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UNIVERSITY OF GEORGIA LIBRARY
ATHENS, (GEORGIA,) THURSDAY HORNING, SEPTEMBER 10, 1846.
NUMBER 22.
HTCHBI8IT«LAIIPER.
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Poctrn.
ON THE MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND.
And thou hast taken one to sharo
The ills of life with thee;
One heart, which trusting in thy love,
Hath sworn thy Kride to lie.
Before the altar thou has stood,
And holy promise spake.
Which naught but death can e’er dissolve,
And none on earth can break.
And Irom the homo whero site has spent
Her childhood’s merry hours,
Whero days and weeks so quickly went,
**v Midst happiness and joy,
Ah!' thou bast Ixtmo her far away
From all her heart hoUs dear,.
To cild thy home with love’* bright smile,
Thy lonely hours to cheer.
A mother’s heart doth mourn her loss,
A mother’s voice the while
Oft culls rich blessings from abovo
Upon her darling child;
JSo thou a qpther unto, her,
Protect her to tlto last,
And let the Uive thy bosom knows,
A mother^ far surpass.
A mother yet will mourn for her,
And roias lier presence there,
And oil to yonder heaven ascend*
For her a bister’s prayer.
And she hath hid them all farewell,
T6 dwell with thee and thine—
■ -> Then lay thy best of earthly love
Upon that heart’s pore shrine.
"&et not a fault of thine e’er cause
a cloucTupOn tliat brow.
But love hcr-still through every change
«•** As thou dost lore her now.
op And when the work alone is done,
And all life’s troubles o’er,
>£ S O may ye meet in that blest land,
And meet to part no more.
MISCELLANEOUS.
Legend* of the Revolution.
»' 8T GEORGE LIPFABD.
FroSI tire Philadelphia Saturday Courier.
And now we will go down to Wissahikon.
You have been there, some of you in tbe still
bummer afternoon, when tbe light laugh of girl
hood rung through the still woods—some of you
perchance in the er rly dawn, or in the purple
twilight when the shadow* came darkly over the
deep waters. •
But bad yon gone down there as I hare gone—
at midnight, when silence brooded there—si
lence like death—when the dark storm cloud
gathered like a pall—had you gone down there
as i have gone, and clinging to that awful cliff,
that yawns there above the blackness—heard
tho thunders speak to the still woods, heard the
deeps spealt their thunder back again—had you
been there at dead of night, and seen as I hare
seen the red lightning dashing down upon the
tall pines, flashing there, down over the grey
rocks, down over the dark waters, quivering there
far down the glen—
And bad you seen the storm cloud roll back—
had you seen the silver moon come shining out,
smiling from that window in tbe sky—had you
seen tbe eagle stand up from his perch, and wheel
circling there round the moon, bathing his pin
ions in her light, waiting the approach of his god
the sun then might you have known some
thing of tho sublimity, the supernatural grandeur,
the awful beauty of the Wissahikon ; then, even
though you were an Atheist, you would have knelt
down, and felt the existence of a God.
Oh, there ore strange legends hovering around
those wild rocks and dells—legends of those Monks
who dwelt there long ago, and worshipped <£>od
without a creed—legends of that far gone time,
when the white-robed Indian priests came up the
dell At dead of night, leading the victim to the
altar—to the altar of bloody sacrifice—that vic
tim a beautiful and trembling girl.
Let roe tell you a legend of the Revolution—a
legend that even now makes my blood run cold to
think upon. **
You all have seen the massive rock that pro
jects out into the roadside near tbe Red Bridge.
You have seen the level space, that spreads fiom
this rock to that ancient buttonwood tree ; you
have seen that cluster of mills, and cottages and
barns, nestling there, in the embrace of the wild
Wissahikon, with the dark rocks and the darker
trees frowning hr above.
It was here along this open space—mbout the |
time of the Battle ot Germantown—it was here,
at dead of night, when the . moon was shining j
down through a wilderness of floating clouds, that
there came an .old man and his four sons, all arm.
ed with rifle, powder-horn and knife.
They came stealing down that rock—they
stood in tho centre of that level space—a passing
ray of moonlight shone over the tall form of that
old man, with his long white hairs floating on the
breeze—over the manly figures of his sons.
And why came that old farmer from the woods
at dead of night, stealing toward the Wissahikon,
with his four tall sons around him, armed with ri.
fle and with knife ?
