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WM. R. SMITH, Editor and Proprietor
'gEORGIaTcLARK co UR 7T.
Kulc Nisi.
Inferior Court sitting for Ordinary purposes,
adjourned Tenn, 12th June, 1837.
IT appearing to the Court that Howell Elder
in his life time executed his bond for titles to
William Appling, for one House and Lot in the
Town of Watkinsville, occupied by Mrs. Ste
phens, and a Lot fronting said lot joining Bur
nett, and the Land joining said Lots and bound
ed by Murray and Harden, now in possession
of Mrs. Stephens; audit further appearing io
the Court that said Bond has been regularly as
signed t David Stephens deceased, and the con- ■
ditions of said Bond having been complied with. ;
It is therefore ordered that the Administrator of,
the said Howell Elderdec’d. be directed to make ■
and execute titles to the said House mil Lot, I
and adjoining premises embraced in said Bond, |
.■within the time prescribed by law to the heirs ■
general of the said David Stephens deceased, i
or shew cause to the ccritrary--And it is fur
ther ordered that this Rule be published once a
month, for three months in one of the nubile
Gazelts of this State.
I certify that the foregoing is ,1 true extract
from the minutes of Baid Court, this 13th June,
1837.
GREEN B. HAYGOOD, d. c. c. o.
June 17, 7 niSrn
Southern Whig
i s e r 11-u n r ous.
From the Knickerbocker for June-
T3IE DELUGE.
BY BARBER.
‘-Ah, what a sign it is of evil life,
When Death’s approach is seen so terrible I’
The judgement was at hand. Before the sun
Gathered tempestuous clouds, which, blackening spread,
Until their blended masses overwhelmed
The hemisphere c-f day : and, adding gloom
To night’s dark empire, swift, from zone to zone
Swept the vast shadow, swallowing up 1 light,
And covering the encircling firmament
iAs with a mighty pall I Low in thc-dust
Bo wed the affrighted nations, worshipping.
Anon the o’ercharged garners of the storm
Burst with their growing burd- i; fierce and fast
. film, zjo.i-n ponctcieus rain, a sneeteii flood.
That slanted not before the baffled winds, "
But, with an arrowy and unwavering rush,
Dashed hissing earthward. Soon the rivers rose,
.And roaring fled their channels ; and calm lakes
Awoke exulting from their lethargy,
And poured destruction on their peaceful shores.
j The lightning flickered in the deluged air,
j Anu feebly through the shout of gathering waves
I Muttered the stifled thunder. Daj' nor night
( Ceased the descending streams ; and if the gloom
A little brightened, when tho lurid morn
RcSe on the starless midnight,’twas ta show
The lifting up of waters. Bird and beast
Forsook the flooded p'ains, and wearily
The shivering multitudes of human doomed
Toiled up before the insatiate element.
Oceans were blent, and the leviathan
Was borne aloft on the ascending seas
To where the eagle nestled. Mountains now
Were the sole land-marks, mid their sides were clothed
With clustering myriads, from the weltering waste
Whose surges clasped them, to their topmost peaks,
Swathed in the stooping cloud. The hand ol Death
Smote millions as they climbed; yet denser grew
The crowded nations, as the encroaching waves
Narrowed their little world.
And in that hour,
Did no man aid his.fellow. Love of fife
Was tlie sole instinct; and the strong-limbed son,
With imprecations, smote tl« palsied sire
That clung to him for succor. W oman ‘rod
With wavering steps the precipice’s brow,
And found no arm to grasp on the dread verge |
O'er which she leaned and trembled. Selfishness .
Sat like an incubus on every heart, j ,
Smothering the voice of Love The giant s foot (
Was on the stripling’s neck, and oft Despair .
Grappled the ready steel, and kindred blood .
Polluted the last remnant of that earth ,
Which God was deluging to purify.
Huire monsters from the plains, whose skeletons
The mildew of succeeding centuries
Has failed to crumble, with unwieldy strength
Crushed through the solid crowds : and fiercest birds,
With blinded eyes, drenched plumes, and trailing wings _
Staggered unconscious o’er the trampled prey.
The mountains were submerged; the barrier chains
That mapped out nations, sank: until at length
One Titan peak alone o’ertopped the waves,
Beaconing a sunken world. And of the tribes
That blackened every alp, one man survived;
And he stood shivering, hopeless, shelterless,
Upon that fragment of the universe
The surges of the universal sea
Broke on his naked feet. On his gray head,
Which fear, not time, had silvered, the black cloud
Poured its unpitying torrents: while around.
In the green twilight dimly visible,
Rolled the grim legions of the ghastly drowned,
And seemed to beckon with their tossing arms
Their brother to his doom.
He smote his brow,
* And, maddened, would have leapt to their embrace,
j When lo! before him, riding on the deep,
I Loomed a vast fabric, and familiar sounds
I Proclaimed that it was peopled. Hope once more
! Cheered the wan outcast, and imploringly
? He stretched his arms forth toward the floating walls,
And cried aloud for mercy. But his prayer
Man might not answer, whom his God condemned.
