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Bloomington Post (Newspaper) - August 17, 1838, Bloomington, Indiana Bimiii'iiiliiigliiiii ^m^t 1MBK VOTBZINIWHEOB MOS* Ü WOlT BT XjrSJBJir»/' TOJL. 3. BI<00]IIII««T0IV, FKIBAY AV«17ST 17» f 8S8. ivé. mf. edited and i'ublishf.d EVEaY fridayBY M. L. DEAL. OrriCE on MAIN cross STREET, FIRST DOOB Xt'EST OF maj. right's. TERMS. Two dollarB in advance, two fifty in eix mouths and three at the end of tiie year. No paper will bo discontinued until all arrearages are paid up. 0:5-advertisements ci fen lines or less, will be pub-lirftied three Weeks for one dollar, and 25 cents for each additional insertion. All advertisenientf? irmst he marked with the number of insertions, or tli^y will be inserted till forbid and charged accordingly. Tlie CASH must iuvariably accompany advertise-'tnents from a distance or thry will not receive attention. All letters and communications addressed to the editor must be free of postaq;o. No variation whatever need bo expected froüi these terms. LIST OF agents! The following gentlemen are requested and au-Viorized to act as agents: to receive Subscriptions, Job Work,^dverli^ing kc. andreceipt forthesame. Tih'Mas C. Johnson, S] encer. la. JI. 11. TiiKoor, Mill Grove, la. Samuf.i, 11. Smvth, Kovvliiiügreen, la. John i'arr, Frodoiiia, Indiana. Wm. iÍF.Ron, Esq. Coiuiiihiis, la. Iv G. Wayman, Martinslnirp, la. i>. A. RA^rr-iNGs, New Albany, la. j. s. Irwin, f^nisville, Ky. t'lr.nimr. May, ParkfiPljiir."', Montrcmery Co. la. Wm. S. Roiífkts, Ep:)., Nashvilli', la. Dr. ]. 1?. Maxvei-i-, Frankfbit, la. John HATrr.KTov, (ireencanle, la. (ìeorfie (r. Dinx, l>(|. roilford, Indiana. HAI LING OUT TIIK TWO FOLLIES "o.\ Till- 4th/' The followltifr lettor pivos n graphic sketch of the fría/ r</'.s'^///(iis]ila\M on the fourth inst. in hauling nut the "'J'v.o Poilies" and testing ròò, flood, and rniKS lidr.t. There were numerous amusing an(> chnrnctcristic nrcurrenofP in which the major figurivi conspicuously, aiuJ in which he was the obser-v'd of nil oùsrrrrrs—but his unprcsuming native tnoiiosty has indufcd him to pass them over. At the dill nor which followed (nnd in which we parlicipated) the major acquitted himself to admiration, nii'i l!io t;n't he displayod in quieting the troubled vatem anu pre^^erving haruioiiy and good fellowship was beyond all praise. A full account of this dinner on hoard the "Two ' Follies'' he has, we perceive, |)romi>M to give us in his ne?ct letter—'Moasts" and '•speeches" and all. lÍM» as the WL'iuher is liol and ho v(;ry busy with other matters—we may not have tha pleasure of • hearing from him as soon as we hoped—but as he never made a promise yei tliut not redeemed our readers uiny ilcpend on '•dinner'' in good time. We have <5pcnt n groat many indej>cnilciirc days in < ;r life, hilt never one when wu Were made to feel • fio*truly itidefx-ndrnt.(>.\ nixKU Tur. Tuo Foi.r.ins, ) NIGH TlIK DUY IKii K, > /«KW v(iI{K, r^TH jt ',V, ) Ti> iJti euilors ,f t'le Nfif YriL E.vjjre.^s. 'I'he same piipcrmy old frieiul Mr. Dvviglit had u spell a^o. 1 have hcani tc!l of rale sport in hoalingi, but 1 ne^cr did se<; the beat ofi-at we had yesterday — I never did believe nfor-; that iinything could come nj) to a/ìhaA//;/,'/>('//>—hut 1 iu:ver see a husking frolir—nor a niisin^—nor a jiloinihiiiq match—nor, A«/o/ic that come any way nigh thu boüt- i If! frolic wo hud yesterday in haw ling tlie Two J'uliies oll iiilo ilie stream; an<l I don't know that 1 can conic wiihin gim shot of telling ü!l ahont it— hilt I'il fry—one thing is sartiii, that what I do tell IS all a.s true as that ihert- is a 'Fwo Follies—and wlial 1 doti'i tell. Mould l-o long (Minf to make this letter loo long to ho good lor no'hing 'J'mk; lo the day and {o the hour, nboul ten o'- < !<« k in ihf morning, aii ctoinii! swad of boats of (ill fixe«, W ;i\i suoi t ji,¿mi;'!