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TIIE SOCTHERX SE.YTIXEL
IS PUBLISHED
every tiitrsdaV morning
Et WILLIAM n. CHAMBERS,
EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR.
Office on Randolph street.
[From “The People.”]
MAH'S MISSION.
Human lives are silent teaching—
Pe thcv earnest, mild anil true—
Noble deeds are noblest preaching
From the consecrated few.
Poet priest- their anthems singing,
Ifero sword on corslet ringing.
When truth’s banner is unfurled,
Youthful preachers genius gifted.
Till their preaching stirs the world.
Each must work as God ha.- given
Hero hand or poet soul—
Work is duty while we live in
This wearied world of sin and dole.
Gentle spirit-, lowly kneeling.
Lift their white hands up appealing
To the Throne of Heaven’s King—
Stronger natures, culminating,
In preat actions incarnating,
What another can but f-ir.it.
i
Pure and meek-eyed as an angel,
We must strive—must agonize ;
Wo must preach the saints evangel ,
Ere we claim the saintly prize— , i
Work for all—for work is holy—
We fulfill onr mission solely,
When, like Heaven’s arefi above,
Blend our soul- in one emblazon,
And'the social diapason
Sounds the perfect chord of love.
Life is combat, life is striving,
Such onr destiny below —
Like a scythed chariot driving
Through an onward prea-ing foe.
Deepest sorrow, scorn and trial
Will but teach us self-denial ;
Like the old,
Pass the ore through cleansing lire,
If our spirit would aspire
To be God’s refined gold.
Wc are struggling in the morning
With the spirit of the night,
But we trample on it scorning—
Lo! the eastern skv is bright.
We must wash, the day is breaking.
Soon, like Memnon’s ttatue waking
With the sunrise into sound,
We shall raise our voice to Heaven,
Chaunt a hymn for conque-t given,
Seize the palm nor heed the wound.
We must bind our thoughts to earnest,
Would we strike the idols down ;
With a purpose of the sterno: t
Take the Cross and leave the Crown!
Suffering human life can hallow,
Sufferings lead to God’s Valhalla—
Meekly bear, but nobly try.
Like a man with soft tears rowing,
Like a God with conquest glowing.
So to love, and worn, and die.
LIKING AND DISLIKING.
Ho who knows the reason, tell me,
How it is that instinct still
Prompts the heart to like—or like not —
At its own capricious will!
Tell me by what hidden magic
Our impressions first are led
Into liking—or disliking—
Oft before a word be said !
Why should smilr.n sometimes repel us?
Bright eyes turn onr feeling* cold ?
What is that which comes to tell us
All that glitters is not gold l
Oh—no feature plain or striking,
But a power we cannot slum.
Prompts our liking—or disliking,
Ere acquaintance hath begun !
Is it instinct—or some spirit
Which protects us—and controls
Every impulse we inherit
By some svinpathy of souls ? „
Is it instinct 1- —is it nature?
Or some freak, or fault of chance,
Which our liking—or disliking—
Limits to a single glance?
Like presentiment of danger,
Though the sky no shadow flings ;
Or that inner sense, still stranger,
Os unseen—unuttered things!
Is it?—oh, can no one tell me,
No one show sufficient cau-e,
Why our likings—and disliking-
Have their own instinctive laws?
ißisccUtvtt cents,
TIIE ROBBER OUTWITTED.
Willis Bailie wtis a household name j
.•about a hundred years ago, in the upper j
parts of Clydesdale. Men, women and chil- !
dren had heard of Willie, and the greater por
tion had seen him. Few, in his time, could
•excel Willie in dexterity in his profession, ;
which consisted of abstracting money from
{icople’s pockets, and in other predatory feats,
le frequented the fairs all round the district,
and no man’s purso was safe if Willie hap
pened to be in the market. The beautiful
village of Moffat, in Annandale, was one of
his frequent places of resort when any of its
fairs happened to he held, and here, among j
the honest farmers, ho was invariably sue- !