The ark swept onward, and the billows rose
And buried their last victim 1
Then the gloom
Broke from the face of Heaven, and sunlight streamed
; Upon the shoreless sea, and on the roof
| That rose for shelter o'er the living germ
Whose increase should re-populate a world.
I New York, May, 1337.
From the Knickerbocker of June.
Brasnatic Fiction.
1 Segnius irritant animdS demises per aurcm,
Quum quae sunt cculis eubjocta fidelibus.’
•
It would be difficult, in the catalogue of hu
man instincts, to put the finger upon one of
stro: gsr power or more univeisnl prevalence,
! than the love of fiction ; or, more correctly ex
pressed,’perhaps, the love <>f narrative. Not
anexoti ■, the seedling yf a cultivated uutsepi..
the product of a luxurious hot-bed, notpe
culiar growth of this country, or of that Zone,
| or of either hemisphere, can this hardy in
stinct bo considered; but a plant that springs
’ up alike beside the lichen of Lapland, or u..cer
1 th,. br< ad-fruit ot Tonga, indigenous in every
i climate, a native ot the world.
, When was the age, whal the nation, that
might claim exemption from its power? How
far back must we trace man’s his.ory, to fi..d
. the time when national and domestic traditioas
ceased to exist, or failed to interest? Whither
must we travel in search of that nation, degra
ded even below curiosity, where the rude le
gend kindles not the eye,arrests not the breath,
of the listener ? We must forget the fables
- and tragedies <;f Greece, the parables of Ju
dea, the rotnanci s of chivalry, the mysteries
and pageants of the dark ages, no less than the
fashionable tales and inodcr 1 novels ot’ our
j own time, if we deny, that it always has been,
■ as still it is, natural fir mankind to desire ami
; delight i i that which presents to their senses
! successive images of events, be they true or
i false, faitiriuily related, or fanci full v imagined.
I And Fancy wins the day against Truth.
; While her severer sister is besieging, by gm-
I dual approaches, the reason, Fancy Im’s alrea
; dy enlisted the feelings,and subdued the soul.
■ ‘Give me but the writing ot the national bill
j | at ls’—-so exclaimed the shrewdest statesman
I England ever saw—‘give me but the writing
I ofthe national ballads, mid I care not who has
; the ft’iimi. g ol’ tho laws.’
| Li tus allow something for the point of the
’ 1 apothegm, and in substance it is not. without
’ ■ truth, fits power who legislates for the (an-
■ cy. isgreatc" than his who enacts statu'.‘S !•■»>
j-the conduct; i;s mueh greater as the warm mi-
“where powers are assumed which have not been delegated, a nullification of the act is the RIGHTFUL REMEDY.’' Jejjetson.
ATSIEttfS, «EGK«IA, SATURDAY, AUttCST 19, 1937.
pulses ofthe heart are stronger than the cole
dictates of the understanding.
•These things ought not so to be.’ will some
one say.* They arc so. More—in our day
and generation at. the lea A, they w ill be so.—
No man, not even he whoso long regulated the
lever that now-a.days decides the march of ar
mies and the motions of the political world—
not Rothschild himself exerted, during the last
twenty years, as home-felt an influence over
civilized Europe as did W’alter Scott.
1 n the propensity, then, which lies at lhe root
of the Great Novelist’s sway, we recognise an
instinct,powerful beyond law or statute, uni
versal without limit of race or clime. It is in
jurious, illegitimate. Js it? The proof. It
mav be perverted. And what human instinct
cannot? It has &eß?i notoriously perverted.
True. A parent may as innocently permit his
j child to swallow an intoxicating draught of
i ardent spirits, as suffer its mind to be poisoned,
| and its nerves unstrung, by drinking in the panic
1 terrors that breathe from Mrs. Radcliffe’s fool
ishly-horrible pages.
But it is peculiarly liable to perversion.—
Perhaps it is. The sharpest tool inflicts the
deepest wound; yet that is apo >r argument in '
favor of using a dull one. I
All this is aside from what, in this utihtari- |
an age of ours, will be admitted as the main
question. Is the medium of imaginative “nar
ration a legitimate, as it is a powerful instru-
[ ment in the formation of character ?
I Os the influence of Moral fictions, it is not
I w ithin my present purpose to speak. It it
were, might I not safely challenge the pro
duction of a homilv, or a code of maxttns, or a
set of moral precepts, to match, in influence,
the noble lessons taught in ‘Helen?’ But I
leave to others the task of inquiring whether
Seneca or Maria Edgeworth has the more ef
fectually acted eu the morals of our age ; and
restrict myself at present to thu inquiry, as it
regards the historical branch of imaginative
narration.
