Decatur Eagle, Volume 1, Number 40, Decatur, Adams County, 13 November 1857 — Page 1

WEI)ECTHJ R E A (i L E.

VOL. 1.

KDECATUR EAGLE. ■rJLISHED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING. ■ on Mvin Street, in ths old School House, ■Joo Square North of J. & P Crabs’ Store. I Terms of Subscription : ■ ae year,sl 50, in advance; $1 75, within ■gonths; $2 00, after the year has expired, ■■liopaper will be discontinued until al! paid, except at the option of the ■i>lnr. | Terms of Advertising: square, three insertions, $1 00 subsequent insertion, 25 Kyu advertisement will be considered less square; over one square will be connas two; over two, as three, etc. I JOB PRINTING. ■ are prepared to do all kinds of JOB ■...1, in a neat and workmanlike manner, on reasonble terms. Our material for ■piapletiun of Job-work, being new and of ■>:est styles, we are confident that sutisfac■cau be given. 1 Law of Newspaper*. ■ Subscribers whodonot give express notice | ■>> contrary, are considered as wishing to I ■iiue their subscriptions. Wlf subscribers order the discontinuance of ■ papers, the publisher may continue to send I ■i'in'tila.ll arrearages arc paid. subscribers neglect or refuse to take their ■ ■rrsfrom the office they are held responsible : have settled the bill and ordered the j ■rr discontinued. ■ ji subscribers remove tootherplaces with- I ■informing the publisher, and the paper is I ■seiic to the funner direction, ti.ey are held lie Court hive decided that refusing of paper from the oilice, or removed and ■:ag it uncalled furmraiuA FiciEwvidence of! fraud. — jg A Heart For Every One. ■ BY CHARLES SWAIN. ■fill th re’s a heart for every one, B If every one cou'.d find it; ■ hen up and seek, ere youth is gone, ■ Whate’er the toil ne’er mind ill ■J\>r if vou chance to meet at last ■ With that one heart intended ■To be a blessing unsurpassed, ■ Till life itself is ended, ■How would you prize the labor done, I How grieve if you’d resign’d it; ■l'ot there’s a heart for every one, ■ If every cue Could, find it. Tnnhearts c • made, the angels say. ■ To suiteach other dearly; each one lakes a different way — ■ Away not found so clearly! ■ Yet though we s .ek, and seek for years, 1 The pains is worth the taking, ■ For what th s life of home endears j| Like hearts of angel’s making! I Then haste, and guard ’he treasure won, I When fondly you've enshrined It; ■ For there’s a heart for every one. ■ If every one could find it! I Advice, like water, takes the form of the ■»»el it is poured into. I Tall.—There’s a lady in this city so ■ligh-minded that she disdains to own she ■las common sense. We think she shows ■ il.c truth of it by giving utterance to the I above. » I ‘You havn’t opened your mouth dulling the whole session,’ complained a meinI her of the legislature to another represunIlative. ‘Oh. ves, I have,’ was the re|;!y; ‘I yawned through the whole ofyour hpeech.’ ape, in The proprietor of a forge, not remarkable for correctness of language, but who, by honest industry, had realized a comfortabl* independence, being called upon ut a social meeting for a toa- ~ gai’o: — •Success to forgery.’ •Call that a kind nun!' said an actor, speaking of an absent acquaintance—‘a aan who is away from bis family, and i lever sends them a farthing! Call that kindnss,’ Douglas Jerold chuckled. ■1 find, Dick, that you are in the habit of taking my best jokes, and passing them eff as your own. Do vou call that gentlemanly conduct?’ ‘To be sure, Tom.— 1 A true gentleman will always take a joke from a triend.’ Paddy was summoned to court for refusing to pay a doctor’s bill. Judge: Why do you refuse to pay? Paddy:hat for should I pay? sliure, did tie give me anything but some emetics, and thatnev•r a one could 1 keep on my stomach, at nil, at all. An unloving woman is an impossibility, unless, we can imagine a pillar of ice to stand against a July sun. But all wornen love, and that passionately. Those who profess that they do notaie only trying to hide a bitter disappointment behind the transparent mask of affectation. There is a good story told of a young man who had a light and incipient mustache. One day, while fingering the few hairs, he said to Harry. ‘Hadn’t 1 better dye this mustache?’ ‘Oh, no! replied Harry, 'let it alone, and it will die of itself. •