‘icessful; and to show his professional skill on j
such occasions, he had been known to rob a j
:man and return his purse to him two or three :
limes in the same day ; but this he did only
with his intimate friends, who were kind to j
Shim in providing lodgings, when plying his j
nominal occupation of tinker from one farm- i
house to another; in the case of others, it !
was, of course, different. Jiis w ife abetted
him in all his thieving exploits, and generally
sat in a place in the outskirts of the town, ‘
that had been previously fixed on, and there
received in silence whatever spoil her hus
band might throw accidentally into her lap
in the shape of her fairing. But Willie was j
a privileged freebooter, was generous withal,
and well liked by the people in the neighbor
hood, on whom he rarely committed any
*icts of plunder, and any one might have
trusted what he called his “honor.”
M illie’s character was well known both
■to high and low, and he became renowned
for a heroism which few who esteem respect
ability would now covet. The high estima- :
tion in which he was held as an adept in his
profession, induced a Scottish nobleman to
lay a high hot, with an Englishman of some
rank, that Willie would actually rob and
■fairly despoil a certain noted riever on the
southern side of the border, who was con
sidered one of the most daring and dexterous
that frequented the highways in those dubious
■times, and one whose exploits the gentleman
was in the habit of extolling. The Scottish
nobleman conferred with M illie, and inform
ed him of the project—a circumstance which
mightily pleased our hero, and into which he
entered with all enthusiasm. The interest
which Willie took in the matter was to the
nobleman a guaranty of ultimate success;
and, having given all the marks of the robber,
and directed him to the particular place on
the road where he was sure to meet with him,
he left it to W illie himself to arrange the sub
sequent mode of procedure.
W illie’s ingenuity was instantly at work,
and he concocted a scheme which fairly ear
ned him through the enterprise. He got an I
old, I'rail-looking pony, partially lame, and
with long, shaggy hair. He filled a bag of
considerable dimensions with a great quantity i
of old buttons, and useless pieces of jingling
metal. He next arrayed himself in beggarly
habiliments, with clouted shoes, tattered
VOL. 11.
= - - —■ ■ = W r ;
• under-garments, a cloak mended in a hun
dred places, and a soiled, broad-brimed bon
’ net on his head. The money- bag he tied firm
; ly behind the saddle; he placed a pair of pis
tols under his coat, and a short dagger close
Iby his side. Thus accoutred he wended his
way slowly toward the border, both he and
! the animal apparently in the last stage of
helplessness and decrepitude. The hag be
i; hind w as carefully covered by the cloak, that
: spread its duddy folds over the hinder parts
iof the poor lean beast that carried him.
Sitting in a crouching posture on the saddle,
with a long beard and an assumed palsified
j shaking of the hand, nobody would have con
ceived for a moment that Willie was a man
in the prime life, of a well-built, athletic
frame, with more power in his arm than three
| ordinary men, and of an intrepid and adven
| turous spirit, that feared nothing, but dared
I every thing. In this plight, our worthy went
| dodging over the border, and entered the
neighboring kingdom, where every person
: that met him regarded him as a poor, doited, 1
half insane body, fit only to lie down at the
side of a hedge, and die unheeded, beside the
crazy steed, in this way, he escaped with
i oat suspicion, and advanced without an ad
venture to the skirts of the wood, where he
i expected to encounter his professional
: brother.
M hen Willie entered the road that led
j through the dark and suspicious forest, he
j was all on the alert for the highwayman.
| Every rustling among the trees and bushes
j arrested his attention, not knowing that a j
! whizzing ball might in a moment issue there- j
from, or that the redoubted freebooter himself |
j might spring upon him like a tiger. Neither j
! of these, however, occurred; but a man on
; horseback was seen advancing slowly and
cautiously on the road before him. This
: might be he, or it might not, hut Willie now
recollected every particular mark given of the
man with whom he expected to encounter,
and lie was prepared for the most vigilant
observation. As the horseman advanced,
M illie was fully convinced that he had met
with his man, and this was the critical mo
ment, for here was the identical highwayman.