<i,and c/inlrrs. iill camu pnll^ig along Uj) our way and landed nigh iIk; ''Two J'ollrc.s--l was on board, and had a few t'l iend.s 1 had inviied with me; and so all the folks o! the houts came on U^ard thn "'l'«o Follies—to take a look round an.l see what my intention was, mid how I wanted the tiial mado. Mach boat had Its own steersman, who did )uolty much all the talking (or his own oaistiH ii—ouo said. If I only wanted the 'I'wo Fcdiiiis hawkd out of the slip into the river ho could do it alone, provided Fd fi.\ olì the f >H> of thf flood and jist bcfoio the tiilc turu'd—and • 'Willi rii;ii jireity inut h all the oilier steersmen spoke ^iji, and .said ihnt their U)als could do that, und they .dui not M e (he right of giving a preference—and heic caii.e " jangle righi olì". Now, says I, gentle-iiK II, we aim in congress now, and can't have no I- Mig speeches at ciglK dollars a day and do nothing I.e.- ides—so I sliould like to tee you all back in your boats and take a little e.xuicisc; and in the ¡Dtaniime, says I, arter you have given a little i-how of pour skill, I'll decido. 1 tho't I'd give 'em II lillb "non committal"—^jist to make 'ein work bharp—ami with thut they all wont at it; and this was one of the most complete sights I ever did see. Whetwlmo.* A/z/d/i" was on hore a spell »go, «nd mfide sonic sick o'money un ,Mig those very same folks, it wut.'ni no touch at nil to the present. I'vory bout, w ith a (lug, past the head of the shiji' turned ubouiu—puii'd buck,and then off, ^nd II. 11 back «gin—one artor another; and the folks liecred and /¡uiiaV like all possol—and any one • to look at 'em would »ay, they could alone, any une on 'tin jHill thu 'I'uo Foilioti ihrougli on auger hole. Arter thn thoy all came into the slip along side the 'Fwo Follies, and I tcli'd 'eni:",\ow my boys,*'says l,"\onr fkill m pullin your own boat.t is ooniplete nsf'MM' wax, but you have got u job now to do that will put thehidl bcraM un you to a piilty tight * pull." " FliH Two l'o1lic8,"says I, i* going out of tjiis i^lip at the top qfthe tide, to be sure; but when she git.. Ill the river, and when the tide turns, whul to |„! Jone then! "till, drop anchor," was the answer. "No, no," says I, "that aiot my plan— you must keep heryui/ to—at any rate, and if I say go ahead agin the tide, you must do it. i can't conie to anchor no how." "You know," says 1, "that three on you a spell ago—(and am glad to see, ^ou here agin)—onoe undertook a matter like this and you mado ^ne work on't-^till the tide turned, and then," aays I, "the Two PoHies went a starn and you all followed her—however," shys I, "we won't talk about that now." So arter a little talk, they all thought the best way would be to hitch on all together—but coming to try this plan, nary o&e on 'em had rope enuf to let'em pull clear of each other. "Well," says 1, "why not go in a string one ahead oftotber?" but this brought on another tangle and snarl. Every one wanting to take the lead—So let 'em work it out their own way, and what with knotting pieces of rope, and knotting handkerchers, and borrowmg and buying small kilea of rope, they hitch'd on to the Two Follies, and as the flood tide was jist on the pint of turning, they all set up a rale huzza, sc sure enuf out went the Two Follies, as slick as ile, and such a shout as went with her made mo go almost through my shirt collar, fur I never was so glad in all my born days, and the best on't was they did'nt brake a rope yarn or tare a hanHl^orcher; in fact dome of the boats did'nt seem to pull at nil ony to keep up in their places. By the time the Two Follies got well in the river the ebb tide began to make, and I hail'd 'em and teli'd 'em "to pull up stream"—and here come on the beginning of a tug—and every minit it was lugger—out they pull'd like good fellows for a spell, and I don't know but they would 'a gain'd on the tide if it had'nt got stronger and stronger—v^d just then the boats l^gan to git foul of one another—& there were sich a crossing of oars and scraping o( noses—and sich a jangle of orders—every body right and every liody wrong— to hear'em talk any one would suppose, that any one on 'em was enuf —if talkin was any out of the way. One got so freightened that he begun to pull lor the shore, and forgot to unhitch, and this made bad work—another said he would'ut pull at ail, and this was worse. 