Newspaper Page Text
THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
IS PUBLISHED
EVERY THURSDAY MORNING
Br WILLIAM H. CHAMBERS,
EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR.
Office on Randolph street.
MY LITTLE DAUGHTER’S SHOES.
BY CHARLES JAMES SPRAGUE.
Two little roueh-wom, stubbed shoe*,
A plump, well-trodden pair,
With striped stockings thrust within.
Lie just beside my chair.
Os very homely fabric they,
A hole is in each toe —
They might have cost, when they were new,
Some fifty cents or so.
And yet this little worn-out pair
Is richer far to me.
Than all the jewelled sandals are,
Os Eastern luxury.
This mottled leather, cracked with use,
Is satin in my sight—
These little tarnished buttons shine
With all a diamond’s light.
Search through the wardrobe of the world !
You shall not find me there
So rarely made, so richly wrought,
So glorious a pair.
And why T Because they tell of her,
Now sound a?leep above,
Whose form is moving beauty, and
Whose heart is beating love.
They tell me of her merry laugh,
Her rich, whole-hearted glee,
Her gentleness, her innocence,
And inlant purity.
They U-U me that her wavering steps
Will long demand my aid—
For the old road of human life
Is very roughly laid.
High hills and swift descents abound,
And, in so rude a way,
Feet that can wear these coverings
Would surely go astray.
Sweet little girl! be mine the task
Thy feeble steps to tend—
To be thy guide, thy counsellor.
Thy playmate and thy friend.
And when my steps shall faltering grow,
And thine be firm and strong.
Thy strength shall lead my tottering ago
In cheerful peace along!
[From the Buffalo Republic.]
BALLAD.
I'll tell you of a nice young man,
Whose name was Peter Gray—
The State where Peter Gray was bom,
Was Pennsylva-ni-a.
This Peter he did fall in love
All with a nice young girl—
The name of her, I’m positive,
Was Lizzyanny Quirl.
When they were going to be wed,
Her father he said “No !”
And brutally did send tier off
Beyond the O-hi-o.
When Peter heard his love was lost,
He knew not what to sav—
He’d half a mind to jump into
The Susquehan-ni-a.
But he went trading to the West,
For furs and other skins,
And there was caught and killed and dress’d,
By bloody In-gi-ins.
When Lizzyanny heard the news,
She straightway went to bed,
And never did get up again,
Until she d-i-ed.
Ye fathers all! a warning take,
Each one as has a girl,
And think upon poor Peter Gray
And Lizzyanny Quirl.
ittisaUftiimts.
[From Howitt's Journal.]
THE KAFIR TRADER.
BY ISABELLA MUNRO.
Years, with their summers and winters,
their joys and sorrows, have passed away,
since the Cleopatra, her long and wearying
voyage over, cast anchor in one of the ex
tensive hays of Southern Africa. llow
eagerly and anxiously her many passengers
looked across the belt of heaving waters to
wards the land, which, now at first, gradu
ally rose into ranges of lofty hills, stretching
far into the distance! For most of them
had crossed the ocean, and bidden adieu to
their remoter kindred, in the hope of finding
amid its secluded valleys some “forest sanc
tuary,” where the bonds of the world that
had hitherto chafed them might be unfelt,
and their efforts at earning a livelihood for
themselves and little ones be better rewarded.
Foremost among them stood a man, the
eagle keenness of whose eye bespoke him
one fitted to cope, and successfully, with the
world, in whatever phase it might present
itself. But it was not so; and Robert Trvon,
despite years of unwearying effort, now stood
gazing on the shores of the far south, a
world-worn and almost penniless man, and
one whose spirit was embittered, and his
heart hardened by seeing others, whom he
deemed less worthy, vjerrors in the arena
achieve nothin;.
While thus he stood polndeing with con
tracted brow on what mighlt be the result of
this last decisive step of emngra'ion, a sweet
childish voice by his side eFclamed—
“Let me see too, father.” ;
Immediately the stern expression passed
away, and with a bright smile he raised the
little girl to stand where she might easily
look over the bulwark. Robert Tryon was
devotedly attached to his wif\ and family;
and the more chilling blasts of adversity had
frozen bis heart towards the world, the more
did it gush forth in warm affection to those
surrounding his ownihumble and sometimes
ill-supplied fireside, and he felt (hat to see
them possessed of the comforts of life befit
ting their station —more he asked not, wished
aiot —would be a happiness that would, in
his estimation, render the labor of even a
galley-slave light.
* But dearer than all, was his little fairy
Kate, as fair and beautiful a cb ;M as the
eye need wish to rest upon, ith soft, earnest
dark eyes, looking forth from am ng her
brown clustering curls as though the misfor
tunes of her parents had dispelled the joyous
beams of childhood, and awakened her al
ready to the realities of life, and a sweet
smile playing upon her rosy li}, as if, in the
buoyancy of her innocent spirit, hoping and
trusting a brighter future.
the child’s trust seemed not mis
placeril- for brighter days soon dawned upon
them. IK bert Trvon obtained a small farm
in one olf the deep fertile hollows branching
off from! its great valley of the Fish river;
and thoJigh they needed both time and labor
to mak v it productive, both were ungrudg
ingly bejstowed, and some five or six years
aljter b ii;A arrival, Willow Dell, (so named from
the frinige of Babylonian willows that swept
the little streamlet murmuring through it.]
was as (fair a scene of rural promise as the
wide fr kntier could show.