“How now, old fellow?” exclaimed the
robber; “what seek you in these parts?
Where are you boynd for, with this magnifi
cent equipage of yours ?” j
“Why, to tell you the truth, I am e’en a
j puir honest man frae Scotland, gaen a wee
j bit farther south on business of some conse-
I quence, and I am glad I have met with a
| gentleman like you, arid I would lain put
j myself under your protection in this dreary
wood, as I am a stranger, and wadna like
! ony mischance to befa’, considering the errand
j I am on,”
The robber eyed Willie with a sort of leer,
I thinking lie had fallen in with an old driveling
j fool, at whose expense ho might amuse him
self with impunity, and play a little on his ;
simplicity.
“ What makes you afraid of this wood?” |
said the robber.
“Why, I was told that it was infested with
highwaymen; and, to tell you the truth, as 1
take you to be an honest man and a gentle- |
man, I hae something in this hag that I
wadna like to lose, for twa reasons—baith,
because of its value, and because it was
entrusted to my care.”
“What have you got, pray, that you seem
so anxious to preserve ? I can’t conceive i
that any thing of great value can be entrust- ‘
ed to your care. Why, I would not give a
crown-piece, nor the half of it, for the whole
equipage.”
“That’s just the very thing. You see, I
am not what I appear to be. I have ta’en
this dress, and this auld, slovenly pony, for
’ the purpose of avoiding suspicion in these
i precarious places. 1 have behind me a bag
i full of gold—you may hear from the jingling
| of the pieces when I strike here with my
hand. Now, I am intrusted with all this
| treasure, to convey it to a certain noble
man's residence in the south; and I say
again, that I am glad 1 have met you, to con
duct me safely through the forest.”
At this, the robber was highly amused, and
could scarcely believe that a simplicity so ex
treme, and bordering on insanity, could exist;
and yet there was an archness in the old
j man’s look, and a willingness in his manner,
j that hardly comported with Iris external ap
. pearance. lie said he had gold with him—
; he affirmed that he was not exactly what he
: appeared to be—not so poor ns his fettered
1 garments would indicate, and withal trust
worthy, having so large a sum of money
j committed to his care. It might be, there
was not a word of truth in his story; lie
might be some cunning adventurer from the
border, plying a certain vocation on his own
account, not altogether of a reputable cast; ;
j but, whatever the case might be, the silly old j
j man was completely in his power, and, if he I
! had gold in his possession, it must be seized
. on, and no time was to be lost.
“I tell you,” said the highwayman, wheel
ing his horse suddenly round in front of
M illie’s pony, “I tell you, old man, that I am
that same robber of whom you seem to be
afraid, and I demand an instant surrender of
1 your gold.”
“Hoot, toot,” exclaimed Willie, “gae wa,
gae wa! You a robber! You are an honest
man, and you only want to joke me.”
“I tell you distinctly that I am the robber,
and 1 hold y 7 ou in my power.”
“And I say as distinctly,” persisted W illie,
“that you are a true man. That face of yours
is no a robber’s face—there’s no a bit of a rob- j
ber about ye, and sae ye maun e’en guard
me through the wood, and gie me the word
I o’ a leel-hearted Englishman that ve'll no
see ony ill crime ower me.”
“No humbug!” vociferated the highwayman
in real earnest; “dismount, and deliver me
that bag immediately, else I will make a
riddle of your brainless skull in a trice.”
M illie saw that it was in vain to parley,
for the highwayman had his hand on the
pommel of his pistol, and an unscrupulous act
would lay him dead at his feet Now was
the time for the wary Scot to put his plan
in execution. All things had happened as he
i wished, and he hoped the rest would follow.
“M eel, weel, aid M illie, “since it maun
be, it maun be. 1 shall dismount, and deliver
you the treasure, for life is sweet—sweeter
far than even gold to the miser. I wanted to
act an honest part, hut, as we say on the
north side of the border,‘Might makes right,’ i
and sae, as I said, it e’en maun be.”