No one can, for a moment, so far miscon
ceive what has been said, as to imagine that I j :
purpose thej«bsurd inquiry, w hether authentic 1
a.story can be beneficially superseded by apo- ; !
cryphal romance. All will perceive that the' <
only debatable question is, whether fanciful 1
narration may be safely and usefully admitted ' t
in aid of historical research. i <
What is the chief advantage to be derived | 1
from lhe study of history ? Assuredly* not, aj 1
dry recollection of mere num -s and dates.— | 1
Wg study, or ought to study history, as we j <
study living man in lhe world around us. In !*
history exists the whole by-gone world. B. I :
history, we live among our ancestors. By-his- > t
tory, we come into contact with the mankind <
of former ages. By history, we travel among <
ancient nations, visit tribes long since extinct, 1
and are introduced to manners that have yield- j ’
ed, centuries ago, to lhe innovating influence I
of time. Travel, society, show us men and | 1
things as thuy are ; history shows us men mid 1
things as they have been. The one opens to 1
us the past, as the other the present, world. I
Grant, as methinks we must, that here is .*
justly defined the province oi history, and it \ '
follows directly, that that history is the most | .
valuable, which the best supplies, for the past, ; I
whai contact with socialy affords, fur the pre- ■ i
sent. j
And what doos cantact with society afford , <
us? A living, vivid picture of men and wo- ' <
men, 1 heir sayings, their doings, th dr appear i I
auce. their manners; an intimate acquaintance ' t
with their thoughts, wishes, peculiarities, plans, I
objects of desire, modes of conduct. In ap
word, it places man before us, and we learn 1;
what he is. » 1
Does Hume, does Gibbon, thus teach us, i 1
what men attd women have been? Are we, 11
even in their luminous pages, introduced, in i ;
verity, to the society of days that are past? j
They narrate to us many and valuable truths. {
They exhibit the great features of human pro- j
gross. They expound to us difficult and im- 1
portant lessons. But do they tell us all ? Do ■
we enter the chamber, penetrate to the closet ? j
Or are we not, rather, stopped in the ante- ’
chamber, nay, on the very threshold ofthe en- ■
trauce-Joor? They have faithfully and with j
infinite labor conducted us—they only could 1
have done it-—to the vestibule. But if we are ’
to enter the ancient edifice, if we are to be in- '
troduced to its inhabitants, to watch their do- j
ings, to learn their manners, to read their
hearts, to feel with them and for them, we must 1
have a guide other than the scrupulous histo- ■
riographer. Fancy, unaided, could never have j
found her way thither; but, once tnere, she!
alone is privileged to enter ; and, once beyond ,
the threshold, she is at home.
Whence have we derived our most lively ;
and lasting impressions of chivalry and the feu- !
dal rule? From Hallam or from Walter :
Scott? Who that recolli cis his impressions. 1
as he first turned over the pages of • Ivanhoe,’ j
; and sat down in imagiuatio >, among the stul- i
worth barotis of the twelfth century, to witness |
lhe ‘ Gentle and Free Passage of Arms of Ash- i
bv de-!a-Zi uehe’—who, with such recoliec- i
tious fresh upon him, will hesitate a moment |
tor the aj-swer ?
But the author of lhe ‘ Middie Ages,’ is more J
trustworthy than the author of* Ivanhoe.’ Is j
he so? It follows not, as a matter of course, I
merely because the. one is called a historian i
and the other a novelist. Both may be accu- I
rate, or both may be inaccurate. Which has ■
the most thoroughly imbibed the genuine spir. I
it of the olden time ? Ttiat is the first ques- :
tion. And the st:co;.d is, which has succeed
ed in conveying to us the more correct, ay, !
and the more vivid and attractive pictuie, ofi
that which both seek to place’before us?
'L he more attractive 1 There are those who
! will put in a demur r .'r here. The more cor
rect, that is well ; but lhe more aUracliL'c—
Ought not every thing that is true and useful
to be attractive—is it not always attractive— j
to a justly-balanced mind? Even if it be, f
! how many justly-balanced minds does this !
i motley world contain? And is it certain that i
I tho most faithfully cultivated intellect will find !
i the same interert in a cold and abstract dis. I
! sertation, ora severe narrative ofgeneral facts,'
I as in a pic'ure that starts from the canvass, |
: and speaks direct to the heart, glowing with
! the brightest colors ol fanciful reality ? is it
natural that it should?
Be this as it may, the world may be led, it
cannot ba driven. While it is a prostitution
1 of talent to pander to men’s prejudices, it is a !
! waste of tuieiit to them. When the !
! Grecian orator declared that manner was lie? I
! first, the last, the sol > requisite of his art, he !
j uttered, wish exaggerated extravagance indeed ■
I a wholesome truth. To « hut purpose shall!
; i wc speak, to those who will not listen ; or I
I write, for those who refuse to read ? A book !
■ | unread is but a bundle of waste paper; and he j
I who publishes useful truths, or conveys moral
, I Icasous, in a form that shall attract thousands. I
)justly merits the praise of tenfold success,!
.! compared to him who puts forth the same in a '
j form that, shall command the attention ofhun
dreds only. If, through the attractive pages
1 of ‘Jacqueline of Holland,’ ten persons have
acquired a just idea ofthe feuds, so charac.
- teiisticof these rude times, which.originating
in a frivolous argument over a cup of wine,
. continued for more, than a centurv to nourish
■ :he bitterest enmity, and kindle the deadliest
wars, throughout the Low Countries—if ten
persons are now acquainted with this, for one
who would have learnt.from more sober history,
even the names ofthe Iloeks and the Kabble
jaws, has not Grattan tendered, in aid of his.
tory, a valuable service ? Ami to those whom,
as lhe world now is, the novelist only can
re ac. 1.