To-night there is a meeting at yon lonely house
tar up the Wissahikon—a meeting of ail the
fanners ol Germantown who wish to join the ar
my of Mister George Washington, now hiding
away in the wilds of the Skippack.
The old farmer and bis children go to join that
meeting. Old as he is, there is yet fiery blood in
hi* vein6—old as he is, he will yet strike a blow
for George Washington.
Suddenly he turns—he flings the blaze of a
lantern full in the faces of his sous.
** You are all here, my children,” he said “and
yet not all.” A gleam of deep sorrow shot from
the calm blue ©ye.
In that moment he remembered that missing
son—his youngest boy with those laughing locks
rock, halt hidden by the thick foliage, there stood
3!ichael Derwent and his four sons, waiting for
the assassin-hand.
Hark! The tramp of steeds! Near—and
near and nearer yet it grows!
Look! They emerge from the shadow of the
mill, ten British troopers, mounted on stout steeds,
with massy cap upon each brow, pistols in each
holster, swords by each side.
For a moment the moon shone over their gliti • He then pointed to her form—and then to Heav-
. Jtar Eerthant’* Doings.—Wo learn by a
gentleman of this city, who was at Lockport on
•.Saturday, that at noou on that day, an Elephant
belonging to* manage r»« exhibited there, walked H ^ _
out ot his tent toward a span of horses attached | of golden hair, with that eye of summer blue,
to a wagon some twenty rods off. The horses One year ago from this night that youth, George
tering array, and then ail Is dark. Hark to that
old man’s whisper—
“ My boys, d6 you see them Britishers t Mark
each one of you his man; and when they cross
the line between this rock and that Buttonwood
tree—then fire !”
And they came on.
The captain of the band waved his sword boast-
Ingly in the air.
In a moment, he cried, we will be—in the midst
of the rebels—he would have said ; but the words
died on his lips.
He fell from his steed—with a horrid curse he
fell—he was dead!
Did you see that flash from the trees ? Did
you hear that shout of old Michael ? Did you
hear the crack of the rifles ?
Look, as the smoke goes up to Heaven—look*
the moon shines out from a cloud !
Where, a moment ago, were ten bold troopers
riding forward at their ease, now are hut six.
There are four dead men upon the ground—yon
der through the Wissahikon dash four riderless
steeds.
With a wild yell the six troopers spur their
horses to the fatal rock—they rear their hoofs
against its breast—there is a moment of murder
and death.
Look! That trooper with the slouching hat—
the dark plume drooping over his brow—he
breasts his steed against the rock—that jet black
horse flings his hoof high against the flinty bar
rier. While the moon hides her face behind that
cloud, that trooper, with tbe plume drooping over
his brow, leans over the neck of his steed—he
seizes old Michael by the throat, he drags him
from the rock, ho spurs his horse toward the
stream, and that old man hangs there, quivering
at the saddle-bow.
Then it was that old Michael made a bold
struggle for his life. He drew his hunting knife
from his belt—he raised it in the darkened air;
but look—the trooper snatches it from his grasp.
“ Die, Rebel!” he shouts. Bending over his
steed, he strikes it deep into the old man’s neck
down to his heart.
Then the moon shoue out. Then, as the old
man fell, the moon shone over his face, convuls
ed in death, over his glaring eyes, over bis long
white hair, dabttfed in blood.
He fell with the knife sticking in his throat.
Then the trooper slowly dismounted from his
steed—he kneels beside the corse-—his long dark
plume fells over the dead man.
And there he kneels, while the people of the
valley, aroused by tbe sound oi conflict, came
hastening on with torches—there, while that oth
er band of British troopers, sweeping from the
north, surprise the lonely house of the Wissahi-
kon, and came over the stream with their prison-
in their grasp—there while the sons of Mi
chael Derwent—there are only two now—stood
pinioned beside the corse of their father, there
kneels that trooper, with his long plume drooping
over the dead man’s face.
Look—that old man with those hawk-like eyes,
tbe sharp nose and thin lips—that is the old To-
iy, Isaac Warden.
Look—that fair girl, stealing from the shade
of that tree—it is Ellen, the orphan girl, the be.
j trothed of the missing George Derwent.
Look l The trees towering above are redden,
ed by the light of torches. Hark—the Wissahi-
kou rolls murmuringly on—still that trooper
kneels there, bending down with that long dark
plume drooping over the dead man’s face.
