If intemperance, or some fatal snare, Our blessing, our trouble, our rest, our care, HF ANDREW JACKSON. E WAS A MAN! Well I remember the day I waited upon him. He sat there in his arm chair—I can see that old warrior face, with its snow white hair, even now. We told him of the public distress-the manufacturers ruined, the eagles shrouded in crape, which were borne at the head of twenty thousand men into Independence Square. He heard us all. We begged him to leave the deposits where they were; to uphold the Great Bank in Philadelphia. Still he did not say a word. At last one of our members, more fiery than the rest, intimated that if the bank were crushed, a rebellion might follow. Then the old man rose-I can see him yet. "Come!" he shouted in a voice of thunder, as his clutched right hand was raised above his white hairs"Come with bayonets in your hands instead of petitions -surround the White House with your legions-I am ready for you all! With the people at my back whom your gold can neither buy nor awe, I will swing you up around the Capital, each rebel of you-on a gibbet-high as Haman's." When I think of that one man standing there at Washington, battling with all the powers of Bank and Panic combined, betrayed by those in whom he trusted, assailed by all that the snake of malice could hiss or the fiend of faisehood howl-when I think of that one man placing his back against the rock, and folding his arms for the blow, while he uttered his awful vow: "By the Eternal! I will not swerve one inch from the course I have chosen!" I must confess that the records of Greece and Rome-nay the proudest days of Cromwell and Napoleon-can not furnish an instance of will like that of Andrew Jackson, when he placed life and soul and fame at the hazard of a die for the People's welfare. GEORGE LIPPARD. HE HEZEKIAH BEDOTT. Read in a somewhat broken voice; high and flat. E was a wonderful hand to moralize, husband was, 'specially after he begun to enjoy poor health. He made an observation once, when he was in one of his poor turns, that I shall never forget the longest day I live. He says to me, one winter evenin', as we was a settin' by the fire; I was a knittin' (I was always a wonderful great knitter), and he was a smokin' (he was a master hand to smoke, though the doctor used to tell him he'd be better off to let tobacker alone; when he was well, used to take his pipe and smoke a spell after he'd got his chores done up, and when he wa'n't well, used to smoke the biggest part o' the time). Well, he took his pipe out o' his mouth, and turned toward me, and I knowed something was comin', for he had a pertikkeler way of lookin' round when he was gwine to say anything oncommon. Well, he says to me, says he, "Silly," (my name was Prissilly naterally, but he most ginerally always called me Silly, 'cause 't was handier, you know). Well, he says to me, says he, "Silly," and he looked pretty sollem. I tell you, he had a sollem countenance naterally, and after he got to be deacon 't was more so, but since he'd lost his health he looked sollemer than ever, and certingly you wouldent wonder at it if you knowed how much he underwent. He was troubled with a wonderful pain in his chest, and amazin' weakness in the spine of his back, besides the pleurissy in the side, and having the ager a considerable part of the time, and bein' broke of his rest o' nights, 'cause he was so put to't for breath when he laid down. Why, it's an onaccountable fact, that when that man died he hadent seen a well day in fifteen year, though when he was married, and for five or six year after, I shouldent desire to see a ruggeder man than what he was. But the time I'm speakin' of he'd been out o' health nigh upon ten year, and, O dear sakes! how he had altered since the first time I ever see him! That was to a quiltin' to Squire Smith's, a spell afore Sally was married. I'd no idee then that Sal Smith was a gwine to be married to Sam Pendergrass. She'd ben keepin' company with Mose Hewlitt for better'n a year, and everybody said that was a settled thing, and, lo and behold! all of a sudding she up and took Sam Pendergrass. Well that was the first time I ever see my husband, and if anybody'd a told me then that I should ever marry him, I should a said—but, lawful sakes! I most forgot, I was gwine to tell you what he said to me that evenin', and when a body begins to tell a thing, I believe in finishin' on 't some time or other. Some folks have a way of talkin' round and round and round for evermore, and never comin' to the pint. Now there's Miss Jinkins, she that was Poll Bingham afore she was married, she is the teejusest indiwidooal to tell a story that ever I see in all my born days. But I was gwine to tell you what husband said. He says to me, says he, "Silly;" says I, "What?" I dident say, "What, Hezekier?" for I dident like his name. The first time I ever heard it I near killed myself a laffin'. "Hezekier Bedott," says I. "Well, I would give up if I had such a name;" but then you know I had no more idee o' marryin' the feller than you have this minnit o' marryin' the governor. I s'pose you think it's curus we should ha' named our oldest son Hezekier. Well, we done it to please father and mother Bedott; it's father Bedott's name, and he and mother Bedott both used to think that names had ought to go down from gineration to gineration. But we always call him Kier, you know. Speakin' o' Kier, he is a blessin', ain't he? and I ain't the only one that thinks so, I guess. Now don't you never tell nobody that I said so, but between you and me, I rather guess that if Kezier Winkle thinks she's a gwine to ketch Kier Bedott, she's a leetle out o' her reckonin'. But I was gwine to tell what husband said. He says to me, says he, "Silly;" I says, says I, "What?" If I dident say "what," when he said "Silly," he'd a kept on sayin' "Silly" from time to eternity. He always did, because, you know, he wanted me to pay pertikkeler attention, and I ginerally did; no woman was ever more attentive to her husband than what I was. Well, he says to me, says he, "Silly;" says I, "What?" though I'd no idee what he was gwine to say; dident know but what 't was something about his sufferings, though he wa'n't apt to complain, but he frequently used to remark that he wouldent wish his worst enemy to suffer one minnit as he did all the time, but that can't be called grumblin'; think it can? Why, I've seen him in sitivations when you'd a thought no mortal could a helped grumblin', but he dident. He and me went once in the dead o' winter in a one-hoss shay out to Boonville, to see a sister o' hisen. You know the snow is amazin' deep in that section o' the kentry. Well, the hoss got stuck in one o' them 'ere flambergasted snowbanks, and there we sot onable to stir, and to cap all, while we was a-sittin' there husband was took with a dretful crick in his back. Now that was what I call a perdickerment, don't you? Most men would a swore, but husband dident. He only said, says he, "Consarn it!" How did we get out, did you ask? Why, we might a been sittin' there to this day, fur as I know, if there hadent a happened to come along a mess o' men in a double team, and they hysted us out. But I was gwine to tell you that observation o' hisen. Says he to me, says he, "Silly." I could see by the light of the fire (there dident happen to be no candle burnin', if I don't disremember, though my memory is sometimes ruther forgetful, but I know we wa 'n't apt to burn candles 'ceptin' when we had company). I could see by the light of the fire that his mind was oncommonly sollemnized. Says he to me, says he, "Silly;" I says to him, says I, "What?" He says to me, says he, "We're all poor critters!"-F. M. WHITCHER. There's a star in the sky! There's a mother's deep prayer And a baby's low cry! And the star rains its fire while the Beautiful sing, For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a King. |