HARPER’S 3! 11,1,. I was the oldest son of the proprietor of Harper’s Mill, lam not ashamed to own that my father was a miller—the good old miller, whose whitened locks may Heaven forever bless! Wealth and i fame have been mine, Loth in my own and in foreign countries. At home and ' abroad, 1 have mingled with the highest, and received praise and homage from the I gifted and intellectual; yet never, when the honors of the world seemed most to i await me, and when the foam in my cup was sparkling highest and brightest, have 1 forgotten that 1 was the son of Thomas Harper the miller. My younger brother had begged to remain with my father at the mill; but my father, whose business had always been good, was abundantly able to give me my choice of my future life, and I eagerly seized upon his consent to establish iny- | self at college, I passed through with i honor and credit to myself, and was for- ; tunateenough to obtain a situation, part-I ly as travelling companion to a lad from from one of the Southern States. I road all over Europe; saw everything i worth seeing; visited ruins, temples, ■ churches; reveled in music, painting, and ! sculpture; and enjoyed all with the en- ' thusiasm of a young and romantic trav- 1 ; eler. My companion, Philip Loftus, was a boy of strong natural sense, intermin-1 ’ gled with a keen perception of the ludicrous. Everywhere he was well received lon account of his never-failing fund of i good humor, and his talents and accquire- ! ments. | While absent, I had made many drawlings of the old mi.!, which I had delightled to show Philip, as being the beloved : and picturesque home of my childhood. The scene struck Lis fancy, and he never tired of admiring the random sketches which 1 had made of its various points of beauty. ‘Wl.cn we return, Philip,’ I often said to him, ‘you shall see the old place under the softest influence of our summer sky; you shall then acknowledge that we have seen no place of wilder interest, or one of more romantic situation, in Europe. I keot my word; and immediately on our return, after having visited Lis Southern Lome, we preceded to my father’s residence. All through the latter part of our journey towards home, we had glimses of snch delicious landscapes at. Lave seldom greeted our eyes in foreign lauds. Philip was delighted, and ween we arrived in sight ol Harper’s Mill he warmly declared that ho never yethad seen its beauty surprissed. A few days served to strip us of our foreign dandvism. and induct us into the homely ways of Harper’s Mill My father Lad nearly given up the entire business of the mill into the hands of my brother, and was now enjoying the green old age of Lis well-spent life—wailing patiently to rejoin my mother, who had I 'on<r preceded him to the land of the inij mortals. In my boyish days, I hail held a ten- ’ tier affections for my cousin, Ida Harner. ■ Our fathers were brothers; but while mine had been contented to remain at his rustic mill, Stephen Harper’s ambition had lied him into"the speculating ways of the j great city. Here he had prospered beyond his most ardent hopes, and Ida was ; now no longer my little playful cousin, . but a wealthy heiress, basking in the noontide sun of wealth and fashion. Often as I thought of her and her little sister Caroline, 1 wondered if, amidst the glitter that surrounded them, the warm sunshine of the heart had not laden away. I resolved as soon as Philip’s visit should terminate, to ascertain what had become of Ida’s old affections for me, But while waiting for this, 1 happened to read the I announcement of Caroline’s marriage in the newspapers, and soon after I heard a detailed account of the same from the lips of one of my old college friends. It seemed that it was from no very strong preference for each other, and from Ino very exaggerated idea of love in any way, that Frederic Sumner and Caroline I Harper came together. The lather of the bridegroom had long held strong ‘ business relations with the father of the bride. ‘Propinquity, as the lady in some old novel keeps constantly harping upon, : did the whole. They married because they were continually thrown in each other’s path, and because no one competed with them for the heart of either. Mr. Harper ‘shelled out,’ as young Sumner called it, handsomely. The • bride’s clothes and jewels, her plate and furniture, were all selected without regard to expense, at the most fashionable establishment. and cost quite as much as the elegant house which Sumner’s father transferred to their immediate possession. ■Treading the same walks of life,’ be ! said—‘standing upon the same plane of society, there were none of those ineffable gauche'ries to be enacted, which always • happen where one party is above the oth- ■ er, and the higher-breU acquaintances of ' the one have to condescend to the lowerbred associates of the other.