A strange shudder—an unknown fear thrills
wronged orphan, as it quivers up there, that me-
thinks the angels around tho Throne of God turn
pale and weep at the sound.
And then while this scene froze thejjystanders
with awe, Geoige Derwent slowly opened his
vest—he unstrung a chain of slender gold from
his neck, he took the locket from the place where
it bad hung for one year; moved by each throb
bing ot his heart—-he gave it to the maiden.
took fright asAho b'igo beast approached them,
broke loose and ran a few yards to tho angle of a
(once, the elephant followed, capsized the wagon
and throw the horses some two rods over the
fence. One oltbe hoi sea rose with several bro
ken ribs, and managed to escape bis assailant,
who fell upon the other with his tusks, tore out
bit entrails, and continued to toss him along the
fence some ten rod* or more.
At this time tho keeper, who was nt dinner
when the elephant escaped from the lent, came
up and called tbe animal by name. Tho ele
phant immediately obeyed tho word, and follow-
ad tbe keener to an orchard about a hundred rods
off, whero ho was secured by strong chains made
fe*t to the trunk of a full grown tree. Just os
our informant left in tho afternoon, he heard that
the elephant had uprooted the tree to which he
was fastened, and had injured a.iuan, but learned
no particulars. The rage ofthe elephant, U said,
Derwent, had disappeared—no one knew whith
er. There was a deep mystery about it all. It
was true that this young man, at tho time of his
disappearance, was betrothed to a beautiful girl
—an orphan child—who had been reared in the
family of an old Tory down the Wissahikon, an
old Tory named Isaac Warden, who was in the
To his own—and then downward. That
gesture spoke volumes.
“ You to Heaven—I—there.”
Then with that blood-stained hand he tore the
British Lion from his breast—he trampled it un
der foot. Then gathering the strength of his
strong arm for the effort, be tore that British
uniform—that scarlet tainted uniform—from his
manly chest—he rent it into rags.
Then, without a word, he mounted his steed—
he rode toward the stream—he turned that ghast
ly face over his should®.
14 Ellen!” he shrieked, and then he was gone.
“ Ellen 1” he shrieked, and then there was the
sound of a steed dashing through the water, crash
ing through the woods.
Then a shriek so wild, so dread, rang on the
air—still the Parricide thundered on.
Not more than a quarter of a mile from the
scene of this legend, there is a steep rock, rising
one hundred feet above,the dark waters of the
WissahiHbn—rising with a robe of gnarled pines
all about it, rising like a huge wreck of some pri
meval world.
The Parricide thundered on and on—at last his
steed tottered on the verge of this rock.
For a moment the noble horse refused to take
the leap.
But there, there is a dark mist before the eyes
of the Parricide—there was the figure of au old
man—rnot a phantom; ah, no! It was too real
for that—there was the figure of an old man, that
knife protruding from the fatal wound, that white
hair waving in dribbled blood.
And there was a crash—then an awful pause
—then far, far down the dell the yell of the dying
horse and his rider mingled into one, and went
quivering up to God.
Tbe Captain’s Tarn.
The following excellent story was published
in a late number of the Boston Weekly Symbol.
Conversing with the captain of a vessel the
other day, he related the following anecdote :
I had a first rate officer who sailed with me for
several years. He was an excellent seaman and
a perfect gentleman. I remember I took him
once to the Italian Opera in London, and he ex
pressed himself perfectly satisfied with the per
formances, though be had no ear for music, didn’t
understand the language, and was too bashful to
look at tbe figurantes. A particular and very
amiable trait oi his character was his domestic
affection. Sailors, roving about the world, are
seldom very constant; * but this man was a per
fect model of conjugal fidelity. He was always
speaking of his wife—he had no children—al
ways buying presents for her in every port he
visited.
Well, one day—we were lying off the river
Gambia, in Africa—my mate, after dinner, lean
ed back in his chair and fell asleep, I went on
deck to smoke a cigar. When 1 came back I
found poor M. lying on the cabin floor—a corpse,
A sudden stroke of appoplexy carried him off. I
was inexpressibly shocked. He had a sailor*!
