brave as Napoleon," who, some three or four years ago, at an extensive fire in some inland town in Massachusetts, having heard that a keg of powder was stored in an apartment of a building that was on fire, entered through the gathering flame and smoke, and without saying a word to impart fear to those who were endeavoring to quell the conflagration, bore from the burning building the already half-charred repository of the dreadful elements whose explosion would have carried "swift destruction" to a score of his fellow-men, and deposited it in a place of safety. There was a "brave man"-brave in a good, a humane cause. John Maynard was a brave man-one of the "bravest of the brave." Do you remember him, reader? Probably not. If you have heard of him at all, you have forgotten him. But his name is recorded "in the dispatches" of Humanity. He was nothing but a helmsman, a great many years ago, of a steamboat, called "The Jersey," on Lake Erie. He was a bluff, weatherbeaten sailor, tanned by many a stormy tempest; but he had a good and tender heart in his bosom, and was called "Honest John Maynard" from one end of Lake Erie to the other. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, and the nearest land, in the neighborhood of the town of Erie, on the southern shore of the lake, was about ten miles distant. The captain, coming up from his cabin, called out to a sailor: "Dick Fletcher, what's all that smoke coming out of the hold?" "It's from the engine-room, I guess," said the man. "Go down quick and see," said the captain, "and let me know. No noise-no alarm-quietly, now." "Can you hold on five minutes longer?" "I'll try, sir." And he did try. The flames came nearer and nearer; a sheet of smoke would sometimes almost suffocate him; his hair was singed, and his blood seemed on fire with the fervent heat. Crouching as far back as he could, he held the wheel firmly The sailor went below, and in a minute came with his left hand, till the flesh shriveled, and the back: "The hold's on fire! captain." The captain rushed down, and found the account was but too true. Some sparks had fallen on a bundle of tow; no one had seen the accident; and now not only much of the baggage, but the sides of the vessel were in a smouldering flame. All on board, passengers as well as sailors, were called together; and two lines being made, one on each side of the hold, buckets of water were passed and re-passed; they were filled from the lake, flew along a line of ready hands, were dashed hissing on the burning mass, and then passed on to the other side to be re-filled. For some minutes it seemed as if the flames were subdued. In the meantime the women were clustering round John Maynard. He was the only man unemployed who was capable of answering their questions. "How far is it to land?" asked one. "How long shall we be in getting in?" inquired another. "Is it very deep?" asked a third, in an agony of terror. "Can they see us from the shore?" demanded a fourth, in tones of despair. The helmsman answered as well as he could: "There was no boat; it had been left at Buffalo to be repaired;" they "might be seven miles from shore"-they "would probably be in in forty minutes;" he "couldn't tell how far the fire had reached," &c.; "but," he added, "we are all in great danger; and I think if there was a little less talking and a little more praying, it would be all the better for us, and none the worse for the boat." "How does she head?" shouted the captain. "West sou'-west, sir," answered Maynard. "Keep her sou' by west," cried the captain; "we must go ashore any where!" Just at that moment a draught of wind blew back the flames, which soon began to blaze up more furiously against the saloon, and the partition between it and the hold was soon on fire. Then long wreaths of smoke began to find their way through the skylight; and the captain seeing this, ordered all the women forward. The engineer now put on his utmost steam; the American flag was run up and reversed, in token of distress; and water was flung over the sails, to make them hold the wind. And still John Maynard stood by the wheel, though he was now cut off, by a sheet of smoke and flame, from the ship's crew. Greater and greater grew the heat. The engineers fled from the engine-room, the passengers were clustering round the vessel's bow; the sailors were sawing off planks on which to launch the women; the boldest were throwing off their coats and waistcoats, and preparing for one long struggle for life. And still the coast grew plainer, and plainer; the paddles as yet worked well; they could not be more than a mile from shore, and boats were even now starting to their assistance. "John Maynard," cried the captain. 'Ay, ay, sir!" said John. muscles cracked in the flames. And then he stretched forth his right, and bore the agony without a scream or a groan! It was enough for him that he heard the cheer of the sailors to the approaching boats; the cry of the captain, "The women first-every man for himself-and GOD for us all!" 44 And these were the last sounds he heard." How he perished was never certainly known. Whether, dizzied by the smoke, he lost his footing in endeavoring to come forward, and fell overboard, or whether he was suffocated by the dense smoke, his comrades could not tell. At the moment the vessel struck the boats were at her side; passengers, sailors, and captain leaped into them, or swam for their lives. All, save he to whom they all owed every thing, escaped. The body of John Maynard sleeps in peace by the side of green Lake Erie; his spirit was commended to his FATHER'S hands. Better than fame won at the cannon's mouth in the ardor of conquest; far better than battle "for that which perisheth," is the lasting renown of this soldier of Humanity. It is a pleasure to think that when years have rolled away his memory will be perpetuated, even in these desultory pages. THERE is a very amusing story told of old Andrew Jackson Allen, a kind of Caleb Quotem in the theatrical profession; now an actor, now a body-servant, next a blacksmith, and finally a maker of gold and silver leather masks, and other stage properties. He was known to hundreds who never set foot in a theatre in their lives. He was very deaf, and