'Full all togedare every way in de world," says one —"a pritty kittle of^/iiA," says a long dri'd yan-kee," "your are making on't—what m nature is in you—you don't git a head no hole and no voay in the toorld. Seeing now that things was getting all in a snarl, my da«der began to rise—the Two Follies was going a starn, and every thiug going to everlastin smash—1 yell'd out to 'em—"pull"—says I, "you tarnal toads—pull for your lives—and yoi>r fortunes and your enternal honor—and if that don't stir you up—pull'" say I—^'■/or the deposits.'''' This quieted the noise for a spell, and some on 'em did make the water fly considerably—but the tide was too strong for 'em, and all hands, Two Follies and all was going down stream—for my part 1 got so wlnible-crop'd that 1 felt as tho I was going right down into my boots. "All's over" thinks I—and I began lo look astern to see a soft .spot lo strike on—when what should I sec jist comi'n'g round the point of the Uatlary but a great long barge—oars out on each side like a great dady long legs—and then line up along the docks and shipping, a real rouser of a shout,—"Squire Biddle—/»itiia—eld B. U. S.— hutza—huzza'"'—and afore 1 had time (o cool Jcwn my dander—sure enuf up come up along side the Two Follies, my old friend the Squire—sittin in the starn sheets of his 84 card long boat, one leg cock'd up over the gunnell, and the tiller sticking otjt under his left arm, he jist wav'd his hand to his men and they all back'd water right along side. "Well," says 1, "Squire 'taini no time to chat now, but I am glud to see you, and if folks don't say you have come in the nick of time," (hen, says 1, "there oin't no nicks now a-days," that's all, "now," says I, "you see what is wanting, and all you have got to do is to spring to and let us see if there is any grit in you. And with that he jist got up and taking the eend of a mortal big kile of ropo he had stow'd a-way under him, he threw it on board, and, says he, "make that well fast major on board the Two Follies," and then, turning to his c/arsmen, he bow'd and smil'd and said "altogether,"and wiih that they sprung to, the Squire all the while stirrii^ and paying out rope, and taking a sweep away ofi in a half circle till he got away ahead of ihe foremost boat and then steer'd round and cut inoti a line a head, "hellow," says 1, Squire "where are you go ing, have you got rojje enough abord?"—yu."», says he,"major, rope enough to snake the Two Follies out of the tbther eend of the Mississippi if she was there." "How you talk," says 1, "have you mado well fast.''^ stys he,' «ecording to my kalklation. 1 says 1. "Well," say.s he, "you take care that eend and 1 will tother," and with that 1 see him calch a turn round a strong hook and his oarsmen did bend to it for a spell till their backs crack'd like a new saddle; as soon as the ro|>es come straight, it twitch-'d up a considerable number of the oars of the small boat and knock'd oiTsome hats; but lhat was ony a trifle to the work that follow'd, »ome of the folks in the small boats did'nt act the clean thing, one chap said for his part he'd rather see the Two Follies go on the rocks than have the Squire lake a band in it, and order'd his men to back their oars, but one on 'em dash'd a hat full of salt water in his face, whilst his mouth '.rns open, and he gag'd as tho' he'd swallowed a g\9L»u of MantuOan wMr. Another advis'd cutting the Squires big lopfl— but an old gentleman in another boat said, "every man cut hit own rope if he will, but cut or nMnding ropes—nevare"—and with that he hook'd on th« Squires ropes, and teli'd his men to pull in aid on't —Knd the inostoftlie boals follow'd tiwwme lead— them that did'nt, it made very littl« odds—for the Two Follies was going up strearff ^ for aii the world as tho' she had the "Oreat Weitarn" hook'd on to her—and there sat the «quire with hi* Im medium at Astars taking the