grave—and 'every heart on board the brig was
heavy at his loss. On the home voyage I was 1
thinking all the while of the agony of M.’s poor ;
wife when she learned of his death, and bow I
should break the news to her. She always flew
down to the pier as soon as she beard our brig
was coming up the bay, and I believed she could
read every signal flag that was thrown out from
the station. Well, we had no sooner made fast
to the wharf, when down comes a handsome ui|c w|
hack and out springs the mate’s wife, rigged out bered,
wagons, gave forth & muffled sound,.that seemed
prophetic of some mournful catastrophe. The
centre column alone had a hundred cannon
its train, while behind these wert? five hundred
wagons—the whole closed up by the slowly
moiing cavalry. Thus marching, it came, about
nine o’clock, upon Hohenlinden, and attempted
to debouch into the plain, when Grouchy fell up
on it with such fury that it was forced back into
the woods. In a moment the old forest was alive
with echoes, and its gloomy recesses, illumined
with the blaze of artillery. Grouchy, Grandjeau,
and Nay, put forth incredible efforts to keep this
immense force frojn deploying into tbe open field.
The two former struggled with the energy of des
peration to hold their ground, and although the
soldiers could not see the enemy’s lines the 6torm
was so thick, yet they took aim at the flashes that
issued from the wood, and thus the two armies
fought. Tho pine trees wero cut in two' like
reeds by the artillery, and fell with a crash on
the Austrian columns, while the fresh fallen snow
turned red with the flowing blood. In the
mean time Richenpanse, who had been sent by J went. Farewell, tlien, my friend J
a circuitous route with a single division to attack -“ The hot pursuit he had directed a moment
the enemy’s rear, had accomplished his mission. I before was forgotten—victory, trophies, prison-
Though his division hud been cut in two, and ir- J ers and all sunk into utter wortlildSsnesa, and as
retrievably seperated by the Austrian left whig, j at the battle of Aspen, when Lannes was brought
the brave general continued to advance, and with to him tnoitaliy wounded, he forgot even his ar-
only three thousand men fell boldly on forty thou-! my, and the great interests at stake. He order-
sand Austrians. As soon as Moreau heard tho • ed his tent t<» bo pitched near the cottage in
sound of his cannon through the forest,and saw tho j which his friend was dying, and entering it, pass-
alarm it spread through the enemy’s ranks, he ed the night all alone in inconsolable grief.—
ordered Ney and Grouchy to charge full upon the j Tho Imperial Guard formed their protecting
Austrian centre. Checked, then overthrown, j squares, as usual, around him, and tho fierce tu-
that broken column was rolled back in disorder, mult of battle gave way to one ol the most touch-
and utterly routed. Campbell the poet, stood in ing scenes in his history. Twilight was deep-
a tower, and gazed on this terrible scene, and in wningover tho field, and the heavy tread of the
tbe midst of the fight composed, in part, that stir- ranks&oing to their bivouacs, and the low rumb-
ringode which is known as (ar as the English j ling of the artillery wagons in the distance, and
language is spoken. J all the subdued yet confused sounds of a mighty
“The depths of tho dark forest swallowed tho ; host about sinking to repose, rose on tbeevening
struggling hosts from sight; but still there issued ’ ' * ’ **' “ 1
forth from its bosom shouts and yells, mingled
shal seized him by the hand and said,' “My whole
life has bflfn consecrated to your- service, and ,
now my onjy regret, is, that I can no longer be *
useful to you”—‘Duroc 1’ replied Napoleon with
q^oice choked with griefi *there is anotherlife-
tnere you will await me, and we shall meet
again.’ ‘Yes, sire,* replied the feinting sufferer,
‘but thirty years shall first pass away, when you
will have triumphed over your enemies, and re
alized all the hopes of out country. I have en
deavored to be an honest man; 1 have nothing
with which to reproach myself.’’ He then addr
ed, with faltering voice, ‘I have a daughter—
your majesty will be a father to her.* Napoleon
grasped bis right hand, and sitting down at the
bedside, and leaning his head on hts left haud,
remained with closed eyes a quarter of an hour
in profound s fence. Duroc first spoke. Sccinghow
deeply Bonaparte was moved, he exclaimed, ‘Ah!
sire, leave me! this spectacle pains you !* The
stricken Emperor arose and leaning on the arms
of his equery, he and Marshal Soult, leftjrhe apart-
saying in heart-breaking tones, as he
with the thunder of cannon, and all the confused
noise of battle. The Austrians wore utterly
routed, and the frightened cavalry went plunder-
ing through the crowds of fugitives into the
woods—the artillery men cut their traces, and
leaving their guns behind mounted their horses
and galloped away—and that magnificent column,
as sent by some violent explosion, was hurled in
shattered fragments on every side. Four miles
the white grounu was sprinkled with dead bodies,
and when the battle left the forest, and the pine
trees again stood calm and silent in the wintry,
night, pierceing cries and groans issued out of
the gloom in every direction—sufferer answering
sufferer, as he lay and writhed on the cold snow.