1 Willie, then, with some apparent difficulty,
as an old, stiff-limbed man, lifted himself from
; the pony, and stood staggering on the ground.
“Now,” said he, laying his hand heavily on
fflje Scmtljcrn Sentinel.
the money-bag, “I have a request or two to
make, and all is yours. When I return to
Scotland, I must have some marks about my
person to show that I have been really robbed,
and that I have not purloined the gold to m v
own purposes. I will place my bonnet here
on the side of the road, and you will shoot a
ball through it; and, then, here is the old J
cloak—you must send another ball exactly
through here, so that I can show, when I re
return, what a fray I have been in, and how
narrowly I have escaped.”
To this the robber consented, and, having
alighted from his steed, made two decided
perforations in 4he way he was desired.
This was with M illie a great point gained, j
for the robber's pistols were now empty, and
restored to their place.
“I have yet another request,” said M illie,
“and then the matter will be completed.
You must permit me to cut the straps that
tie the bag to the saddle, and to throw it over
| this hedge, and then go and lift it yourself, j
| that I might be able to swear that, in the j
struggle, I did what I could to conceal the
money, and that you discovered the place
where I had hid it, and then seized it; and
thus I will stand acquitted in all points.”
To this also the highwayman consented.
W’illie, accordingly, threw the heavy hag
■ over the hedge, and obsequiously offered to
hold the robber’s high spirited steed till he
should return with the treasure. The bandit,
suspecting nothing on the part of the old j
man, readily committed his horse to his care,
i while he eagerly made his wav through the
j hedge to secure the prize. In the mean time,
| however, M’illie was no less agile; for, having
I thrown off his ragged and cumbersome cloak,
he vaulted upon the steed of the highwayman
with as much coolness as if ho had been at
Iris own door. When the robber had pushed
his way back through the hedge, dragging
the bag with him, he was confounded on
seeing his saddle occupied by the simpleton
whose gold he had so easily come by. But
he was no longer a simpleton—no longer a
wayfaring man in beggar’s weeds—but a tall,
buirdly man, arrayed in decent garb, and
prepared to dispute his part with the best.
VWhat, ho! scoundrel! Do you intend to
run off with my horse? Dismount instantly,
or 1 will blow out your brains!”
j “The better you may,” replied Willie;
“your pistols are empty, and your broad
sword is but a reed; advance a single step
nearer,and 1 will send a whizzing ball through
your beating heart. As to the bag, you can
retain its contents, and sell the buttons for
what they will bring. In the mean time,
farewell, and should you happen to visit my
district across the border, I shall be happy
to extend to you a true Scotch hospitality.”
On this, M illie applied spur and whip to
the fleet steed, and in a few minutes was out
of the wood, and entirely beyond the reach
;of the highwayman. When Willie had time
j to consider the matter, he found a valise be
| hind the saddle, which, he had no doubt, was
; crammed with spoils of robbery; nor was he
i mistaken, for, on examination, it contained a
: great quantity of gold, and other precious
articles. The highwayman, on opening
Willie’s bag, found it filled with old buttons
| and other trash. His indignation knew no
| bounds: he swore, and vociferated, and
; stamped with his feet, but all to no purpose ;
j he had been outwitted by the wily Scot, and,
artful as he himself was, he had met with
’ one more artful still.
The Scottish nobleman gained the bet, and
the affair made a great noise for man y a long
! year. Daring men of this description ay ere
j found in every part of the kingdom, frequent
! ing the dark woods, the thick hedges, and the
ruinous buildings by the wayside ; and, what
is remarkable, these desperadoes were con
ventionally held in high repute, and were
! deemed heroes. In the time of Charles 11.,
i when the English thoroughfares were so in
fested with such adventurers, we find that
one Claude Duval, a highwayman, while he
: was a terror to all men, was at the same time
| a true gallant in the esteem of all the ladies.