hull aerape along with W\m--yall,tkif, clinker, 0nd the 7W Poitiee^hi» men pulling together jittt like one—the tide running like a mill race agin us, and then be turn'd-HtiM shifting his position—allletgohia ropei^ and the small boats and the TwoPoliiei swung round, wont fetch'd her all up on tother tack, his men jist pulling •trong enuf, like a drag chain to keep things as tho' in itiii water, and then he pull'd round and round Mmetimes agin the tide and sometimes across tides, it made no odds which way—the Two Pollios and the hull ran of small boats went jist the way he aleei^d h'lBgreat daddy iong legs—threw the shipping at anchor and the Terry (mats under way and no harm came to any one. In one of his movements he cross'd the bows of the Two Follies and says he major ain't "Hell gate" pretty nigh here—suppose, says he, we try a pull through that?—"well," says I, "^^uirs I'm content with what we have done if you are," and says I, "if you will ony take the Two Polties back to the slip nigh the Dry Dock agin, where she come from, my notion is all parties, will bo content and satisfied*'—"I think," says I, "we have had glory enuf for one day,"" and with that the Squire cock'd his leg over the gunnell agin, and in a little while the Two Follies was where she started from. "Now'" says I, "gentlemen, 1 hai'nt ^ot Jbut one favor to ask of the whole scrape on you, and that is that you all come aboard the Two Follies and lake dinner with me, and on this day the fourth oj July a real independence and no party day, let us, all jine aide by side like a band of good patriots, and eat and drink and be merry and social." This invitation was carried as unanimous as an argument in congress on a hot Saturday night, and we had a complete time on't I tell you, as you will say when you git my ne.xt letter giving you a di.s-cription on't. So no more at presort. From your friend, J. DOWNING, Afajor. DovmingviHe MiW.ia, 2d Brigade. THE THREE BRIDES. Toward the close of a chilly afternoon in ihf tatter part of November, 1 was travelling in New Hampshire on horse back. The road was solitary and rugged, and wound along through gloomy pine forests, over abrupt and stony hills. I stopped at an inn, a two story brick building standing a little back from the toad. In the morning 1 rose early and took a look from the window but the prospect was very uninviting.-\ far in the most distant part of the field, a man was busily engaged in digging a grave. I passed to where the grave digger was pursuing his occupation. He answered tny morning salutation civily enough, but continued intent upon his work. He was u man of fifty years of age, spare, but strong with pray hair and sunken cheeks, and certain lines about the mouth which argued a propensity to indulge in dry jest, though the sterness of his gray eyes seemed to contradict the tacit'assertion. 'An unpleasant moriKng, sir, to work in the open air,' said 1. 'He that regardu'h ihc clouds shall not re'ap,' replied the grave digger, busily plying his spade. 'Death stalks abiood, fair and foul day, and wo that follow in hi:« steps must prepare for the dead rain or shine.' 'A melancholy occupation!' 'A fit one for a moralist. Some would find pleasure in il. Deacon Giles I am sure, would »illuig-ly be in my place now. 'And why so!' 'This grave is for his wife,' replied theSgrave digger looking up from his occupation with a dry smile that wrinkled his sallow cheeks, and distorted his sunken lips. Perceiving that his meriment was uot infectious he resumed his employment end that so asiduously, that in a very short time he had hollowed the last resting place of Deacon (jiles'oon sort. This done, ho ascended from the trench with a lightness that surprised me, and walking a few paces from the new made grave, sat down'upon a.tonih stone; and beckoned me to approach, 1 did so. 