Twenty thousand men were scattered there amid
the trees, while broken carriage^ and wagons, and
deserted guns, spread a perfect wreck around.”
Much has been said of Napoleon’s coldness ol
imparting still greater solemnity to the
lour. Napoleon^with his grey great-coat wrap-
ied about him, his elbows on his knees, and his
forehead resting on his hands, set apart from all,
buried in the profoundest melancholy. His most
intimate friends dare not approach him, and his
favorite.ufticer#stood in groups at a distance,
gazing anxiously and sadly on that silent tent.—
But immense consequences were hangiOg on the
movements of tho next morning—a powerful ene
my was near, with their array yet unbroken—
and they at length ventured to approach and ask
for orders. But the broken-hearted chieftain on
ly shook his head, exclaiming, ‘Everything-to
morrow” and still kept his mournful attitude.—
Oh, how overwhelming was the grief that could
master that stern heart! The magnificent spec
tacle of the clay that had passed, the glorious
victory that he had won, were remembered no
more, and ho saw only his dying friend before
him. No subs escaped him, but silent and mo-
spirit, his absorbing and unchangeable in-1 tionlcss he sai, his pallid face buried in hi* hands,
sphering of self. Now, it is undoubtedly true, | and his noble -heart wrung with agony. Dark-
that he was not of a very kindly nature,
through the hearts of all around. No one dared j ^ rora top to toe like a first rate frigate
was mainly embodied mind. HU companions,
of whom he had not many, were mostly compan
ions of his intellect rather than of his heart. He
was created ambitious, moreover; and continuous
ambition can hardly be dissevered from selfish,
ness. Then, too, he was so keen-eyed. He
could “look quite through the deeds of men,” and
was able always to bend them to the furtherance
of his schemes; and such a power can belong to
no one without, almost unconsciously leading him
to turn all things into the strong current ol his
own purposes. Indeed, circumstances will of
themselves fall into the plans of such a man.—
This, of course, historians and the world will call
selfishness. And so it is ; for a still higher un
ion of elements would lead a man to cover the
sweeping whirlpool of his designs with unequal
breadth of human interest in the affairs of others.
That Napoleon did, or could, have done this, no
one will imagine. But it ought to be remem-
the other hand, that all great men
to arouse the kneeling
At last that burly trooper advances—-ho lays
his hand upon the shoulder of the kneeling man
—he bids him look up. And he does look up 1
Ab, what a shudder ran through the group—
ah, what a groan was heard from the white lips
of those two sons of Michael Derwent! Even
that British captain stands back in horror of that
fee©.
Tho trooper looked up—the light shone npon a
young face with locks of golden hair waving all
pay of tbe British. It was true that there was j around it, with light blue eyes—but there was a
some strango connection between Ibis Tory and I horror written on that face, worse than death, a
young Derwent; yet old Michael bis father had
heard no tidings of his son for a year—there was
a dark mystery about the whole affair.
And while the old man stood there, surveying
the faces ol his sons, there came stealing along
tbe narrow road, from the shadows of the cottage
and mill, tbe form of a young and beautiful girl,
with a dark mantle thrown loosely over her white
dress, with her long black hair waving in free
tresses about her shoulders.
It was Ellen, the betrothed of George Derwent.
caused by some tobacco concealed in the I who had now been missing from tbe wilds of
food that some of the bystanders offered him.— Wissahikon for a year. > ' k
people cannot be too cautions bow they trifle in I. And why cornea this orphan girl, with her full
«uch a way. with an elephant—Buffalo Adccr. I dark eye, with her long black hair waving on tho
1,, * i.’. ,, .—. -—: 1 • j breeze, with her lovely form veiled in a loose
,n Pkbpktoai. Motion.— 1 Tbe Feliciana (Miss.)! mantle 1^ Why came she hither
Whig, has a communication from a mechanic,
tmmed James A»good Dalton, declaring solemnly
with an affidavit affixed, that he bad perfected
perpetual motion. He has been at work on his
inject for many years, and is ho declares, has
it last perfected a m&chino which demonstrates
hU compTete success. Ho is now anxious to
raise one thousand dollars to build a model engine
<hat will-ensure him tho benefit oi bis discoveiy,
end place the world in possession of the incalcu-
fable benefitsio flow from it. He relnscs to re
ceive a cout from* any oho whom ho cannot con
vince at once of l!)0 truth of hi* discoveries.—
tjhe principle .he has applied is the < attraction of
^ravUatjop, and his motion is produced, says the
Sentinel, as near as we can couject-
jttOt.by an artificial and continual change Iu the
position of various parts of a heavy body.. The
AVhig says that, he is a poor man, and an indus-
jbdops, sincere and honest mechanic; and for
-this reason, hopes that his efforts may be noticed
•by, Ihc press. * - - * --- — 1
horror like that which stamps the face of a soul
fore
r lost.