VOL. 11.
) And for a while Robert Trvon was a
| happy and contented man ; his loved ones
| were growing up beautiful and joyous
| around him, and the humble competence he
i once had sighed for was now theirs; few,
I indeed, are they whose wishes are so fully
{ gratified ! But it sufficed not long. With
| prosperity loftier desires awoke in Tryon’s
! breast; and after a time he began to pine
| for riches to bestow on the children whom j
I every succeeding day rendered yet dearer, j
i and whom he felt assured wealth would
I grace so well. How, as he wandered at
j evening beside the willows, he would dream
! of the proud future that—could his wishes be
| realized—might be in store for his promising
J sons and beautiful daughters in some higher
! sphere; and how in years to come, they
j might revisit their fatherland, and look scorn
| fully down on those who in other days had
despised himself!
Occupied with such visions, discontent be- i
gan to take possession of his heart. It would
be years—many years —ere, by his farm, he
could hope to obtain such results; and ere
that his children’s youth would be past —
their lot in life decided, and riches not so
precious; and again he felt that he could toil j
as man never vet had toiled, to bestow j
wealth on his children.
Os the many objects man pursues with j
avidity, gold is the one that most frequently j
eludes him, for there are many modes by
which it may he obtained, and one of these
presented itself to Tryon.
He was riding with one of his nearest
neighbors into Graham’s Town, when, on ]
the way, they passed an extensive and beau- |
tiful farm, and on a rising ground saw a
large built house peeping from among the
trees. Tryon commented upon the beauty
of the scene.
“Its owner’s name is Brunt,” observed his
companion; “some twenty years ago he was j
sent out by the parish.”
“How did he make his money?” demanded
Tryon, almost breathlessly.
“Asa Kafir trader.”
A Kafir trader! It was strange that had
never occurred to him, though he was aware
that large fortunes had been made, were con- i
stantly being made, by taking into Kafirland
various articles of British manufacture, and
bartering them with the natives for ivory,
skins, &c. That was a mode of acquiring ‘
wealth that, amid all the search for a shorter |
road to riches, he had quite overlooked.
The farm at Willow Dell had so far im- i
proved Tryon’s circumstances that there was
no difficulty in carrying out his new resolve ;
and a very short time saw him depart into
Kafirland with two wagons heavily laden,
two trusty drivers and two boy-s, on the first
of many journeys that brought more gold be
neath his roof than had ever been there be
fore.
Tryon was on his return from one of these
expeditions. Evening was coming on ; but
he felt that, by riding fast and using a nearer
ford to cross the Fish river than that by which
the wagons must pass, he might reach home j
that night; and he longed to see those, for i
whose sake, all this exertion was made, j
Therefore, leaving directions with his people i
to go round by the upper and shallow ford, ;
and setting spurs to his horse, he started for
the nearer one, well known on the frontier as
the Kafir drift (or ford) and as being nearly
or quite the most dangerous along the bor
der, consisting merely of a ledge of rock
across the bed of the deep and turbid liver,
considered scarcely passable save when the
tide is low, and in attempting which, at undue
seasons, many an unwary traveller has met
his death.
The light was so dim, that when Tryrnn
stood on the steep hill overlooking the val
ley, he could not discern the state of the
river so far beneath him, and it was not until
he emerged from the trees, and stood beside
the brink, that he was aware that the tide
was up, or rather had just begun toebb; but he
knew that with due caution, the river might
be crossed in safety even then, by one accus
tomed to it, and he accordingly prepared to
take advantage of the remainfog daylight by
passing without delay.
His horse’s fore feet were already 7 in the
water, when a man started up on the opposite
bank and called aloud. Tryon paused.
“Do not attempt to cross—it is danger
ous !” cried the stranger.
“I am not afraid ; I am used to the drift,”
replied Tryon.
“But it is spring tide!”
Trvon looked again at the river; it was j
certainly higher than was its wont, but not j
sufficiently so to alarm him who had crossed
it so often that he thought he knew every
stone of the way ; and, intimating as much
to the stranger, he spurred his horse in.
But his knowledge was less accurate, or the
tide was stronger than he deemed: for scarce
had he reached the middle of the stream,
when the good steed lost his footing, and both
horse and rider were borne down among the
eddies of the impetuous current towards the
sea, which, at a short ten miles’ distance, was
breaking in giant surges on its rocky 7 bar.
His idolized children! they were provided
for, but not too well! was Tryon’s last
thought, ere the waters overpowered him;
and, with a wild rushing in his ears, both
sense and sensation passed away.