The value ofthe service, it wid be replied,
depends upon the accuracy ofthe portraiture.
Most true. And it is rm easy task, and no
small merit, to attain to this species of aceur.i-‘
cy. The historian, often doubtless at expense ;
of much labor and perplexity, must make him.
self mas-ter of facts. The Historical Novelist
must do more. lie must search the records
of former times for something beyond mere
■ larrative details ; for the unrecorded spirit of
■ the age. •He must traihis imagination to so.
Ijourn in the past, gradually to drink in the nn-
I pressions that made men what we read that,
centuries ago, they were; until the fancy be
comes imbued—saturated—with the influences |
of other times and climes. Then ody m; y
the'iiovelist or the dramatist proceed, safely
and successfully, lo summon before us, in at.
tractive succession, images ofthe past. With
out such preparation the literary Glendowers
ofthe age may‘call spirits from the vasty
deep’ ofthe olden time for ever, and they will
come not; or, if they come, it wid be a dwar
fish, a spurious, and a short-lived race. Such’
failures indicate the difficulty, net the inutility,
ofthe attempt.
That which has been said applies, in one
sense, with even greater force to the historical
drama than to the romance. The one speaks
to the- ear, the other to the eye ; the one is but
the text to the painting, the other is the paint
ing itself. The drama, then, with all the draw
backs incidental to its peculiar structure, is yet
one step nearer to reality, than the novel.
And when the dramatist is fortunate enough
t> obtain the aid of some ofthe master-snirits
of the stage, how important is that one step
nearer! Nearer, shall we say? Who, when
Siddons stood before him, the living type —
more than Imagination’s tvpe —of the regal
Catherine—what charmed spectator, when her
Searching tones startled the very depths of his
soul, ever paused to remember, that it was not
the Queen of England, but only tho daughter
of Roger ICemble who spoke? If the boards
of old Drury had actually been Black friars
Hail; ii she who thus embodied everything
we ever dreamed of majesty, had, in truth,
been the unfortun.-ite consort of the fickle Hen
ry ; if the chariot wheels of Oid Time, had, in
very deed, been rolled back some three centu
ries, and the whole pageant, in its sad reality,
been reenacted before our eyes—even then,
should we have felt it more, in the actual re
view, th in in the scenic representation ? No.
More than of any reality of common life, was,
for the time, the effect, when Shakspeare and
Siddons combined to enchain a, d enchant us.
Had the same prolific talents, which, in mo
dern days, have enriched the sister department
of literature, reached the dramatic brunch—
hid we Scotts and Edge worths ofthe stage—
the haiiefit, as well as the power, of the his
trionic ar. would to-day have been unquestion
ed. Its influences would have been confessed
as important as they are fascinating. Invidi
ous as commonplace is it, for him who enters
the arena to speak slightingly of his competi
tors : yet is the decline of the modern theatre,
and the paucity of dramatic talent among us,
i a matter of cuinplaint so notorious, that it were
I affectation to overlook the tacts.
The best talents of our own country —tai
entsthat are gradually estab ishing for Ameri
; ca a respectable literary rank among her elder
■ sisters—have been diverted to other channels.
I The genius that sparkles from the ‘Sketch
! Book,’ and tinges with romance the ad entures
jof Columbus—the skill that invests with living
I interest the humble doings of the rude Pioneer,
I and stirs the pulse and wins the tear tor the
1 fate ofthe‘Last ofthe Mohicans,—the gra
! phic pen that charms us in ‘Hope Leslie,’ or
that which domesticates us by the ‘Dutch
! man’s Fireside’ —well may the lover ofthe
, drama regret that these and other kindred spir
; its should have passed bv the neglected en
! trance, perchance shrunk from the technical
! trammels, ot a department of literature, which
I had they attempted, they could scarcely have
I failed to enrich.
! So also, us a general rule, has it been in
! England. The dramas of Byron and Bail
-1 lie. indeed, are distinguished exceptions.—
| Nor aro others, on either side the Atlantic,
i whi liy wanting. Yet, > ve:i while we admire
; tho spirit and nature oi ‘Tell’ or the • Hunch
back,’ the hold vigor ot the ‘Gladiator,’ the
I classic elegance ot’ ‘ lon,’and the deep pathos
| of ‘Fazio,’ we are reluctantly constrained to
i the confession, that these and a tew other ef
j forts worthy to bo named beside hem, cannot
redeem from merited reproach or obscurity,
1 the general character ofthe dramatic effusions
ofthe age. Will the mma ticisis ofthe mod-
I ern French school claim, fi>r their drama, a
: reserving exception ? 11 they do, can we ad
! mit their claim ? Oi. ’-ho score ot talent, yes.
: On that of good taste or useful influence, alas,
1.0! Dumas aid Hugo have an excuse for the
! extravagancies that disfigure mid degrade their j
i best productions. In avoiding the measured’ I
uniformity and dull formalities ol the Aristo
tieliau school, with its inviolable imi-iesand its
intolerable confidants, it might be natural
enough that the pendulum should swmg to the
opposite extreme, and that lhe despotic mo
j uutony of the classicists should be superseded
|-by tho horrors ;md the license of their rivals.