It was the face of George Derwent—he knelt
beside the dead body of his father—with that
knife sticking in his throat.
For a moment there was an awful silence.—
The Parricide slowly rose, turned his face from
the dead, and folded his arms.
Then a light footstep broke the deep silence of
this scene—a fair form came softly through the
crowd—it was Ellen, the Orphan Girl.
“ George—George, I'see you once more. You
are come,” she cried, in her wild joy, rushing to
his aims. But the cry of joy died away in a groan
of horror. She beheld that awful face—one of
t her dark tresses upon his clenched right hand,
lonely at dead! That hand was wet with blood. .
of night? ! Then, like a crushed reed, she cowered back
This night, one year ago, George Derwent! upon the ground. Her. lover spoke not, but he
bade hergood-byo under tho shade of that button- j slowly raised his blocd-red hand jn the light, and
a manner isolated by their greatness—can
have but few companions, and with most of those
hold but unfrequent communion. It is still tar-
ther true,that they seem more isolated,self-sphered
—therefore, to the common eye, seljish—-than
they really are. Thus, many pre-eminent minds,
who are not selfish, appear so from their solitary
position among men; and others who really arc,
appear from the same reason twice as much sc t . - . -. .
as their true character would warrant. This 1 aroufee him Irom his angonizing reflections—his
latter was in some measure the case with Napol- \ friend lay dying and the heart he loved more
- • eon. From his superior isolated intellect he | than his life was throbbing its last pulsation.
** Glad ofit^ by jingo, was hei answer. She , cou j,j not be familial with many; and he often “ What a theme lor a painter, and what a eu-
was ashore and on again in tbe tying of a reef doubtless put on the appearance of intimacy when ology on Napoleon was that scene. That noble
• point—and the next week she was married to a be [really had no such feeling. But there were . heart which the enmity of the world could not
t.merchants clerk. Pbe captain plunged his a { ew whom it is evidentNapolen deeply loved.— | shake—nor the tenors of the battle-field move
No greatness, in this world at least feel at! f rom ; ts ca i ra repose—nor even ihe hatred and
day, with a fathom or two of ribbon towing
astern other. Poor girl, thought I, how soon my
tale will blanch the roses of your cheek. “ My
husband ?” she enquired, as she sprang lightly
deck, showing a pair of tiny feet cased in the
daintiest satin boots that ever a French shoema
ker turned out. “Iam sorry to say madam,”
said I “that ho has been very sick.” The col
or came and went on her cheek. “ Tell me all,”
she cried grasping my arm. “ Well, then; mad-
“ said I, “ if I must say it, he is dead.”—
ness drew her curtain over the scene, and the
stars came out one after another upon the sky,
and at length, the moon rosg above the hills,
bathing in her soft beams the tented host, while
the flames from burning villages in the distance
shed a lurid light through the gloom—and all
was sad, mournful, yet sublime. There was
the dark cottage, with the sentinels at the door,
in which Duroc lay dying, and there, too, was the
solitary tent of Napoleon, and within, the bowed
form of thcEmperor. Around it, at a distance,
stood the squares of the Old Guard, and nearei
by, a silent group of chieftains, and over all lay
the moonlight. Those bravo soldiers, filled with
grief to see their beloved chief borne down with
such sorrow, stood for a longtime silent and tear
ful. At length, to break the mournful silence,
and to express the sympathy they might not speak,
the bands struck up a requiem for the dying mar
shal. Tho melancholy strains arose and fell in
prolonged echoes over the field, and swept in
feinting cadences on the ear oftbe feintihgwarrior
—butstill Napoleon moved not. They then chang
ed tho measure to a triumphant strain, arid the
thrilling trumpets breathed forth their most joyful
notes, till the heavens rung with the melody,—
Such bursts of music had welcomed Napoleon as
he returned flushed with victory, till his eye kin
dled in exultation; but nbw they fell on a dull
and listless ear. It ceased, and again the mourn
ful requiem filled all the air. But nothing could
wood tree—told her that some dark mysterious ' then—he pointed ta the corse of ■Michael Der-
cause would lead him from the valley for a year {
and then, pressing the last good-bye on be^lips,
swore to meet her, under tho same tree, after the
lapse ol a year, ot this very hour.