But the stranger on the southern bank
j was not one to stand idly by and see a fellow
i creature perish w ithout making an effort for
: his rescue, even though that effort might in
volve him in a like danger; and when Wal
| ter Hume threw himself into that dark
|V* .übled w ater, he knew that the chances
y equal that he would never tread those
banks again. But Walter’s yvas too gener-
I ous and fearless a heart to be chilled by such
■! selfish considerations, and he exerted himself
jto the uttermost in his arduous task. His
i ! efforts were successful; and Tryon was
| drayvn to the shore some distance down the
: j river, insensible but still living; yvhile the
“ steed, yvhose fate he had so nearly shared,
I was borne more and more rapidly toyvards
the waves that seemed roaring impatiently
■ j for their victim.
i After this, Walter Hume was a frequent
i guest at W illoyv Dell, and a most welcome
: one to all save its master, for he soon divined
; that but for the dark eyes and syveet
* tones of his beautiful and gentle Kate, Walter
■ had been less often seen. And Tryon des
i tined not his Kate, the fairest flower in his
1 fair parterre, to share the humble fortunes of
t a frontier farmer, though, in bvegone days
) j he would have rejoiced to think so comforta
. , ble a home—shared by one so yvorthv—
! would ever be hers. But noyv his hopes
Wife Scmtljcvn Sentinel.
were higher far for her, his best beloved one;
and though he might not receive otherwise
than cordially the man who had risked life
to save him from certain death, yet he looked
with a displeased eye on Walter’s evident
devotion to Kate, and with a secret resolu
tion that not even the weight of that obliga
tion should induce him to sacrifice his
daughter’s yvelfare: rather, far rather, would
he have perished among the dark eddies of
the river.
Absorbed in his ambitious dreams, Tryon
never thought of asking himself whether the
true sacrifice to Kate might not consist in
giving up one to yvhom, in the warmth of
her gratitude and the worthiness of its object,
her young heart was becoming deeply at
tached. And when, at length, he suspected
that it yvas so, his regret and mortification
kneyv no bounds; 3 T et he shrank from
yvounding the feelings of his child by any
allusion to the subject, and contented himself
by resolving that, even if redoubled efforts
yvere required, they should be made to hasten
the hour yvhen he might be able to efface
from his daughter’s mind the impression
yvhich Walter Hume had made, by removing
her to a sphere he considered more suited to
her and her improving fortunes. Again he
began to repine that wealth was so sloyv of
attainment, and again he felt that he yvould
yyillingly encounter any toil, an3 7 trial— a3 7 e,
even any danger, to secure to his children—
especially his Kate—riches and considera
tion.
With these feelings acting as a fresh in
centive to exertion, Tr3 7 on started on another
expedition in Kafirland. He had gained the
territories of the chief Kuru, and was barter
ing with him some snuff for ivory ; yvhen, in
the midst of the discussion that attends eve
ry mercantile transaction with the avaricious
Kafirs, the chief turned pettishly ayvay, ex
claiming—
“ You want too much for the broyvn poyv
der; I will not give it; but I will give 3’ou
ten times as much for black.’’
He stopped abruptly 7, and fixed his bright,
dark, searching eye on Tryon, as though
eager to discover if his meaning yvas under
stood, and hoyv the proposition yvas received.
The trader turned aside as if he heard it
not; nevertheless, it was both heard and
comprehended. So the quick-yvitted Kafir
suspected, and he resumed:
“Yes, I yvould give much ivory, white as
the clouds in 3 7 onder sky, many skins, man3 7
horns, to him yvlio will bring me the black
poyvder and the fire-sticks. Hisyvagon will
be so heavy his oxen yv ill scarce be able to
drayv them ayva3 7 , and he will never need to
cross the river an3 7 more, but may sit in the
sun before his kraal, and make his yvomen
hoe his corn.”
Still Tr3 r on answered not, but the Kafir’s
yvords struck a yvild chord in his heart.
Could he but bring himself to do the chief’s
bidding, the gold over w'hose tardy coming he
had so latel3 T sighed would at once be his; his
children would no longer be buried on a
frontier farm, and his daughter yvould go
where Walter Hume would be forgotten.
But he shrunk from the means b3 7 which all
these objects, which he had so much at heart,
must be obtained; for, by carrying poyvder
and arms across the border—save for self
defence—he yvould infringe the layvs of the
land wherein he had prospered far mere than
he had ever hoped when he landed on its
shores. Tr3 7 on had been eager in his pursuit
of riches; he had bought cheap and sold
dear, and he had exacted from every one to
the uttermost; but he had broken no layv
save that of leniency, and noyv he shrunk
from doing so, and bade the temptation
stand off’ from him : but it yvould not. The
spirit of Gain, that he had so long cherished,
entered into this neyv form, and haunted him
day and night, filling his waking thoughts,
and shedding a golden hue over his slumber
ing visions.
When Trvon next entered his home at
Willoyv Dell, the first object that presented
itself yy 7 as the smiling, happ3’ face of Kate, the
next the almost detested one of him yvho had
drayvn him from the depths of the Fish
River. It required little penetration to per
ceive that Walter Hume was noyv the de
dared lover of Kate; and as soon as might
be, Walter confirmed Toon’s suspicions b3 7
entreating his sanction to the already 7 given
consent of Kate.
The father yvas silent for a feyv moments;
but it was only to consider how he might
best reject the man to whom he oyved so
much, and what effect that rejection would
have on the happiness of Kate; but on this
latter point he soon satisfied himself, that
once removed to other scenes, this ill-placed
(for so he considered it) prepossession yvould
soon pass away, and Kate be a far happier
and more prosperous woman than if she had
yielded to yvhat he kneyv yvere her present
feelings. Then, rising from his seat, he
turned to the anxious suitor, and spoke kind
ly but firmly:
“I oyve you much, Hume, very much,
even a life, and believe me, I do not under
rate the service, nor the risk at which it yvas
rendered; and had you asked me almost any
other gift, it had been given with pleasure;
but I cannot put m3 7 oyy 7 n life in comparison
with m3 7 daughter’s welfare.”