I but the excuse dues not alter the fact. It can-
I not render ‘ Lucrece Borgia’ a fittmg heroine ;
' it cannot legitimize the attempt to perpetuate
I the disgusting atrocities oi the ‘ T ur tie Ni sie;’
I it cum.ot make ‘La Rome d’Espagne’ decent
lor tolerable. These nighlmares of the stage,
as Hugo himse f v. ry ingenuously calls them,
-viii fade a wav—it isrtit'i. g’they should—with
ihe morning light of sob r jmigmeut. Or it in
the libraries of our children, they still find a
place, it will be o > S'me dusty shelf, beside
t the ‘ Castle Spectre’ or the ‘ Mysteries of
! Udelpho.’
I A mure legitimate exception, perhaps,mrgrit
!be made in favor of tho Germnti drama. A
I large proportion oi Germany’s voluminous au
| thors have occasionally written lor the stage.
I llv n her Milton himself, the elaborately eu
! thusiastic Klofstock, has, after lus own an-
I tique fashtoe. deigned to woo Melpomene.
The same giant intellect which, in Liter years,
I rioted in ‘Faust,’ dt voted one of its earliest
I efforts also to the d'ama. producing ‘ Goetz ot
1 B-.ihcmi.gen ,-’ a piny of no little men', though ’
- indifferently adapted for representation. And,
s Shakspeare out of ih j questioi , it inigJSf be i n
e easy task to match some ofthe happier■ crea
. tions of Schiller s dramatic fauey: take, for
I example, the beautiful conception of Tekla’s
, characti i Tn his ‘ Wallenstein.’
1 Yet withal, it will hardly suffer denial, tha
I the proportion of modern literary talent which
) has flowed in the dramatic channel, is small,
i compared to that which has taken other direc.
, tions; and small indeed, compared to the im
portance of the art, and its neglected capa
. bilities of affording instruction a: d delight.—
, Now th ,t the tale, the novel, the romance, have
1 been elevated to a rank which, in firmer days,
belonged to graver efforts only, and that dis
tinction in that line is a hopeless reward, ex-
. cept. for talents of the highest order, may we
not Impe fora corresponding improvement in a
department nobler and worthier s ill ? When i
that improvement comes, small need will there j
be to challenge, for the dramatic art, a rank
which even Shakspeare’s powers of enchant,
ment have proved insufficient with, many fully
to secure for it ; a rank as a > art not fascina
ting o ly but uses-1; an art. that shall improve
the affections as well as gratify the imagina
tion ; a Promethean art, th,-it shall breath • life
into the unimpassioned marble of history, and
upon the cold beauty of the moral code; an
I art practically philosophical, th t shall exhib- 1
| it what it desires to explain; that shall place
the past before our eyes, and cause us to know
it; tha* shall embody virtue to our senses, nnd
cause us to love it; an art, that, like a pure
soul in a fair form, shall win while it teaches, '
and convince the understanding by first mas
te:ing the heart: an art. i 1 fine, m accorda c ‘ ’
with the genius of the ti nes—with that mild i
spirit of modern reform, which strives not, as ■
our headstrong ancestors used, to dam up the
passions and propensities of youth, until, like i
the arrested torrent of some Alpine valley, the 1 I
gatherii-igstream outburst its ruptured barrier, |
carrying devastation in its path; but rather 1
seeks gently to guide the mountain torrent i
through field and meadow, so that it shall seat- I
ter verdure and freshness over the very scenes <
it once covered with desolating inundation. >
i
XUE HAPPV D»EA3X.
I *
BY RICHAUD HOWITT. I
I laid me down and slumbered, 1
And gladness filled my breast:
I dreamt my days were numbered, <
That my weary heart had rest: f
And a loved fair girl whom Ijoy’d to see, f
Was the first with smiles to welcome tue <
To the land of the good and blest. t
As she came, there was music on the air ,
With tho motion of her wings, j
That parted from her pinions fair, 1
Free as of springe : i
And the strains which arose and died around, |
Were softer than twilight-mellowed sound, 1
More sweat than from earthly strings. t
I turned with the pain of parting ,
From the few I left behind, ,
But that fair one’s radiance darting, |
Swept the shadow from my mind : (
As I gazed on her beauty beyond compare, (
Away was disolved the pain, and care, t
That had linked mo to my kind.
1
I marvelled at the splendour
So pure and so insense ; ,
Yet all subdued and tender
That it injured not tho sense ;
I marvelled at the coming bright.
Os that illimitable light, ■ ,
That was, I knew not whence.
1
Around were myriads soaring
With fadeless glory bright, ;
Whoss natures were adoring
The f juntain of all light: ,
And soothing o’er my spirit stole ,
These accents of the loved soul
That first entranced my sight. ,
“Thou hast left the realms of night.
Thou hast left the land of care;
Thou hast gained tlie abode of Love and Light, ,
The home ofthe good and fair:
Oh ! blessed art thou such home to gain, (
Where Rest is not the child of Pain, .
Nor Joy is Sorrow's heir!”
I woke, and pined to die,
For the light came thick and dull;
I pined on 'he wings of the dove to fly
To the Land ofthe Beautiful:
I pined to sever the mind from the clay, .