'Young man,'said he, 'a sexton and a grave dig ger, if he is one who has a zeal for his calling, te-conies something of a historian, amassing many a curious tale and strange legend concerning the people with whom he^has to do living or dead. Fur e man with taste for his profession cannot provide for the last repose of fiis fellows without an interest in their story, the manner of death, and concerns of the relatives who follow their remuins so icarfully lo the grave.' •Then,' replied I taking a seat beside the sexton, mcthinks you could relate some interesting tales.' 'Again the withering smile that I had before observed passed over the face of the sexton as he answered. '1 am no story-teller sir, I deal in fact, not in fiction. Yes, yes I could chronicle strange events.— But of all things 1 know, there is nothing stranger to you than ihe melancholy hi.story of the three brides.' 'The three brides.' 'Ay, do you see three hillockj yonder, side by sidet They sleep, and will till the last trumpti comes wailing through the heart of the lone hills, with a tone sostrange and stirring, thai the deud will start from their graves at it» first awful note. Then will come the judgment and the retribu tion. But to mv tale. JLook there, »iron yon ti hill, you mav obeervea little isolated house with a straggling fence in fr(»t. and a few stunted apple treea on tne aioent behind it. Jt is sadly out of repair now, and thb garden is all overgrown with weeds and brambloK, und tho whole pmce is a desolate appearance. II the m ind were high now, you mignt hear the oldciazy shutters ^pping against the Wall tearing the grey shingles ofl the roof. Many years ago, there li?ed sn old man and his son who cultivated the few acres of urable laud which belongs to it. The father was a aelMaught man. de<^ply vereed in the inysteriee of teienct, and as he could tell Ihe name of every flower that bloonxHl in the wood and grew h) Ihe gaf^a« tftd uaed to att up late at night •t hia booka,or re«iliag tbemyvticsioij ofthe starry heavens, men tbousht he wascraxedor bewitched, and even bated bim as the ignorant ever abun and dread the enli|jbtened. 6u all deserted him, and the minister, fur the uld man diiforcd in some trifling points of doctrine, spoke very slightly of him, nil looked upon the self-educated fanner with eyes of aversion. He instrucled bis son in all his lore—the languages, literature, history scienoe wore uufuldod one by one lo the enthusinstic son at the solitary. 1 cannot point to you the grief of the son at the bereavement. He was for a time as one distracted. Ho sought to burry grief in his thirst for fame. After his thirst was gratified he began to yearn for the companionship of some sweet being of the other sex to share the laurels he had won—to whisper consolation in his ear in momenfs of despondency, and to supply the void wflch the death of bis old father had occasioncd. He would picture to himself the felicity of a refined intellectual and beautiful ■nan, and as lie had chosen for his motto, what has t)een done, may still be doné, he did not despair of success. In this village lived three sisters, all beautiful and accomplished. Their onmes were Mary, Adelaide, Madeline. I can never forget the beauty of tho three girls. Mary was the youngest, and a fairer haired, more laughing damsel never danced upon a green. Adelaide was a few years older was dark haired, and pensive,.but of the three, Madeline tho eldest possessed the most fire, cultivation and intellectuality. Their father was a man of ta.<ito, and being somewhat above vulgar prejudice, he permitted tho visits ofthe hero of my story. When he found an affec-tion springing up between Mary and the poet, he did not withhold hia consent frbm her marriage, (kthe recluse bore to thé solitary mansion the young bride of his affections. Oh sir, the house assumed a new appcarance, within and without. Roses bloomed in the garden, jessamines peeped through the lattices and the fields about it smi ed with the clFects ofcareful culiivution. Lights were seen in the little parlor in the evening,' and many a time wotdd the passenger pause by the garden gate to listen to strains ofthe sweetest music breathed by cho ral voices from tho collage. If the mysterious student and