“Whatever may be your decision, Mr.
Try-on,” said Walter, proudly 7 , though he
turned deadly pale yvith apprehension, “and
I much fear it is against me, I do not wish
an act of common humanit3 7 , due from one
man to another, to be remembered, far less
looked on as a claim; but your daughter has
given me her heart,” he added earnestly, “and
if you will trust her to me, it shall be the
study of m3 7 life that she never repents the
gift.”
“Her heart !” said Tr3*on, lightly. “Pooh !
She is scarce of an age to know she has
one. But I have other hopes for her,” he
continued, seriously-; “ higher hopes—far
■ higher,” and the once poverty-stricken man
dreyv himself up proudly-, as he thought on
the wealth his children yvould possess.
Hume felt that those words and that man
ner sealed his lips to further entreaty, near as
yvas the object to his heart; and, simply ex
pressing a hope that Kate might be happier
in the future her father had designed for her,
he bowed, and left the house with a crushed
and embittered heart
But however great might be Walter’s sor
royv, it did not exceed that of Kate, when
she learned her father’s unlooked-for decision
regarding one toyvards whom she felt so
much, both of affection and gratitude. But
all her tears, and the yet more touching elo
quence of her pale cheeks and faded smiles,
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, FEBRUARY 20, 1851.
were unavailing, and it seemed as if naught
could shake Toon’s resolution.
And yet the father’s heart was only- less
sad than those of the lovers. For Robert
Try-on loved his daughter too fondl3 T to look
on her grief yvith indifference; and it was but
the hopes of a proud future, when Walter
Hume’s name should have lost all interest for
Kate, that enabled him to hold, steadfast to
his resolves.
Mean yvhile, he was occupied with prepar
ations for another journey into Kafirland.
At length the da3 7 came for his departure.
“Let me see more rosy cheeks on my re
turn, child,” he said fondly, as he took leave
of her. “Don’t you knoyv I mean to make m3 7
Kate a lady ?”
“I have no wish to be a lady, father,” said
Kate, with a subdued smile ; “if I can only
do m3 7 duty- in the state to yvhich I am called,
it will suffice for me.”
“Tush, girl, you know not of what you
talk,” replied Tryon, hastily ; “ere long, my
beautiful Kate will be rich and happ3’.”
Kate sighed as though she had no such
gladdening dreams; but her father heard her
not—he yvas already watching the departure
of his wagons, for yvhose safety 7 he had never
before appeared so solicitous. Little did
those around him suspect they contained a
secret yvhose discovery yvould prove their
oyvner’s ruin; whose safe-keeping and suc
cess he hoped yvould yvell nigh complete the
building up of his fortunes. It might have
been that Try 7 on had yvithstood the tempta
tion longer—nay 7, perhaps, even overcome it
altogether, had it not been for the attach
ment of Hume, and his anxiety 7 to remove
Kate from Willoyv Dell, where, of course,
her recollection of him yvould be strongest.
Thus the voice of ambition spoke loudly
within Tryon’s heart, overpoyvering all oth
ers, and ho no longer hesitated to ay 7 ail him
self of the opportunity fortune cast in his
path, but at once applied himself to making
the needful preparations for complying with
the yvish of Kuru.
“Oh ! Kate, Kate,” he thought, as he rode
into Kafirland after his wagons, yvhose chief
contents were contraband, “yvhile y 7 ou are
yveakly mourning over y 7 our girlish disap
pointment, you little knoyv the risk your
father is running for your advantage; but
you will yet have cause to thank him for it.”
The speculation turned out even better
than Tryon had ventured to hope. The guns
•and poyy r der arrived unsuspected at the kraal
of Kuru, and in the joy of his heart at obtain
ing such treasures, the chief yvas liberal be
yond yvhat the trader had anticipated. The
finest ivory and the most valuable skins were
given almost yvithout limit, and Robert Try 7 on
departed from the kraal a far richer man than
he had entered it.
“Oh, Robert Try 7 on ! Robert Try r on!”he
murmured, as he mounted his horse, “y 7 ou
are noyv a happy and an enviable man, for
y 7 ou have lived to gain all your ends !”■—and
in his exultation he recked not, that to ob
tain them, he had offended against the law,
and placed deadly 7 yveapons in the hands of
savages.
In the same spirit of self-gratulation, he
entered his home. There the sight of Kate’s
dark, mournful eves, checked his gladness for
a moment; but he rallied quickly 7 , and gaily 7
reproached her yvith being so sad when
there was such cause for rejoicing, and then
he told them his journey had been most suc
cessful, yvithout confiding more.
“The greatest blessing in life, father, is
happiness; and that yve may 7 enjoy yvithout
riches,” said Kate, sadly. Poor girl! she felt
that but for this vaunted wealth, the current
of her love had been alloyved to Hoyv on un
checked.