But the spirit within me for ever would say,
“God’s laws man may not annul." .
YVoiiislei*£ul escape lYoan 3eb
diaais.
A HISTORICAL NARRATIVE.
James Morgan, a unlive of Maryland,
married at an early age, and suo.i after .
s< tiled near Bi vimt’s station, in the wilds oi'
Kentucky. Like most pioneers ot the West,
he cut down the cane, built a cabi.', deude: ed
lhe timber, enclosed a field with a worm fence,
and planted some corn.
It was on the 17th day <ff August, 1782;
the sun had descended; a pleasant breeze was
playing through the surronndi' g wood; the
cane bowed u der its influence, nnd bod
jirceu leaves ol’ tile corn waved i.i ih ■ air;
Morgan had sealed hitnseli i 1 the door of his
cabin, with his infant on bis kne ; his you ‘g
and happy wife had laid aside Ler spinning
i wheel and was busily engaged ia prepiri. g
i lhe frugal meal. That altcruoon lie had ac
cidentally found a bu die of letter.-, which h
had fi fished reading to his wife before he had
taken hissoat in the door. It was a corres
pondence in which they had acknowledged an
early and ardent attachment for each other,
and the perusal left evident traces of joy on
the countenance of both; the little infant, too,
seemed to partake of its parents’ feelings, by
> its cheerful smiles, playful humor, a: d itiiiui
! tile caresses. While thus agreeably employed,
the report of a rifle was heard; another and
another followed in quick succession. Mor
mm sprang to his feet, his wife ran to lhe door,
and they sunulianeouslv exclaimed, “I ndiat.s!”
T’iie door was immediately barred, and the
next moment their fears were realized by a |
bold and spirited attack of a small party of In- I
dians. ihe cabm could not be successfully !
defended, and time was precious. Morgan,!
cool, brave, and prompt, soon decided. While
he was in the act of concealing his wife und -r
the floor, a mother’s feeling overcame.her —she
arose—seized •.er mfa t, but was afraid that
its cries would betray her place of conceal
ment. She hesitated —gazed silently upon it
—a momentary struggle between affection and
duty took place. She once more pressed her
child to her ngilatait bosom, again mid again
kissed it with impassioneii tendermss. 1 b
infant alarmed at tlie profusion ol tears that
fell upon its cheek, looked up iu its mother’s
. j face, threw its little arms around her neck, and
> wept aloud. “In the name of Heaven. Eliz 1,
- reieasi the child or we shall b • lost,” said the
r distracted husband, in a soft imp'oring voice,
3 as he forced the infant from his wife, hastily
took up his gun. k ife, a d hatchet, ran p the
ladder that led to the garret, and drew it after
1 ! him. In a moment the door was burst open,
, and the savages entered. .
By this tim - Morgan h'd secured his child
in a bag, a .d lasbed it to his back; then, throw
ing off some clap-boards Iroin the roof if his
cabi 1, resolutely leaped to lhe ground. He
was instantly assailed by two Indians. As
the first approach d, he knocked him down
with the bmtend ofhij gun. The other ad
vanced with uplifted tomahawk; Morgan let
fall his gun and closed in. The savage made
a blow, missed, bur severed the cord that bound
| the intaut to his back, and it fell. The contest
| over the child now became warm and fierce,
ai d was curried on with knives only. The
robust end athletic Morgan at leng'h got the
ascendancy. Both were badly cut and bled
freely, but the stabs ofthe white man were bet
ter aimed and deeper, and the savage soon 1
sti.ik to the earth in death. Morgan h rsfily
took up his child and hurried off. The 11-
dians in the house, busily engaged in dri iking
and plundering, were not avpriz d of the con
! t. st in the yard, until the one that had been
k locked down gave sigus of returning life, and
called them to the see. eof action* Morgan
was discovered, immediately pursued, a d a
dug put o his trail. Opetated upon by all
the fellings of a husband and a fathe . he m v.
ed wi>b all the speed of a h n’ed stag, and
soon outs’r p 1 e i the Indians, but the dog kept
i.) close pursuit. Fi ding it impossible to out
run or elude the cun ing animal, trained to
h.Lits of this kind, he hiked and wailed 11: til
it came withi i a few yards of him, fired and
brought iiim down—reloaded bis gu >, and
pushed forward. la a ihort time he reached
the house of his brother, whoresided between
Bryant’s Station and L^xingtor l . where he left
lhe child, and the two brothers set out for his
dwelling. As thev approached, light broke
upon his view—his speed quickened, his fears
increased, and the most ago..izit)g apprehen
sions crowded upon his mi d. lie emerged
from the canebrake, beheld his house in flames
and almost burnt to the ground.
“My wife!” he exclaimed, as be pressed
one hand to his forehead, and grasped the
fe .ee with the other, to support his ioit<-ri g
frame. He gazed some time on the ruin and
desolatio 1 before him, advanced a few pacts,
and sunk exhausted to'he earth.