I He was as popular and renowned as the great
; est chieftains of his age; and, when ho was
at last apprehended, “dames of high rank
; visited him in prison, and, with tears, inter
: ceded for his life; and, after his execution,
the corpse lay in state, with all the pomp of
scutcheons, wax-lights, black hangings, and
mutes ” The order of society in the times to
which we refer was vastly different from what
it is now. Men’s habits and moral senti
: meats were then of the lowest grade, but,
thanks to the clearer light and better teach
ing of Christianity, the condition of all classes
|is vastly elevated. The Gospel has effected
in the community infinitely more than all
law and social regulations otherwise could
| have accomplished.
love’s sliding scale.
[The following lively narrative we have
; been saved the trouble of translating by the
attentive editor of the ‘Albion,’ who “headed
us off'” from the Courier des Etats Unis, last
week. The writer dates from Paris.]
How rapid is the progress of oblivion, with
respect to those who are no more! How
many a quadrille shall we see, this winter,
j exclusively made up from the ranks of in
consolable widows! M’idows of this order
exist only in the literature of the tombstone.
In the world, and after the lapse of a certain
period, there is but one sort of widows in
consolable—those who refuse to be comfort
ed, because they can’t get married again !
One of our most distinguished sculptors
was summoned, a short time since, to the
house of a young lady, connected bv birth
with a family of the highest grade in the
aristocracy of wealth, and united in marriage
to the heir of a title illustrious in the military
j annals of the empire.
The union, formed under the happiest aus
pices, had been, alas! of short duration.
Death, unpitying death, had ruptured it, by
prematurely carrying off’ the young husband.
The sculptor was summoned by the widow.
He traversed apartments silent and desert
ed, until he was introduced into a bed-room,
and found himself in presence of a lady,
young and beautiful, but habited in the deep
est mourning, and with a face furrowed by
tears.
j “You are aware,” said she, with a painful
effort and a voice half choked by sobs, “you
are aware of the blow which I have received ?”
The artist bowed with an air of respectful
condolence.
“Sir,” continued the widow, “I am anxious
to have a funeral monument erected in honor
of the husband whom I have lost.”
The artist bowed again.
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, MARCH 20, 1851.
“I wish that the monument should be sn
i perb, worthy of the man whose loss I weep,
proportioned to the unending grief into!
| which his loss has plunged me. I care not j
what it costs. lam rich, and I will willing- j
ly sacrifice all my fortune to do honor to the j
memory of an adored husband. I must have
a temple—with columns—in marble—in the
middle—on a pedestal—his statue.”
“1 will do my best to fulfil your wishes,
Madam,” replied the artist; “but I had not
tiie honor of an acquaintance with the de
ceased, and a likeness of him is indispensable
for the due execution of my work. Without
doubt, you have his portrait ?”
The widow raised her arm. and pointed
despairingly to a splendid likeness painted by
Amaury Duval.
“A most admirable picture !’’ observed the
artist, “and the painter’s name is sufficient i
guaranty for its striking resemblance to the
; original.”
“Those are his very features, sir: it is him- J
; self. It wants but life. Ah! would that I
could restore it to him at the cost of all mv !
blood!”
“I will have this portrait carried to my j
studio, Madam, and I promise you that the j
marble shall reproduce it exactly.”
The widow, at these words, sprung up, i
and at a single bound throwing herself to
o o
wards the picture, with arms stretched out
as though to defend it, exclaimed:
“Take away this portrait! carry off my
only consolation! m3* soul remaining com
fort ! never! never!”
“But, Madam, 3*oll Avill only be deprived
of it for a short time, and ”
“Notan hour! not a miSute! could I exist
without his beloved image! Look you, sir,
I have had it placed here, in my own room,
that my e3 r es might be fastened upon it,
without ceasing, and through mj 7 tears. His
portrait shall never leave this spot one single
instant, and in contemplating that will I pass
| the remainder of a miserable and sorrowful
1 existence.”
“In that case. Madam, 3*ou will be com- j
i polled to permit me to take a cop3* of it.