* Aud now she cornea to meet her lover—and
now she comes fo keep her trust.
And the moon, beaming from the parted clouds,
An Euglish paper remarks that a wonderful
na occurred •recently on .Uie .Brighton
A gentleman and lady were silting
Jte to each other, the lady having a piece of
t-plastcr on her iip. On emerging from oue
ie dark tunnels, marvellous to relate, the
•court plaster was observed to have passed over to
the gentleman’s lips!
went, with tbe reeking knife standing out from
the gash along the throat.
Then the foil horror, of that hour burst upon
the maiden’s heart. Then she slowly rose, then
she laid her quivering hand upon the arm cf that
hoary Traitor—Isaac Warden.
hands deep in the pockets of his pilot coat. “I’m
a bachelor,” said he. “ The worse for you,” was
our answer. “ Exceptions only prove rules.”
Battle of llohenllndcn.
BY T. J. UEADLY.
The Iser and the Inn as they flow from the
Alps towards the Danube, more nearly In paral
lel lines; and nearly forty miles apart. As they
approach the river, the. space between them be<
comes one elevated plain covered chiefly with s
sombre, dark pine forest—crossed by two roads
only—while the mere country paths that wind
through It here and there give no space to march
ing columns. Moreau had advanced across this
forest to the Inn, where, on the 1st of December,
he was attacked and forced to retrace his steps
and take up his position on the farther side, at the
village of Hohenlinden. Here, where one of the
ease, perhaps endure existence—utterly alone.
Napoleon’s dearest friend was probably Du.
roc. Mr. Headley’s picture of his grief at Du.
roc’s death is very fine ; one who reads it can
not help seeing how fine a subject it would be
for a historical painting.
Death of Duroc:.
“ But his, greatest misfortune, that which
wounded him deepest, was the death of his
friend Duroc. As he made a last effort to break
tho enemy’s ranks, and lode again to the advanc
ed posts to direct the movements ol his army, one
of his escort was struck dead by hts aide.—
Turning to Duroc, he said, * Duroc, fate is deter
mined to have one of us to-day. Soon after, as
he was riding with his suite in a rapid trot along
^ tho road, a cannon ball smote a tree beside biro,
great roads debouched from the woods, he plac- ^nd glancing, struck General Kirgener dead, and
ed Ney apd Grouchy.
“Tho Austrians, in four massive columns,
plunged into this gloomy wilderness, designing
lo meet in the open plain of Hohenlinden—the
central column marching along tbe high road,
Ola man 1” sfctx whispered, in that low deep I while thof.e on either side, made their way through,
insults of bis, at last, victorious enemies'humble
—here sunk in the moment of victory before the
tide of affection. What military chieftain erdr
mourned those on the field of victory, and what
soldiers ever loved a leader so?” .
We have nothing further to add about Napole-
. We simply feel, that while in military gen«
in diplomatic foresight, in far reaching com
prehensiveness ofSlate interests, in sublimity of
self-counsel, in grandeur ol sustained pprpose, he
superior to all tbe other leaders, toonarebs
and statesmen in Europe, he; was not tlieir Infe-
in magnanimity, justice or faith. They were
all, at times, deficient enough, in these last great
qualities ; but why assail one, and say nothing
ol the rest ? France was Napoleon’s country,
and he fought tor France ; if be fought also for
himself, he was not therefore the worst among
foil over her form, as sbewnne in all her beauty , tone that came irom her bursting heart. anvd the trees as they best could.