Morning came; the bright luminary of Hea
ven arose, • d still fiu d him seated neat the
almost i'xpiri g <.mbe s In his right l and
h held asm .1 stick, wi'h which he was t ac
ing the name of “Ehz.i” on the ground; his •
1 fi hand was thrown on his favorite dog, that i
lay by his side, looking first 011 the rm 1 and I
then on his master, with evident signs of grie’’. I
Morgan arose. The two brothers ow j
made a search, and found some bones, burnt to 1
ashes, which they carefully ga'hered, and M- ■
ie.-tlv consigned to their ctiier earth, beneath '
the wide spread branches of a venerable o k. j
consecrated by the pun st and holiest recollec- I
tions.
Several days after this. Morgan was engag
ed in a dcsomate battle at the lower B tie Licks
Tile I ndians came off victors, and the surviv
ing whites retreated across the Licki >g. but
were pursued by the enemy for a distance of
six and thirty miles.
James Morgan was amongst the last that
crossed the river,and was in the rear until the 1
hill was descended.—As soon as he beheld
the I dians re-appear orj the ridge, lie felt a
irew his wrongs md recollected ihe lovely ob
ject of his early affections. Hu urged on his
horse, and pressed tu th front. While m the
net of leap ng from his saddl-, b<s received a '
rifle b.dl in his thigh, and fell ; an 1 dian
sprat gupo him, s iz-d him by the hair, and
applied the scalpi g knife. At this moment,
Horgan cast up his eyes a d recognized the,
handkerchief that bound the head of he sav
age, and which he knew to be his wife’s.
This a filed re irwed str ngth to his body, at d
increased activity to his fury. He quickly
threw his ! eft arm arotmd th I dian. and with
a deaffi-like grasp, hugged him to his bosom,
pin ged his knife into his side, and he expired
ri his arms. Releasing himself from the sav
age, Morgan cr .wled under a small oak, nn
an elevated piece of grout d, a short distance
from him- The scene of action si.ifted. and
he remained undiscovered and unscalped, at
anxious spectator of the battle.
It was ticw mid. ight. The savage band
after taking all the scalps they could find, left
the battle ground.—Morgan was seated at the
foot ofthe oak; its trunk supported his head.
The rugged and u even ground that suiTound
-1 d him was covered with the slain; the ot ce •
while and p ojecli g rocks, bleached with rain 1
and su 1 of centuries, were crimsoned with
bod that had warmed the In-art and animated '
the bosom of the patriot and'he soldier. The '
pule glimmering of th.: moon occasionally '
threw a faint light u. on the mangled bodies of 1
the dea<>. then a p issing cloud env< loped all in 1
daikuess, and gave additional horror to the fie- 1
b e cries of a few still lingering i the last ng 1
o ii-s of protracted death, rendered doubly ap
palling by the coarse growl of the bear, th, I
loud howl ofthe wolf, the shrill a: d varied 1
notes ofthe wild cat and pm ther, feeding on 1
h dead and dvi.ig. Morgan beheld th sc n I
with heart r ‘di gso sitio: s, and looked for- 1
ward wi'h the apathy of detpaii lo h s own
e..d. '
A large, ferocious looki g bear covered all t
Over with blood, .now apptoached him; he 1
threw himseli on the groti ut. silently commend- 1
cd his soul to Heaven, and ia breathless a..xie
<y awaited his fate. The satiated animal <
slowly passed ou without noticing him. Mor- <
gun riased his head-—was abou, offering thanks
lor h s u.(expected [‘reservation, when lhe cry t
of a pack of wo'ves opened upon him. ai d 1
again awakened him to a -sense of dang: r. He I
placed his hands over his eyes —felon his 1
face, and ih silent agony awaited his fate. |;
He tmw heard a rustling in the bushes; steps 1
approached —a cold chill ran over him. Im- <
agination —creativ *, busy imagi ation wasac- 1
lively employed; death, the most horrible s
dentil awaited him; his hmbs would in all pro- <
babiiitv be tor 1 from him. and he be devoured 1
alive. ' He felt a touch—the vital spark was
almost extinguish-d—another touch more vio- !
lent than the first, and he was turned over— i
the col I sw. at ran down in torrents —his hands t
were vioie tly forced from his face—the moon 1
pas d from under a cloud—a faint ray beam- ’
ed uno 1 him—his eyes involu 'tarily opened, |
aid tie b held his wife! who in a rcarce au- |
dible voice exclaim d, “My husband! —my :
husband!” and fe i Upo; his besom. I
Morgan r.ow lear. < d from his wife that a l . <
ter the Indians entered the nouse, they found t
some spirits and drauk freely; an ulicrcation 1
Vol. V—Wo. 13«
1 soon took place—one of them received a tnor
, tai stab and fell; his blood ran thro’ the floor
■ on her. Believing it to be the blood of he. -
, husband, she shrieked aloud, and betrayed her
place of concealment,
She was immediately taken and bound.
The party after setting fire to the house,
proceeded to Bryant’s Station. On the day "d
the bat'le ofthe Blue Licks, a horse, with saf
die and bridle rushed bv her, which she krx v
to be her husbaml’s. During the action th r
prisoners were left ui guarded, made their t
cape, and lay concealed benea h some bushes
under the bank ofthe river. After the Indian-,
hud returned from the pursuit, and left the bat
tle ground, she. with some other persons that
had escaped with her, determined to make a
search for their friends, and if on lhe field and
living, to save them, if possible, from the
beasts of prey. After searching for some time
and Minost~riespNnTrrg' or success, stiff lorran -
ntelv disco-ered him.