But do not he uneas3* —I shall not have occa
sion to trouble 3 T our solitude for a 113’ length
of time : one sketch—one sitting will suffice.”
The widow agreed to this arrangement:
she only insisted that the artist should come
back the following dav. She wanted him to
! set to work on the instant, so great was her
longing to see the mausoleum erected. The
sculptor, however, remarked that he had an- 1
other work to finish first. This difficulty she ;
sought to overcome by means of money.
“Impossible,” replied the artist, “I have :
given my word ; but do not distress yourself;
1 Avill apply to it so diligently, that the inonu- j
ment shall be finished in as short a time as j
an3* other sculptor would require, who could |
apptv himself to it forthwith.”
| “tou see mv distress,” said the widow; I
: “you can make allowance for my impatience, j
Be speedy, then, and, abo\ T e all, be lavish of j
magnificence. Spare no expense; only let
me have a masterpiece.”
Several letters echoed these injunctions,
during a few da3*s immediately following the j
interview.
At the expiration of three months the artist j
called again. He found the widow still in
weeds, but a little less pallid, and a little more j
coquettishly dressed in her mourning garb.
“Madam,” sjaid he, “I am entirely at 3’our
service.”
“Ah! at last; this is fortunate,” replied the j
widow, with a gracious smile.
“I have made my design, but I still want i
one sitting, for the likeness. Will you per
i mit me to go into 3’our bed-room?”
“Into my bed-room ! For what?”
! “To look at the portrait again.”
“Oh ! 3 7 cs; have the goodness to walk into
the drawing-room; vou will find it there now.”
“Ah!”
“A es; i,t hangs better there; it is better
lighted in the drawing-room than in my own i
room.”
“M ould you like, Madam, to look at the
design for the monument ?”
“With pleasure. Oh! what a size! What
profusion of decorations! M by, it is a pal
ace, sir, this tomb.”
“Did you- not tell me, Madam, that noth
ing could be too magnificent? I have not
| considered the expense; and, b\* the way,
here is a memorandum of what the monu
ment will cost you.”
“Oh, heavens!” exclaimed the widow, after
having cast an eve over the total adding up.
“Why, this is enormous!”
“A on begged mo to spare no expense.”
“A T es, no doubt; I desire to do things pro- j
perly, but not exactly to make a fool of mv- j
1 self.”
“This, at present, 3-011 see, is only a de- j
sign, and there is time 3 7 et to cut it down.” j
“Well, then, suppose \A T e were to leaA*e out
the temple, and the columns, and all the
architectural part, and content ourselves with
the statue ? It seems to me that this would
be very 7 appropriate.”
“Certainly it would.”
“So let it be, then—just the statue alone.”
Shortly after this second visit, the sculptor
fell desperately ill. He was compelled to
give lip work; but, on returning from a tour
in Italy, prescribed, by his physician, lie pre
sented himself once mope before the widow,
who was then in the tenth month of her
mourning.
He found, this time, a few roses among :
the cypress, and some smiling colors playing
over half-shaded grounds.
The artist brought with him a little model
of his statue, done in plaster, and offering in
miniature the idea of what his work was to be.
“M'hat do you think of the likeness ?” he
inquired of the widow.
“It seems to me a little flattered; my hus- j
band was all very well, no doubt; but you
are making him an Apollo !”
“Really ? Well, then, I can correct my j
work by the portrait.”
“Don’t take the trouble—a little more, or a
little less like, what does it matter ?”
“Excuse me, but I am particular about
likenesses.”
“If you absolutely must ”
“It is in the drawing-room, yonder, is it
not ? I’ll go in there.”
“It is cot there any longer,” replied the
widow, ringing the bell.
“Baptiste,” said she to the servant who J
came in, “bring down the portrait of your
: master.”
“The portrait that you sent up to the
garret last week, Madam ?”
; “AYs.”