toward that buttonwood tree, looking for the world i “It is now oue year since you told George “It was a stormy December morning when
like the spirit of that lonely dell. Derwent that he could not win my hand—the these seventy, thousand men were swallowed
With a muttered shriek she beheld old Michael hand of your son’s child—unless he engaged in tcora sight in the dark dqfiles of Hohenlinden.—
standing there. Then, rushing forward, she i your service as a British spy, (this night and this The day before it had .rained heavily, and the
seized his withered hand, and bade him beware I night only did I learn the mystery cf that foul bar-! roads were almost impassable; but now a iuri-
| gain). For one year you have reaped the gainsous snow storm darkened the heavens, and covered
cf his degradation—and now, after that year is 1 the ground with one while unbroken surface.—
past, he,°George Derwent, who loved your son’s j The by-paths were blotted out, and tbe sighing
daughter, with as true a love as ever throbbed 1 pines overhead dropped with their snowy burdens
tore out the entrails of Duroc. Napoleoi
ahead at tbe time, and his suite, four abreast be-
hind him. The cloud of dust tbe rapid move,
ments raised behind them, prevented him from
knowing at first who was struck. But when it
was told him that Kirginer was killed and Duroc
wounded, he dismounted, and gazed long and s0 } ve ^s lUtle circumstance I’s gwine to expound
ESS towards ^the’cottage | <•> J™, (or do sf >c 6s bulgift ob ,-oorself iokid.
into which the wounded marshal had been card- promulgate it, I U a per-
Two gentlemen of color accidentally met near
the Alhambra, in the street the other day, when
the. following dialogue ensued:
Lcok-a beab, Mr. Crow, I wants you to dis-
of the lonely bouse oftbe Wissahikon. (gain)*
That night, at the old Tory’s house, she had
overheard the plot of some British troopers to
surprise tho meeting oftbe patriot farmers—to
surprise them and crush them at a blow.
Even as she spoke, grasping that old man’s
withered hand, thereto tho south, was heard the
tramp of steeds. Already the British troopers
came on to the work of massacre. ;
A cloud came over the moon—^it-was dark-
in a moment it was light again.
That level space between the rock and
was vacant—-the maiden was gone into.the shade
ol the forest trees—and there, there on that bold
daughter, wtta as true a love as ever Uiroooca i puies oveiueauoioppcu>Yu.uiuoir5uo\vjr
beneath the blue heavens-—he returns to reap! above the ranks, or shook them down on the
his harvest, and—oh! Godj—behold that bar- heads of the soldiers, as the artillery wheels
‘ - ” smote against their trunks. .‘It. was a strange
spectacle, those long dark columns, cut of sight
of each oiher, strecthing through the dreary forest
by themselves; while the falling snow, sifting,over
the ranks, made the unmarked way stilt more
solitary. Tbe soft and yielding mass broke the.
tread of tbe advancing hosts, while the rumbling
of the artillery, and ammunition and bnjgage.
vest!” i
And with her dark eye£ starting from their
sockets sue pointed to that„%liastly son, and the
dead father. Then in low, deep tones, a curse
trembled from her white lips—the orphan’s curse
upon that hoary traitor. And he trembled. Yes,
grown grey in guilt, be trembled, for there is
something so da:k so dread in that curse of a
Dgroc was grand marshal of the palace, and
a bosom friend of the emperor. Of a noble and
generous character, of unshaken integrity and
patriotism, and firm as steel in the hour of dan
ger, he was beloved by aU. who knew him.—
There was a gentleness about him and purity of
feeling the life of a camp could never destroy.—
Napoleon loved him-r-for through all the changes
ol bis tumultuous life he had ever found his aflec-
lion and truth the same—and it was with an anx.
ious heart and sad countenance he entered the
lowly cottage where he lay. His eyes were fill
ed with tears, as he askedif there was hope.
foci hoss on splauifying interjections.*»
‘I’ll gub it toycu, Mr. Crow. Why am Capt.
May, the man wat stormed de Mexan batteries,
like a fos3-rale printer ?” - • / i ts-*. ' i 1 |
* Well, dar, Mr. Squash, you has cotch me dis
time, I golly—I gub dat up widout a spasm.’
‘Ha! ha!—you gub him up, eh?—I spected
all dis time I’d cotch you dar, darky. Well, now
I’sgwine to tell you why Capt. May is like a
printer, Bekase he guv the Mexan* ■proof of hie
leadedjnailcr wid such a bard impression, dat be
knocked; fair forms into pi, and setdem a rollin!
Yaw!>*yaw! you lampblack nigga, ypu nebber
When told there was none, he advanced to the 1 knows and Mr. Squash preregrinated, •
bedside without saying a word. The dying mar-1 leaving Mr. Crow in a high stale of wonderment.