The party of Col. Logan found Morgan and
bis wife, and restored them to their friends,
their infant and their home.
[From Frazer’s Magazina.]
THE GARRET OF BEKANGER.
“Oh! it was here that Love his gifts bestowed
On youth’s wild age ’
Cpadly once more I seek my youth’s abode,
In pilgrimage;
Here my ycung mistress with her poet dared
Reckless to dwell;
She was six'een, I twenty, and we shared
Thia attic celh
“Yes,'.was a garret! be it known to all.
Here was Love’s shrine ;
There read, in charcoal traced along the wail.
Th’ unfi.nsh’d line—
Here was the board where kindred hearts would bland
The Jew can tell
How oft I pawned my watch, to feast a friend
In attic cell!
“ Omy Lisette’s fair form could I recall
With fairy wand I
There she would blind the window with her shawl —
Bashful, yet fond!
What though from whom she got her dress Pre aim;.
Learnt but too well!
Still in those days I envied not a Prince,
In attic cell I
“Heie the glad tidings on our banquet burst,
'Mid the bright bowls ;
Yes, 'twas here Marengo’s triumph first
Kindled our souls 1
Bronze can non roared ; France with redoubled might
Felt her heart swell
Proudly we drank our Consul’s health that night
p In attic cell 1
“Dreams cf my youthful days! I’d freely give,
Ere my life’s close,
Al the -Jail day 3 I’m destined yet to live,
For one of those :
Where shall I now find raptures that were flair,' “ ~~
Joys that befell,
And hopes that dawned at twenty, when I dwelt
In attic cell!
THE KOOKEES.
From Dr- Sp y’s nmusing work on “Modem
I dia,” we give the following curious account
oi tin- K lokiies:
The Kookees, as these brutal wretches nr *
c d el, have, according to the account afforded
me by Major Gaird. er, protuberant bellies:
th y are low io stature, with set features, ami
muscular limbs. They speak a dialect pecu
liar to thimselves, and build their villages on
the bcughs of the forest tre< s. They do not
appear to have any settled abiding place, -but
wander in herds from one wilderness to anoth
er. When a site favorable to their purpose,
has been found, the whole community set 4<»
work to collect bamboos and branches oftrees
w h.ch are afterwards fashioned into
aid placed across the lofty boughs of'he dif
f-rt'iit trees. Ou this foundation the rude
grass superstructure is raised which forms the
hut. When these sheds are completed, and
e'-ery family provided with a habitation; the
women and children are taken into their aerial
abodes. The men then lop off ail the branch
es within reach of theground, tn I having con
structed for themselves a rough ladder of bam
boos, they arceud the trees by means of this
rude stair-case, drawing it up after them to
prevent the intrusion of strangeis, and a m -
cossary precaution against lhe encroachment
of their four-footed companions of the forest.
In this manner they repose, floating in the
brunches, and cradled by die wind, partaking
more of the savage ferocity of brutes than thi.
milder charities of man. To persons who
have travelled much in I dia, the mere cir
cumstance of a whole tribe of natives choosing
to take up their permauent habitation in the
trees would not excite much surprise, since
the watchmen who are employed in the charge
of mango groves, or other valuable fruit cult; •
vat o s, often form a sort of nest on tfte branch
es ofsorne neiohbonng trees, a small hut, or
rather shed, just sufficient lo shield the hod
from the inclemo cy of the wet.ther, bein ’
r -i.-ed upon a platform resting on the bought, j
Tlie Kookees, therefore, i : this particular, <>,.• k
ne c c s i y 11. ‘o A en p <
living co stantly in trees; in other n
there is fortunately 1:0 similarity even to I.’ • ■
most degraded beings of the hitman race. a
They of their feats cf cannih.i;
ism, showing, with the strongest expreusio ;s«
satisfaction, tho bones and residue of me--- f 1.
low creatures who have tulleii a pre to th.
horrible appetites. So intent are they iutheir
scarch after human flesh, that the sup. inten
dant was always obiidged to senu out the men
employed in hunting the elephants, armed
with musket.-, and in not fewer than parties of
tm. One poor man they unfortunately caught
while off his guard, and devoured him almot
before his life-blood had congealed iu hi
veins. Attempts have been made to subdue
and civilize these people, a id one of their head
men was won over, and empl wed by Maj.
Guirdner at (he elephant depot, but h« could
not be induced to relinquish his oid habits. 1:;
a short time lie was detected in the commissio
of a murder, and he was executed by the civil
authorities of Chittagong.
When the ‘idings of this man's fate reached
the ears - f his former associates, they became
i iconsed, a d for a lung time afterwards exer
ted themselves, happily in vain, to obtain pos
session ufthe pers.m of the superintendant,
who hud frequently occasion to cross their
path in the execution of'his duty. These peo
ple, strange as ii may appear, ara living within
150 miles.of Calcutta, the metropolis of British
India, a dtheseut of government, and yet the:r
• xi.-t even i» scarcely known by the pen.
pia who are not in authority—--comparitivelx
little information from the wcuds and jungls-