“Our Country’s Good shall ever be our Aim—Willing to Praise and not afraid to Blame.

DECATUR, ADAMS COUNTY, INDIANA, NOV. 13, 1857.

J .1 supposed, by what my friend! said, il.at all was smo< th and fair in ;.,y . ’ i cousin s lot. No cloud from the ungeuial j ; Laden-colored sky of poverty lowered '] upon the young couple. If’the bright! i sunshine ol the heart and affections was 1 nut there were gilded trappings of wealth ' 1 j and fashion—and the latter are preferred j to the former. So the Curistmas holidays, my friend I 1 , told me, had found them settled with all ’ the appointments, privileges, and invest- ' ments of the rich and fashionable. Parj tics were given in r urn, theatre and op- • 1 era boxes kecuiud for the season, mid all the appliances for a gay, if not an abso-' lately dissipated winter bargained for. It was no wonder that, in the style that pre-1 vailed throughout lhe families of Harper ' and Sumner, one of them should have forgotten that lie, at least, was not born 1 into that magic circle, but came into it I by degrees, and in ways which ho had J j rather not remember. Mr, Stephen Harper did not lik« ret- ■ rospectiuu; he would have said; ‘Don’t I tell me what I have been, but tell me what lam now.’ He did not even li-ke to think ' iof his brother, the miller, at Harper’s I Mill; and snll more sensitively would he ! flinch from the idea that away oil in ar,: , obscure country town there was once a j miserable old farm-house, with its shat- J I tered roof and tumbled-down chimneys, and empty barns and granaries, where he | Stephen Harper himself, first opened his 1 eyes on this changeable world. He did! not love to remember that his eldest broth-1 er, the miller, had impoverished himself! to lake his widowed mother, and his younger brothers and sisters, into bisown family; had given Stephen Lis li r st start ' iin life, and had given the two feeble sis- ■ i lers and bed ridden mother that assistance ! i which Stephen, in his wealth, had never I thought of sharing with him. All this: j was pei iectly true; but Stephen Harper, j ■ esq. never believed it. lie ignored the ' very name of Harper’s Mill—stiff more than of Harper’s farm, the dilapidated ' place where he was born; an had so often j , told the story ol his being an only son, . I and of his parents dying in his boyhood, ’ in easy circumstances, that all his friends ’ 1 . received that versii-n of Lis life. I Like old Col. T hronton, who made him- j | self the kero of many Dames, until no. ' came really to believe in his own exploits ’ 1 Mr. Harper at last began to put faith in ■ I lhe statements he bad manufactured so ; I often. All this 1 heard from my friend, ‘ and it did not stimulate me at all to wish I for a renewal of intercourse with the family of my uncle. And yet there was lhe j lung cherished image of my cousin Ida : rising fresh, and bright, and beautiful, on I ' my vision as I remembered her in her an- j • gel childhood. Surely, I thought, so fair a promise i must ere this have realized as fair a noon.! I Ida Harper could not be very different to’ ‘ i the being I bad known in my boyhood. — j •j I remembered our last parting. I was at 1 the venerable age of liiteen, and she was ’! some two years my junior. Ten years i ■ | had elapsed, and her father had grown ; : j rich and poweriul, while mine still bore ■ i the appellation of the miller of Harper’s' ■! Mill. How would she look at my pre-1 ‘i sumption, should I ever dare to address I her again as my ‘little wife? | What though I was nothing but a poor I tutor, and Caroline had married the son of a merchant prince, did that place me :in fact upon any point beneath that on which Frederic Sumner stood? My heart | answered no, and 1 obeyed the impulse, and set out the next morning for town; | and in two hours after my arrival 1 was . I in the presence of my cousin Ida, i! Dear soul, she had not kept me wait- ! ing one moment; but in the simplest of :: morning dresses, had flown ovei lhe stairs ' it with the card Still in her hand, which 1 had sent up by the servant, and on which ■ 1 had wriusn ‘Gilbert Harpe?', of Harper,s Mill.’ She bad remembered me, . then, through all lliesn long years, and ! she now came up to me with a charming j frankness, that made me despise mysell . 'for the doubts 1 had cherished respecting her. Our interviews was long and pleas- , I ant, and we parted with the promise of ’. I speedily meeting again. 1 contented my- . I self with merely asking after her father ■ ' and Caroline, thinking I would wait sot • I I time to develop the way in which they .! would receive me. 11 I pass over the subsequent interview whi 'i 1 had with Ida. It is enough to r I say that our affections were irrevocably ’. engaged; but while the spell which united I us seemed to Ik drawing closer and cloI ser around us, still the dread came stron- ‘ ger upon us both of the opposition thatmight be expected from her father. I ’ dreaded it even more than Ida, lor I felt I could not ask her to disobey her lather, although my heart told me she, with her < present feelings, would cling closer to me • than ever if his consent was denied. J Time brought meat length into the presence ot Stephen Harper, and 1 learns ed instinctively what saver I might expect when my engagement to bis daugh-. I ter should be known In tiffs behavior

towards me in his own house, there was i too little of the ceremony duo to a stran- ! I ger, and too little familiarity which might' be expected from a relation. Altogether ! it was deeply offensive to me; and it must ’ : be cm,fessed that I paid little of that court winch ue might reasonably expect from one who aspired to his daughter’s hand. i Ail that! could at present obtain from 1 ' Ida, was an assurance undiminished affection, and a promise of correspondence; and wid '.Lis to console me for lhe want ; of h i presence, I returned to Harper’s I I trieu tube content with Ida’s letters,' out still there was an uncertainty about 1 ( my fate which distressed and annoyed me. 1 ■Sanguine as I was, 1 could see no prosI pect of ever marrying her, except against I i her father’s consent, and Ibis was pain-' ( in! to think of. Restless and discontented, I soon found my way back again to' town, where, with the means which my ' 1 father supplied me, I established myself; in business wliich would leave me half lhe I I year to visit Harper’s Mill, or to go abroad ' as I might choose. i Tiffs time I saw more of my uncle; and ' ! emboldened by what I fondly hoped was! increasing kindness on his part, I one day I almost bluntly asked him for the hand of ■ ' his daughter. He looked surprised, and ’ i briefly answered, that any man who would ' ■ become his son-in-law must show his en-1 terprise by amassing a fortune, as he him-1 ! self had done. •?.ml how is it, Mr. Harper?’ I asked.' ■ •Has nothing else any weight with you?! ! Do you consider the acquisition of wealth ! the only good in life? Ate talents, qua!-, ! ificatious, perseverance, and enemy, of ' account in your estimation?’ He frowned and bit his lips. 'lf a man ; lays claim to all those in reality, he said, | ■fie wiil show that he possesses them, by I [acquiring the wealth of which I spoke., ‘That may be paitly true, Mr, Harper, I answered; ‘but we rca 1 that ‘the race is I not always to the swift, nor the battle to I i the strong.’ Undoubtedly you can re-| i member many persons who started with ! you in the r< ?e of life, whom you considered as men cf enterprise, who have faint- j I ed Ly the way in pursuit of wealth.’ I He could not but own the t. uth of what j ; 1 said, although seemingly unwillingly to j l ‘Even vou yiurself, M>. llu. ; may not always enjoy the wealth you have attained. lie leaked daggers at me. ‘Do not name if,’ lie said. ‘I have not so lightly I j laid my plans—no danger of that kind ! I ci.n be apprehended. I went back to the subject-matter of our discourse, and asked him if 1 might con- j | sider that as his ultimate decision. ‘Certainly,’ he answered, and we par-1 I ted. Slowly, but surely, for the next three years my business progressed. Every- ! thing en which 1 laid my hands seemed to be transmuted at once into gold. It give me no joy, excepting so far as it assured | me that through its means 1 might win ( I Ida". Ida, whose beauty had already be- j j gun to fade under the influence of anxiety and tope deferred, I strove to comfort 1 with the hope of my success. She listen-1 jed with <» mournful smile. Her hopes ' had withered under long-continued exI pectalion. 1 ‘You will marry some one younger than myself, Gilbert,’ she would say.—• ‘One whose youth has not been sacrificed to a father’s 'love of gold.’ I would try I to cheer her then with the hope of bright- | !er days. * * * * I had gone home on a visit to Harper’s | Mill. I walked up to the post office one night, hardly dating to hope for a letter from Ida. The buy at the window awk- ! wa. dly shuffled o ver a package of letters, ( land told iae there w're none for me; as j 'he put then back agyin, my eye caught sight of a delicate envelope, which 1 could 1 nut help hoping might have come form the only correspondent from whom Ij cared to hear. _ I •Let me tee that letter, my boy,’ I said, as 1 pointed to the one in question. The boy muttered, and unwillingly ' passed over the letter. There it was, in Ida’s fine Italian handwriting,’ Gilbert Harper, esq., I opened it then and there.; The paper seemed to swim before my eyes ; as 1 read the following words: ‘Come to me immediately, dear Gilbert. We ; are iu the greatest confusion imaginable—offii cor* in the house, Carioline and my father alI most distracted, ami 1 sick at heart wituesamg | their distress. I have a vague feeling that your : presence will restore us to somethiag like peace ' and order agaiu. But come al all events, and that sp. edily. Ida.’ I got the boy at the mill to drive me > lo the station, whence I took the night ! train, and at nine o’clock was in town, i and at the door of my uncle’s house. 1 ran" and asked for Ida she came to the door on bearing my voice, pale but collected. ‘1 am glad you are come, Gilbert,’ she said, mournfully; my father is almost out of his senses, and Caroline is, if possible, j still more so. The firm has failed, and i Fredericsavs we are all completely ru- ! incd. Ido not care for money, you well

know, Gilbert; bo£ it will be hard to see I liny father’s gley hairs steeped iu poverty 'where gold has been his idol so lung.’ It was tootrue. They were iir. tiieva- ’ Uly ruined. Everything « I rough: i I forward and given up to the c:. lilors; : r my uncle, though grasping, was at not di: honest. A day v. a.> appointed for, ' the sale of their effects, but before it ca.ue , [around 1 had hurried Ida and her father i down to Harper’s Mill, where my father I gave them a most cordial welcome. Back 1 went to town to attend the sale, ! at which I purchased Ida’s harp and piano all the plate which was marked with the 1 family name, a few of the most valuable : ! pictures, and my uncle’s favorite arm- I 'chair and writing-desk. I procured Fred- 1 I ric Sumner a lucrative situation as clerk, I and saw iiim established, with his wile! ! and father, ata comfortable boarding-’ 1 house, and then went home to join Ida, ■ ' Already my father had begun to love her as a daughter. For herself, she was in I : raptures with the mill, the oldhomestead [ and all the scenes which she had rememI bered so well from her childhood. ‘Would vou be content to live hero always, Ida?’ I asked her one night, as we strayed by moonlight down to the old mill. ■ ‘1 should ask no greater happiness,’ she j answered, ‘than to know 1 should never ' again beheld the busy town. Here! could; I live and die in peace.’ -! • No more opposition could reasonably ! I Le expected from Mr. Harper; and, while . i 1 pitied his misfortunes, 1 could not but i ’ feel that they were calculated to make ! him wiser and better. In another mouth, : then. Ida will become my wife without i waiting for any additional delay to our 'joy. The clouds which had hitherto rest : ed upon our lot seem to have passed away, i The future seems brightening before us; land although we have waited beyond the I glowing period of youth, still 1 do not despair that, after all, we shall enjoy a fair (portion of happiness A tight Squeese. Old Deacon Brown was a quiet exem- j plary citizen, a member ol the M. E.; I church, and a good christain, that is, ( | when sober; for, like all the rest of hu- i j inanity, lie had his failings, and his ‘be- . [setting sin,’ as be frequently expressed it Ito his l.relhren when admoniihed of his | ■' 'i.’’ ' .?. tv a love for that which imvuetn ! Ithet .es red. When in a state of intoxi-| cation lie would do many things which, in | Ids sober moments, he would not think of. i He would trade horses, cheat if he could, laud swear. And when very drunk he ' Lad all sorts of strange fancies come into | I his head imagining that he was the King of Heaven, and other equal impious ideas, (and when in such states, would call up 1 i those around and send them off to the | regions of eternal bliss or woe, as he saw fit. Upon one occassion, when be had ( ‘fallen from grace’ more than usually \ha rd down, he summoned a number of! (his friends and cronies in his drunken scrapes, and proceeded to try them lor j ■ cheating in trading horses, in th" t : . - |ing manner: ‘Well, James Jones, as the judge be-, [ tween the righteous, and unrighteous, I, command you to stand by ami be examin- I ed. Have you been trading hones on this or any other occasion?’ •Ah. Lofd,’ said Jim, just drunk enough to humor him, ‘1 regret that I have.’ ‘Well, did you cheat in that trade?’ ‘Ah, Lord, I did, I traded an old spavined mare, warranting her sound,’ I ‘Well, James Jones, you may goto hull directly for cheating.’ He called up several others of his horse j jockeying cronies, and tried them, with . 1 the same result. •Now,’said lie, trying to look sternly lat himself. ‘I will try myself, Deacon Brown.’ •Have you been trading horses?’ I ‘1 regret to say, Lord that 1 have?’ : 'Well, wh. -did you do with the money you made on these trades?’ ‘Ah Lord, 1 gave it to the poor. ‘Well, Deacon Brown, in consideration ■ of your manv good quaiites, you can go [ I to heaven; but its one of the d—dest tighest squeezes that ever passed through this ■ court, to let an old drunken horse jockey like you goto heaven under any circum- ; CtaiKCH. Young Men take Heed. —Read the: I confession of a convict and ponder well ere ' you make the first step into crime:—‘Had , I been early trained to truth and virtu-! | —Lad one-twentieth part of the time and ) effort been soent upon my moral culture, I i that was lavished on my wurdly education, I would not be the creature of guilty and passion, nor the disgraceed felon that. I am.’ ... 11l 1 111 ‘Remember. —Said Sir Walter Raleigh to his son, ‘that if thou marry lor beauty, thou bindest thyself for life lo that which perchance will neither last nor please thee a single year! And when thou hast it, it will be'to thee of no price at all; for lhe I desire dieth when it is attained, and the affection pcrisheth when it is s-ti-Ced ’

