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An honest neighbor of mine is not altogether unhappy in the application of an old common story to a present occasion. It may be said of my friend, what Horace says of a neighbor of his, "Garrit aniles ex re fabellas."
Here nothing is presented but a moral waste, as extensive as our influence, as appalling as the valley of death." The following is an extract of a letter from Bishop Andrew of the Methodist Episcopal Church, to Messrs. Garrit and Maffit, editors of the "Western Methodist," then published at Nashville, Tennessee. "Augusta, Jan. 29, 1835.
She called the gals, thinkin' they'd played a trick on her, an' hidden it for fun. But they hadn't, an' they all set to an' sarched the house from garrit to cellar; but they didn't find hide nor hair o' that bunnit. At last Sary give it up, an' sot down out o' breath, an' mad enough to eat somebody. 'It's been stole! says she.
I have to store things up garrit a good deal, an' that keeps me trampin' right through their room. I do the best for 'em I can, Mis' Trimble, but 't ain't so easy for me as 't is for you, with all your means to do with." The poor woman looked pinched and miserable herself, though it was evident that she had no gift at house or home keeping. Mrs.
'Squire Baxter sed he didn't b'lieve in Coercion, not one of 'em, and could prove by a file of "Eagles of Liberty" in his garrit, that it was all a Whig lie, got up to raise the price of whisky and destroy our other liberties.
"Waal, I told him, that, seein' things wuz as they wuz with him, I shouldn't take no rent for the garrit, an' I could dry my yarbs there jest as well as ef he warn't there; an' he looked kind o' red, and held his head up a minit, an' then he thanked me, an' said, 'God bless you! an' said he'd pay me, ef he got any more work.
I have to store things up garrit a good deal, an' that keeps me trampin' right through their room. I do the best for 'em I can, Mis' Trimble, but 't ain't so easy for me as 't is for you, with all your means to do with." The poor woman looked pinched and miserable herself, though it was evident that she had no gift at house or home keeping. Mrs.
In the eucharistic office of St Kentigern's day, this event, along with the restoration to life of a meritorious cook, and other miracles, inspired a canticle which, for long subsequent ages, was exultingly sung by the choristers in the saint's own cathedral of Glasgow, thus: "Garrit ales pernecatus. Cocus est resuscitatus. Salit vervex trucidatus Amputato capite."
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