Hoyv, then, could she rejoice in the an
nouncement that gave such pleasure to all
the rest ? Gold might gild their lot, but it
had cast a chill upon hers, and blighted it:
and yvhile they surveyed yvith pleasure the
transfer of the rich lading of the yvagons to
the house, Kate Tryon yvept bitterly in her
little chamber, yvith the sound of light laugh
ter from without ringing in her ears. They
laughed, and she yvept—and both from the
same cause.
And noyv, Tryon had resolved on relin
quishing the trade by which he had reaped so
rich a han 7 est, and removing himself and fam
ily to some place, where their former humble
station would be unknoyvn; but ere that
could he done, he must dispose of his im
mense quantity of Kafir produce in his house,
and with that vieyv he again left Willoyv Dell
for Graham’s Toyvn.
He yvas on his return, and again he was
proud-hearted and glad, as he was wont to
be of late, for again lie had prospered in bis
dealings. Hoyv different he was from the
Robert Trvon yvlio had landed on the South
African shores a feyv years ago, poor, sad
and desponding! Noyv he was jo3 7 ful and
elated, not only with hope, but yvith success;
and as he rode along his thoughts yvandered
afar into the future, where he sayv no harder
toil waiting his children than to gather floyv
ers in the world’s bright sunshine, and the
fairest were gathered by his Kate, his beauti
ful and then his jo3 7 ous one. At length he
started. Absorbed in those bright visions,
he had not heeded yvhither he went, and had
strayed far from the right road. Farther on,
hoyvever, \y 7 as a path that led from another
direction to Willow Dell.
The sun yvas sinking loyv in the heavens
as he cantered over the flat, beyond whose
farther edge la3 7 the Dell; and in the cool
ness of coming evening all the inhabitants of
the wilds seemed arousing themselves to ac
tivity and jo3 7 . The birds were darting
among the trees, the insects were floating in
the sunshine, and the antelopes springing high
into the air, and playfully chasing each other
over the plain. There are feyv hearts that
had not responded to such a scene, and
Tryon’s yvas noyv attuned to all that spoke of
gladness; and beneath its influence, the only
dark spot in the sky—his Kate’s sorroyv—
seemed to groyv lighter; and he was again
wandering through his dreamland, and seeing
Kate, the beloved and loving bride of some
one he deemed well worthy, when he ap
proached the edge of the declivit3’, and the
Dell lay before him. He stopped abruptly,
and gazed down as one lost in wonder, rais
ed his hand, and passed it quickly across his
brow, as though to clear his vision, then, ut
tering one loud cry of agony as the truth
burst upon him, rushed rapidly down the hill.
The cottage around whose dear inmates
he had but now been raising such fairy struc
tures, was no longer visible, and where it so
late had stood a column of grey smoke was
slowly curling upwards, telling a dark tale of
ruin, but to what extent as yet he knew not;
though he was gazing on the site of his van
ished home, and standing beside the spot that
yvas once his hearth; for there was none by
to tell him if the beloved ones by whom it
had been shared had escaped, or if he now
looked on their funeral pyre. He gazed
eagerly and anxiously around. A person
riding rapidly doyvn the hill met his eye, and
he sprang towards him.
It was Walter Hume. He yvas ashy
pale—paler yet than when he last had passed
from Try-on’s presence; and even the latter
could perceive that his hand trembled as he
gave it to him in silence.
“My wife—my children ?” murmured
Tryon, in a broken voice.
Still Hume was silent, but he dreyv away
his hand, and covering his face yvith both,
sunk upon the grass in anguish he could no
longer repress.
“My darlings! my precious ones! and is j
it come to this!” exclaimed the bereaved I
man, wringing his hands in agony-. “And
are you all taken from me—you for whom I
toiled yvith so much pleasure—you for whom I
even sinned ? Tell me, Hume, tell me all
my sorroyv, all m3 7 misery 7!”
And Hume did tell him, gently and tender
ly-, the tale that his having lost his way- alone
prevented him from hearing earlier, as of the
tyvo servants yvlio had escaped, one had gone
along the Graham’s Town road in quest of \
him, yvhile the other had hurried off to !
Hume’s farm, to toll of how the Kafirs had
burst upon them at dead of night, and hoyv
they tyvo had fled in the darkness and under
cover of the trees had witnessed the fierce
assailants deal death to all around, and even
seen the noble-hearted Kate shot by 7 a tall
savage, in a vain attempt to shield her mother!
And then, the trader’s vast stores of ivory
and skins were rifled, and his cattle syvept
ayvay; and, finally, carrying their plunder
across the border.
“Who! yvlio!” exclaimed Try-on, breath
lessly, “yvlio yvas the Kafir that so bereft me?”
“1 knoyv not; I never thought of asking,”
replied Walter; “but here is something that,
perhaps, may tell,” and he lifted anew rifle
from among the long grass yvhere it had lain
concealed.
“It is—it is m3 7 sin that has overtaken
me!” cried the wretched man, throwing up
his clasped hands. “It is one of the guns I
sold to Kuru. Oh, lam yvell punished!” he
continued, pacing to and fro distractedly. “I
pined for wealth to aggrandize my children,
and I sold arms to the Kafirs that I might do
it more quickly: those arms they 7 have
turned against me, and have left me child
less. My 7 children, it is y 7 our father yvho is
y 7 our murderer!”