At this moment the door opened, and a
young man of distinguished air entered ; his
manners were easy and familiar; he kissed
the fair widow’s hand, and tenderly enquired
after her health.,
“Who in the world is this good man in
plaster!” asked he, pointing with his finger
to the statuette, which the artist had placed
upon the mantle-piece.
“It is the model of a statue for my hus
band’s tomb.”
“lou .are having a statue of him made?
The devil! it’s very majestic !”
“Do you think so ?”
“It is onlv great men who are thus cut out
of marble, and at full length ; it seems to me,
too, that the deceased was a very ordinary
personage.”
“In fact, his bust would be sufficient”
“Just as you please, Madam,” said the
sculptor.
“Well, let it be a bust, then—that's deter
mined !”
Two months later, the artist, carrying
home the bust, encountered on the stairs a
merry party. The widow, giving her hand
to the elegant dandy who had caused the
statue of the deceased to be cut down, was on
his way to the Mayor’s office, where she was
about to take a second oatli of conjugal
j fidelity.
If the bust had not been completed, it
would willingly have been dispensed with.
When some time later, the artist called for
his money, there was an outcry about the
price; and it required very little loss than a
threat of legal proceedings, before the widow,
consoled and remarried, concluded by re
signing herself to pay for this funeral hom
age, reduced as it was, to the memory of her
departed husband.
A HUNGARIAN HEROINE.
There was one individual whose conduct
was the theme of universal admiration, and
that person, strange to say, was a young fe
| male. A certain mystery hung round her
i origin and her family. Iler name was Caro
line, but she was known in the army by the
name of Carl; her real surname was never
known. Instances are not uncommon of fe
; males performing deeds of extraordinary val
!or under powerful excitement. The maid of
Saragossa braved the French fire to avenge
a fallen lover, and Joan of Arc became a he
roine through the power of glowing devotion.
The motive which actuated Carl, it is impossi
ble to divine,unless we attribute it to a burning
love of liberty, and hatred to despotism,
j However this may be, she appeared first in
! the insurrection at Vienna, and fought with
j astonishing daring throughout the whole of
that sanguinary struggle. Her sex was then
; unknown, as she dressed in male attire. Af
I ter the suppression of the popular party in
| Vienna, she was lost sight of for a few days,
! when she was recognized under the uniform
of the German Legion, into which she had
: enlisted at Ranh. From this corps, she
: changed into the Tyrolese jagers, where, by
her good conduct and bravery, she soon be
came a non-commissioned officer. She fell,
desperately wounded, while fighting in the
I thick of the conflict at Verpelet, but preserv
i ed sufficient consciousness and presence of
j mind to crawl to the side of a wall, where
i she lay still whilst the battle raged around
her, and the consciousness passed over her re
peatedly. As soon as the battle was over,
I she dragged herself to a place where her
wounds were attended to, and she rapidly re
covered from them. Her next appearance
was at Debrecsin, where she applied to Kos-
I suth for permission to serve in the hussars.
It was granted; and here again her good
conduct was so conspicuous, that she ad
vanced rapidly from one step of promotion
to another, till she attained the grade of an
officer. She then, to the total abnegation of
her cloth, married a brother major, a major
©f the artillery. The happiness of her mar
ried life was not destined to a long continuance.
Her husband was soon after taken prisoner by
the Austrians, and the last intelligence she
j ever heard from him informed her that he
was about to lie t ‘as a rebel before an
Austrian court rnj al. His fate may 7 be ea
sily divined; no ibt lie died like so many
other brave men, ay the decree of that law
less snd savage tribunal. Since that event
poor Caroline herself has also been lost
sight of. Ts she has survived the shock, it is
probable only to spend, in some distant re
tirement, the remains of a broken heart in
mourning, like others, over a slaughtered hus
band and a ruined country. —Personal Ad
’ ventures of the Baroness Von Beck.
MATERNAL AFFECTION.
The plague had broken out in Tuscany!