his wife were neglected what cared they. Their endearing and mutual affection made their home a little paradise—but death came to Eden, Mary fell suddenly s'ck, and afler a few hours sickncssdied in the arms of her husband. Days and months rolled on, and the only solace ofthe bereaved was to set with the faimily ofthe deceased and talk of Ihe lost one. At length to Adelaide he offered /lis widowed heart. She came lo his lone home like tit« dove bearing the branch of pcacu and consolation. But their bridal was not ono of revelry and mirth, fora sad recollectioa brooded over the hour. Vet they lived happily, the husband again smiled, and with a new spring the rose? again blossomed in their Garden. When the rose withr.'ii'J the leaf ftdl, in the mellow autumn of ihe year, Adelaide too sickened and died, liko her younger cistcr in the arms of her husbánd and Madeline. Fei hops you will think it strange, lhat after all, the wretched survivor strod at the altar again. His thiid biido was Rlodelino. I well rember her. She was a beauty in thotrueFeftse ofthe word. It may seem strange to you to hear the praise of beauty from such lips us mine, but I cannot avoid expatiating upon her«. She was a proud creature, with a tall, commanding foiin,und raven tresses, that floated dark and cloi.dliko over her shoulders. She was a ningiilarly gifted woman, and pot^srssed of rare inspiration. She loved the Midower for his power and his fame, and bhe wedded him. They were married in the church. It was a summer afternoon —I recollect it well. During the ceremony the blackest cloud that I ever saw over»prc«d the heavens like a nail, antl at the moment when the third pronounced mr vow, a clap of thunder, shook the building to Ihe centre. All the females shrieked but the bride made her response with a ñrm voice as she gazed upon her bridegroom. He marked a kind of ineoheience in her expressions as they rode homeward, >hich surprised him at the time, arriving at his house, »he shrunk U|)On the threshoki; but this uos the timidity ufa n:aiden.—When Ihey were alone he clasticd her hand—it Was cold as ice. He looked in her «ce. 'Madeline,' said Un what rrrans thi.i? your checks are as pale as ycur uedditig gown.' Tho biide utteicd a frantic shriek. 'My wedding gown!^ e.xclaimed she; no no—ihis in tny sister's khroudv The hour of confession has arrived. It is God that impels me torpeak. 'Jo win ycu'lhave lost my soul —yes, yes, I nm a murderess. She smiled ujmmj me ill the joyous nf)<ction of her young heart—but I gave her the fntbl drug! Adi laide clasped her white aniis about n.y neck, but 1 administered ihe poison! Tuke me to your arnis, I have lost my f-oul for you, and mine j < u n ust U;!' 'She s¡ iiud till hing «hite arms,'said the sexton, ii>ing ill the e.\< iien.ent of the moment, and assuming the attitude he describid, and then continued he> in a Ik.How voice, *«t that mcmeiit came the thunder and the fla^h.nnd the guilty nttman i«ll dead on the tloor.' '1 ho countenaiice ofthe narrator lAprossed all the horror that he felt. 'And the bridegroom,' asked I, the husband ofthe destroyer and the victim; whot bot^ame of hiiuT 'lie stand» before you!' was thu thrilling answer. A farmer never shmild refuse a fair price for any thing ho wishes to m-II; we have knuHu a man who bad several hundred busbeU of wheat to dispose of, refuM 8s. 6d., and aHer keeping hi« wheat «ix luontbai «as glad lu get 6s. C 1. for il. A fkttmt should never allow bis wood-house to be emptied of wood during the sumnter mouibü; if he does when wintnr conies, io addition In cold tin-ger«, he mu8lrx|>cct to oncouoter the cbilltn|[ looka uf bis wife, aitd perhaps be compelled, ia a series of leotuies,tQ Ivarn lhat the man who burns green woud has not inMterad the A L C ufdooieaiiu eoon- omy. A fnrnter should never allow windows to be fill-i>d w il h red cloaks, latteu-d coats, and old baU: if he does, he will most ui^iredly acquire the reMta-tion of a man who tarries long at tbe wbiskey, leav« ing hia wife * children to freese or sUrv« at bone. ;