Hitherto, amid all his oyvn grief, Hume
had appeared to feel deeply for the bereaved
father; but noyv, he started from his side
yvith a look of horror and detestation; and
yvild yvere the yvords of reproach and indig
nation that burst from his lips as lie realized
the truth, that tlio being hchgjjr' gbaeeply
loved—yvhom still though noyv
there was betyveen them the barrier of a fear
ful death—had fallen a victim to Tryon’s
ambition; that it yvas no evil chance that
had caused Willow Dell to be the scene of
such a tragedy, hut ,the deliberate resolves of
the Kafirs to regain possession of the valuable
ivory 7 and skins Tryon had received as his
recompense —when he remembered that, had
not that fatal passion filled Tryon’s heart,
Kate and himself might have been among
earth’s happiest—and that now he stood well
nigh beside the smoking ruin
that yvas her grave. And in the anguish of
these thoughts he forgot that Tryon yvas y 7 et
more unhappy than himself, for he had no self
reproach ; and he,poured forth upon him a
flood of bitter accusations, yvhich the misera
ble man’s conscience echoed to the utter
most; nay 7 , even more, for he mourned for all
his children, and the yvife of his youth, for
yvhom he had procured a violent death.
But the vio\ %of these self-upbraidings
could not last; r _.u ere the sun again shone
on the grave-ruin, Tryon, unconscious of all
things, yvas writhing in the agony of a brain
fever. Walter Hume attended him as though
he yvere his son ; for he sayv in him for the
time but the father of the gentle girl to yvhom
his love had proved so terrible. But when
that was once oVer, (for Tryon did recover,
as those to whom life is a burden often will,)
Walter shrunk from him again, as one yvhose
hand had fired the mine that overthreyv his
happiness.
Nor did Try-on seek his companionship,
but yvandered away none kneyv yvhither, a
sad and solitary man, leaving his name and
his story to- haunt the once fair spot which
his evil passions had blighted.
LOVE LETTER.
[The folloyving, though yvritten yvith ar
dent appreciation of beauty, seems to savor
more of a pride that yvould be a basis of an
elevated and Platonic friendship, than a love
that was an impulse of the yvhole nature.
The date is far back, and we hope that the
imaginative yvriter is by this time enjoying
an acquaintance of mutual appreciation with
the lady 7 of hi3 ideal infatuation.] — Eds.
Home Journal.
Jan. 12, 1830—2, A. M.
Oh ! hoyv beautiful you were, to-night! I
see you, yvhere I look—upon this paper—as
I sayv you an hour ago, waiting for your car
riage, after the ball—your oval cheek flushed
yvith the dance, and your eyes made soft and
languid with fatigue. The panting fall of
that lace edging upon the forward round of
your shoulder, while your posture wa3 one
of motionless repose—the droop of the weary ;
head, like an unlistening lily, and the for- i
getful parting of the lips, yvith the snow line
of the teeth shoyving through—the taper i
arms drayving the loose folds of the shayvl j
around your waist, and the little gloved fore- j
finger pressing a dimple into the wrist as if j
holding there some sweet thought to be re-j
membered to-morrow—oh, how well I see |
that picture here, as I sayv it there, and how
I hate sleep that will turn into dim dreams
such a vision of reality! Till your image
grows indistinct with gazing on, I will wake
and write it.
You do not know me. You will not —at
least, not till our circumstances change, and
that cannot be for years. I see you, daily, j
and almost nightly. Your eyes pass over i
my face as a stranger’s—though the fire of j
a reverential worship for you is trembling
within my locked lips, and though, if ambi
tion hold, and life last, and hope is not alto
gether vain, you will one day look tenderly j
upon me—still, you take my features into your |
calm, soft eyes, and dismiss them, now, night
after night, without thought or recognition.
Oh, if love were not proverbially unprophetic;
if you might not suddenly see me, some day,
as if I never before had stood in your pres
ence, nor listened to the same music with
you, nor breathed the air within the same
walls—how utter would be my despair at the
cold unconsciousness with which those eyes
pass over me, and at the fair dreams which
this moment enwrap you, and into which no
memory of me can corne! Yet, you will love
me f I see it, as the sculptor secs the future
statue of his brain, perfect and divine, though
the marble from which it is to be wrought is
unstirred in the quarry, and though the moun
tain-side that imprisons it will be rosy with
many a sunset that may strive in vain to
reach where it slumbers! There is that in
me which can build a ladder to your love!
Climb to it lam confident I yet shall! Ah,
j l>eliev6 this! Keep one chamber of your
! heart locked, at least, for the chance of it!
! You will need new treasure to give me, from
j your heart —you will, indeed. Keep one
sweet word unsaid, to say it to me! Save
one soft dream untold, to tell it to me! Let
the price of my whole life’s devotion buy of
you, that there shall be one endearing name,
one epithet of caress that you will call no
lover by, till I unlock it from your soul!
You will smile at this. You will wonder
; that, with such love and such opportunities
| of meeting, I do not find means of being pre
sented to you. But, no! You are in all
your beauty, but I am not yet in all my de
serving. You would not recognize me, now 7 ,
for what I am. It will be easier for you to
know 7 and love me, first seeing me as I shall
be, than to forget what I should impress you
with, w r ere you to know me first, now. I
will not tax your faith to see the statue
I spoke of in the unchiselled block, but I
will toil at it, unencouraged, for years, and
you shall see it first, perfected, or never.