I The Landlord Outwitted. A correspondent of the Philadelphia i Press relates the followin" ainusin" anec- ' dote of oue of the citizens of Luck Haven, ( Pennsylvania. Ben W. Morrison is the | person spoken of, and is said to be one of , :imse free-and-easy, guod-hearied, hu- : morous fellows, that are always ready to , crack a jok - or prepetrate a ‘sei’.:’ Some til '<jii tears ago Ben was travelir. ; m Butler county oa professional busmess. Ti.e loads were intolerably bad, land, worst of all, the stage drivers and tiie landlord r.t a certain hotel where they ' stopped for dinner, Ead an unde) standing with each other something like this: the I passengers were taken in to dine, and ! cleverly seated, the coach would furiousily dash up to the door, and the driver Would call for Lis passengers, stating that he could not. delay a minute, on account lof making bis time. They would rush !ont, leaving their meals half-finished, for I fear of being left. For the half-finished ( meal they were charged half a dollar.— The victuals were kept lor the next load of passengers, when the skinning process was repeated. Ben had heard of this [dace, and when they arrived at the hotel he set his wits to work to see if he could get the full value of I.is money. The bell rang for dinner, and the crowd rushed in. They bad i scarcely got comfortably seated when the | coach reined up at the door, and the drii ver vociferously shouted; ; ‘ I’assertgers alt aboard— can't wait but '■jive minutes.’ A general rush was made, but Ben sat | still, and ate his dinner very composedly. The stage drove off and left him, but be I seemed to care very little about it. Having disposed of his dinner, he was enjoying lhe luxury of a long nine in the side room, when the landlord approached ! him sayiu*. ‘l—beg your pardon sir; but did you i see a set of silver tea-spoons on the table i when you went to dinner?' | ‘I did sir.’ .Well, they are missing—caa’t be found.’ ‘Ah, yes.’ replied Ben, ‘one of the pas- ! sengers gathered them up —I saw him i do it.’ ! ‘Would you know him again?’ gasped ’the landlord. : 'Certainly 1 would, replied Ben, with I great coolness. i ‘Will you point him out to me. if I hitch up my horse and buggy and over- ; take the stage?’ 'Certainly I will.’ Bonfaee was ready in a few minutes, ’and getting Ben in with him, drove like Jehu for several miles, till he overtook (the coach. He drove up alongside and hailed tl.e driver. The coach stopped, the [driver looked frightened, and everyboby wondered toseo the landlord covered with ’ mud an 1 his horse foaming with sweat. Bi-n jumped out of the buggy and got into the stage, when the driver, thinking j that he had hired the landloid to bring him after, was on the point of driving ofl. when the later yelled out— I ‘ls that passenger in there?’ i ‘Yes,’ replied Ben. ( ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Yes, str ee,’ shouted our bachelor friend. •Which one is it?’ 'lt’s me,’ replied Ben with a grin. ‘You!’ thundered Boniface— 'what the d—l did you do with them spoons?' 'lpvt them in the coffee-pot, may it ' please your honor; you will find them all . safe,’ replied Ben with a curious twinkle ! in his eye. ‘Sold, bv ginger! by that darn’d Yani kee!’ yeilcd the Im ilord, whilst the pas- ' sengers roared with laughter, and putting s whip to his horse drove buck, resolving (to give the passengers ever alter that amI pie time for dinner. A Broad Hint.—The great man of the village being al dinner, allowed one of his tenants to stand while he conversed with him •What news my friend?’ said the squire. ‘None that 1 know of,' replied the farmer, ‘except that a sow of mine has had a litter of thirteen pigs, and she has only ! twelve teats.’ •Well, and what will the thirteenth do?’ i asked his lanulord. •Why, it will just do as I am doing,’ isaid Hodge, ‘it will stand and look on while the others are eating!’ I The squire looked rather funny at such a home thrust from his humble tenant. — Report says that it cured the big man of I his ill maimers ever alter. A gentleman calling one morning on a female friend was answered by a country j servant boy that she was not at home. ‘Thank you to give her this,’ said he, • handing him a card. •Shall I go up aud give it to her now, [ sir?’ said the boy. A pretty definition of a good wife. One I who always takes carc lo have herself and her dinner nicely dre-sed

NO. 40.