had an impediment in his speech which prevented his pronouncing an m or an n correctly. "I bust talk," said he one day to a friend, "I expect, as lo'g as I live, as if I'd got a perpetual cold id by 'ed. I cad't prodoudce addy thidg that's got ad eb or ad ed id it, as it should be prodoudced." Allen was a sturdy American; and on one occasion he went around portions of the South, engaged in sending up a series of balloons, in opposition to an old Frenchman; appealing in his advertisements to the patriotic feelings of his "patrons" to sustain his balloons, on the ground that they were the "true American article," while those of his rival were decidedly French. In the course of his peregrinations he went into Virginia, causing his balloons to ascend from every village. At one of his stands he found great difficulty in getting together the proper materials for generating gas; nevertheless he advertised that the exhibition would take place; and providing a quantity of the spirits of turpentine to burn under the balloon, he hired a large garden, into which the Virginians flocked in great numbers, each paying fifty cents at the gate. When the hour of ascension arrived the exhibitor found that, with all his exertions, it would be impossible to cause the balloon to mount! He had a number of juvenile assistants, who were busy about the inner enclosure, and to them he addressed him self, first handing an old "bull's-eye" watch to the foremost. "Look a' here, boys, I've got to go a'd purchase sobe bore sulphuric acid: you take this watch, a'd whed the hadds p'idtes to the hour of two, set fire to this here turpedtide. Do you hear?" The boys said they did hear, and promised to obey instructions implicitly. And they were as good as their word. The master-spirit made his way to the gate, where he requested the door-keeper to "ha'd over the fudds:" "There's such a crowd dowd there," said he, "that there's do telli'g wa't bay happed id the codfusiod." He mounted a pony which he had wisely provided for the purpose, and galloped off for the drugstore; but mistaking the way, he found himself, at precisely two o'clock, on a very high hill overlooking the scene of his late operations. "When they were going to be wed, "When Peter found his love was lost, And there he was in crimson dress'd, By bloody In-ji-ins. "When Lizianny heard the news She straightway went to bed, And never did get off of it Until she di-i-ed! "Ye fathers all a warning take- THERE is a moral-and "the times give it proof" The boys, as we have said, were true to their promise, and communicated the fire to the turpen--in the ensuing quatrain; but how about the gramtine at the appointed time. The balloon went up, but it was in small flaky fragments; and the humbugged Virginians began to look about for the opertor-but in vain! With six hundred dollars in his pocket, Allen was wending his way toward some city where gas could be more easily generated. In giving an account of the affair, he said: "Codfoud the idferdal thi'g! I fou'd there was do use id tryi'g to bake it rise; so as I dislike baki'g apologies, I thought I would bake byself scarse, which I did so; a'd whed I got od that hill, a'd looki'g back, see that the boys had set fire to the ballood, such a sboke rose up that it looked like a you'g Soddob a'd Goborrah!" SOME wag enumerates the following among the Drops of Comfort generally administered by friends:" "Reading a newspaper on a railroad, containing an account of Five-and-twenty lives lost!' on the same road, and near the same place, only the day before! "Losing a small fortune in an unlucky speculation, and all your friends wondering how you could have been such a fool.' "Putting on a white neckcloth, which you fancy becomes you, and being hailed all the evening as 'waiter !' mar of the same? It seems to "knock" old Priscian, and yet it has found defenders: "Thus when two dogs are fighting in the streets, THERE is no better advice-next to "temperance in all things"-as to the avoidance of what would assist a disease like the cholera, for example, than Hood's directions as to health, in a letter to a friend: "Take precious care of your precious health; but how, as the housewife says, to make it keep. Why, then, don't smoke-dry it, or pickle it in everlasting acids, like the Germans. Don't bury it in a potato pit, like the Irish. Don't preserve it in spirits, like the barbarians. Don't salt it down, like the Newfoundlanders. Don't pack it in ice, like Captain Back. Don't parboil it like gooseberries. Don't pot, and don't hang it. A rope is a bad 'cordon sanitaire.' Above all, don't despond about it. Let not anxiety have thee on the hip.' Consider your health as your greatest and best friend, and think as well of it, in spite of all its foibles, as you can. For instance, never dream, though you may have a 'clever hack,' of galloping consumption, or indulge in the Meltonian belief that you are going the pace. Never fancy every time you cough you are going to pot. Hold up, as the shooter says, over the roughest ground. Despondency, in a nice case, is the overweight, that you may kick the beam and the bucket both at once. In short, as with other cases, never meet trouble half way, but let him have the whole walk for his pains. I have even known him to give THE often-quoted adage, “Poeta nascitur, non fit"-a poet is born, not made-has become perhaps something musty. The thought has been bet-up his visit in sight of the house. Besides, the best ter expressed in a very "free" poetical rendering: "A man can not make himself a poet, No more 'n a sheep can make itself a go-at !" The author of "The Sorrowful Death of Peter Gray and Lizianny Querl" has proved, however, after the manner of Mr. Samuel Patch, that "some things can be done as well as others," even in poetry; “in token of which" please observe the following: "My song is of a nice young man The State where Peter Gray was born "This Peter Gray did fall in love Was Lizianny Querl. fence against care is ha ha!-wherefore care to have one around you whenever you can. Let your 'lungs crow like chanticleer,' and as like a game cock as possible. It expands the chest, enlarges the heart, quickens the circulation, and, like a trumpet, makes the spirit dance.'" |