This is a riddle to you—but I am still more
a riddle to myself. Ido not w r ell understand
why you inspire me with an intense desire to
be dear to you, and yet, with an unwillingness
to submit to love’s common uncertainties of
progression. Ten years seems the least in
terval in which I can fit myself to be known
to you—twenty years the possible duration
of my task. I w ill never be known to you
till it will be a pride and an honor for you
to know me. Yet, meantime, you w r ill mar
ry—and the thought of this does not, in the
least, change my resolution. Ido not care
what common happiness befalls you. Ido not
feel that the love of an ordinary man would
touch or familiarize the feeling to which I
aspire. The loss of your youth or your
beauty would not diminish by the faintest
shadow your power utterly to absorb and
enslave me! There is a chance, of course,
that some man may love you, whose intense
nature w 7 ill utterly impoverish and exhaust
your power of again having a feeling that is
new 7 —but it is not probable. On that im
probability rests m3 7 hope.
From now till w 7 e meet, the thought of 3 7 ou
w’ill divide m3 7 time with my struggle with
the world. I shall carefully avoid the risk
of an accidental introduction, but I shall
perpetually be near you, feeding eyes and
heart with the changes of your beauty. I
j shall learn what I can, of3 7 our jo3 7 s and trials,
j from those who know you—but 3 7 our fea
tures are a clear and divine “table of con
tents,” in which I can w 7 ell read all that is
new 7 -w 7 ritten in 3’our mind. Os these
changes I shall lav up memories. Os every
chance tableau that I see formed by a
graceful posture —of every fleeting but
memorable expression of your face, as you
converse in company—of every becoming
1 novelty of dress which enhances 3 our love
liness—of all that forms your charm and aids
your triumphs, and that you will like to have
remembered—my heart will be the fond his
torian till w 7 e meet. In the intercourse that
will follow our meeting, even though age
may meantime have overtaken us, I will read
this your history to you, from this book in
my bosom, and 3 7 0 u shall live over again
these years of luxuriant youthfulness and
beauty.
It is near morning. The long brown
fringes of your adorable eyes are down upon
your cheek, and your thoughts are in dream
land. Would I could meet them there, in
dream-converse, and still hot be recognized
by 3 7 ou when living and waking.
Good night! Nobody Yet.
WOMAN.
Woman occupies a distinguished place in
the world’s history 7 . She is the theme of
poets and the historian, the philosophers and
statesmen, of every age and of every country 7 .
The wisest and best of men have done hom
age at her shrine, and through her instru
mentality 7 millions have been conducted to
the pinnacle of earthly glory, or the igno
; miny of a dungeon or a scaffold.
Kingdoms have been lost and w 7 on by the
witchery of her charms, and half the battles
of the earth have been the w r ork either of her
follies or her crimes. At the same time, the
rare virtue she exhibits, and the glorious pre
cepts she inculcates, have given her apporerw r er
over the world that is irresistible, creating in
; the youthful heart, sentiments and principles
that have laid the foundations of most of
those moral temples that transcend the
| models of the graces. While her natural un
• sophisticated feelings, and the deep and
warm affections of her heart, remain uncon
; taminated, she spreads a paradise all around
her, and fills the air with fragrance that en
chants the soul.
In all countries and in all ages, woman
has been the same, —her spirit, like the sun
shine, —her love, as the fires of Etna, uncon
solable, —her hopes buoy r ant, —her heart, like
a star of Heaven, —and her truth and constan
cy, unchangeable and incorruptible.
* * * * *
Christianity, by raising woman to a com
munity of rights and interests w ith man, lias
not taken from her the original attributes of
her sw 7 eet nature, —it has taken the lowly
! shrub from the sunless gorge of the mountain
| cliffs, where it was pining aw 7 ay in solitude
and gloom. It has engrafted it into the
lordly oak, where it first received its being—
and w’here it has regained its glory and pride,
receiving and giving its shelter, its shade and
its fruit, in common with the source that
nourishes and sustains it.
* • * * •
Yi ho is the Christian woman ? She who
bends over the couch of infancy-—the cradle
of our young and unfledged existence,
TERMS OF PUBLICATIONS. 1
For one year, if paid in advance, - • - $*
“ “ “ if not paid in advance, - - goo 1
RATES OF ADVERTISING.
One square, first insertion, - .... sr°o
each subsequent insertion, . .
A liberal deduction made in iavor of those who Jfl
tise largely.
NO. 8.
Whispering love and prayer into those ton*
ears that thrill with delight as the ASoli*
harp trembles under the kissing zeph®
She who kindlv guides the step of youth.
who bends over the pillow of pain, disarm*
ing anguish of half its excruciating agony*
She who grasps the conch of death, where!
science dare not long contend with the Kina- 1
of Terrors, ami skill retires from an unequal }
task. The Christian woman’s hour hath
come, and affection struggles with death, and
cries to the dull ear of the tomb, give me
back my love! And while she kisses aw
the calamity dews of dissolution, she wres
tles with the enemy while hope and life re
main: nor will she leave the dead—no! no’
the poor, pale remains of the loved one are
dear to her still. She strews roses around
the bier, and often, in far distant years, in the
evening’s solemn hour, or beneath the sib er
moonlight, she revisits the graves by 7 others
forgotten and unknown. She comes, like a
soft spirit, noiseless, and fearful, and holy,
to call up all the luxury of her still unwasted
love.
[From the Boston Atlas, Dec. 30.]
PAINE’S EIGHT—A PLAIN STATE
MENT.
Messrs, Editors: Much has been said
and written about Mr, Paine’s newly 7 discov
ered process, in the production of gas, By
some it has been dogmatically pronounced a
“humbug,” and by others, more firmly stated
to be a reality. Among the former were the
“Scientific Committee,” several editors, atld,
1 ani sorry to say, my humble self. Against
these, J. C. Pedrick, Esq., the proprietor of
the patent, and Mr. Paine, with a friend or
two, had to maintain the unequal contest.
This contest has been kept up for several
months, but it must now be considered at an
end, in the complete triumph of Mr. Paine,
On Thursday last, two gentlemen of this
city met at Mr. Payne’s house, in Worcester,
two other gentlemen from New York, one of
whom is the President of the gas company,
and the other the Professor of Chemistry in n
Medical College of that city. The object
we all had in view was, to ascertain for our
selves whether, in reality, Mr. Paine had made
any such discovery.
Mr. Paine politely conducted us to the
apartment in which his gas generator was
placed. He immediately put it in operation,
and we all saw with astonishment a wonder
fully copious evolution of hydrogen gas,
which, after passing from the glass jar in
which it was made into another glass jaf,
where it combinesjvitli carbon, issued by a
tube to the burner, where it was lighted, and
produced a beautiful bright light. It contin
ued to burn as long as the instrument was
kept in motion. The gas was produced ants
was burned before our eyes. No\w, from
what material was this gas produced ? We
all saw and were satisfied that it was pro
duced from water. We left Mr. Paine’s
house fully 7 convinced that he had in reality
made one of the greatest discoveries of the
age, and in all probability it will prove, in its
ultimate developments, the greatest discovery
of modern times. That there was any de
ception in the exhibition, not one entertained
the thought for a moment. All was fair, lib
eral and honorable. Now, there is no mistake
in all this ; it is a fact that a gas light can be
obtained from water, at a very small cost.
But when, it is asked, are we to “have the ben
efit of it ? We suppose, when the proprietors
shall have received an adequate remuneration*
We hope a company will soon be formed to
introduce it into the city of Boston*
Yours, etc., O.
SAFETY OF RAIL-ROAD TRAVEL*
Dr. Lardncrhas produced a volume of 450
pages on the whole subject of steam travel,
and gives a table showing, from a very large
induction of facts, that in every mile travelled
the loss of life has been only as 1 to 14,661,-
477—equal to going round the world 600
times; and the reception of any injury what
ever only as 1 to 7,320,738, or about 300
times round the world. From the chapter on
the causes of accidents it appears that
all acsidents beyond the control of pas
sengers, 56 per cent, arise from the col
lision of trains ; 32 per cent, from defects in
wheels, axles or rails; 5 per cent, from
switches; 3 per cent, from obstructions on
the road; 3 per cent, from cattle ©n the line,
and 1 per cent, from the bursting of the en
gine boiler. Os accidents produced by im
prudence of passengers, 28 per cent, occur
from improper place or posture; 24 per cent,
from leaving a train in motion ; 1G per cent,
from entering a train in motion; 13 per cent,
from jumping ofl‘; 12 per cent, from crossing
the track incautiously; 6 percent, from get
ting out on the wrong side, and 1 per cent,
from handing articles into a train in motion.
Os these accidents, 67 per cent, are fatal. It
will be perceived that trains running out of
the usual time are less safe than regular trains;
and that a passenger’s safety depends much
on his being alway s in his place and in due
time.— Savannah Georgian.
A GOOD ONE.
Epes Sargent, Esq., of the Boston Tran
script, tells a good many very good stories
under the head of “Dealings with the Dead.”
One of these numbers he devotes to fortune
hunting, and amongst other illustrations gives
the case of a Mr. Me wins. He was courting
a young lady of some attractions, and some
thing of a fortune into the bargain. After a
liberal arrangement had been made for the
young lady by her father, Mr. Mewins, hav
ing taken a particular fancy to a little brown
mare, demanded that it be thrown into the
bargain; and, upon a positive refusal, the match
was broken off. After a couple of years, the
parties accidentally met at a country ball. Mr.
Mewins was quite willing to renew the en
gagement,—the lady appeared not to have fie
slightest recollection of him. “Surely, you
have not forgotten me ?” said he. “What
name, sir ?” she inquired. “Mewins,” he re
plied ; “I had the honor of pay ing my ad
dresses to you, about two years ago.” “I re
member a person of that name,” she rejoin
ed, “who paid his addresses to my father’s
brown mare.”
diamond dust. -
Innovation—the answerable objection wai
ved against all improvement.
Fanaticism—the daughter of ignorance,
and the mother of infidelity.
The future is purchased by the present
There is no necessity to make the tour
the world in order to convince oneself that the,
sky is everywhere blue.