In the village of Correggi, whether it were
that due precautions had not been taken, or
that the disease was of a peculiarly malig
nant nature, one after another—the young
and then the old of a whole family dropped
off. A woman, the wife of a laborer, and
mother of two little boys, felt herself attacked
|by fever in the night; in the morning it great
ly increased, and in the evening the fatal tu
mor appeared. This was during the absence
of her husband, who went to work at a dis
tance, and only returned on Saturday night,
bringing home the scanty means of subsist
ence for his family for the week. Terrified
by the fate of the neighboring family before
I mentioned, moved by the fondest love for her
children, and determining not to communi
cate the disease to them, she formed the hero
ic resolution of leaving her home and going
somewhere else to die. Having locked them
into a room, and sacrificed to their safety
even theJast and sole comfort of a parling
embrace, she ran down the stairs, carrying
with her the sheets and coverlet, that she
j might leave no means of contagion. She
then shut the door with a sigh, and went
away. But the eldest, hearing the door shut,
went to the window, and seeing her running
in that manner, cried out, “Good-bye, moth
er,” in a voice so tender, that she involunta
rily stopped. “Good-bye, mother,” repeated
the jmungesc child, stretching his little head
out of the window; and thus was the poor
afflicted mother compelled for a time to en
dure the dreadful conflict between the yearn
ings which called her back, and the pity and
solicitude which urged her on. At length
the latter conquered, and, amid a flood of
tears, and the farewells of her children, who
knew not the fatal cause, and the import of
those tears,” she reached the house of those
who were to bury her ; she recommended her
husband and children to them, and in twodays
she was no more! What like the heart of
a mother* You remember the words of a
poor woman on hearing her parish priest re
late the history of Abraham —“God certainly .
would not have required such a sacrifice of a
mother!” — From the Italian.
THE SEXTON OF LITERATURE.
There is a story of a provincial editor who. j
discovering that one of his neighbours had
hung himself, would not cut him down, nor
mention the discovery to any one, but kept
the body under lock and key tor two whole
days. Ilis reason was simple and sufficient.
His paper appeared on Thursday ; the paper
of his arrival on Wednesday ; and “Do you
think,” he triumphantly asked, “I was going
to say anything about the suicide, and let
that scoundrel have the paragraph /” That
was the true editorial passion. The desire
i for special news in the soul of an editor is in
tense, all-absorbing. Life itself is viewed
only with reference to the “paragraphs” it
will furnish. Calamities are godsends. A ;
murder is like a rain in the drought season, i
Revolutions are fortunes. We know a gen- j
tleman whose position being one which nat- !
urally makes idm acquainted with the deaths
of distinguished foreigners, is haunted bv a
news-hunter in the necrological line. The
j crowds not swifter to pounce upon carrion
! than this resolute hunter upon announce
; ments of death. lie enters with a glowing
face, eyes sparkling with expectant gratifica
tion, “Well, any body dead ?” Nobody
has died for the moment. lie is unhappy ;
blank disappointment lengthens that radiant
| face. He feels somehow aggrieved —if not
insulted. But, if there is a death to an
| nounce, then how his hands are cheefullv
rubbed, how elastic his step, how his eyes di
; late with the vision of the “paragraph”—if
| not “article”— this death will furnish ! Ho
j is happy ; someone has died, and he has oc-
I cupation ; the sexton of literature, he sings
I only while digging a grave!— London Leader.
Dutch Women. —Coleman, in his“Furo
peati Life and Manners,” gives the following
description of the Dutch women: “I think
| some of them the fairest and handsomest
creatures 1 ever looked upon, and made of
; the finest unmixed porcelain clay. Before I
left England, I thought the English women
the finest I had ever seen. I now consider
i them as belonging to the colored races. The
i Dutch women much exceeded them. Take
| the fairest rose that was ever plucked, with
j the glittering dewdrops hanging among its
; petals, take the fairest peach that ever hung
upon the tree, with its charming blending
! tints of red and white, and they are eclipsed
| by the transparency and beauty of complex
i ion of the Dutch women, as I saw them at
| Brooeck and Saardam. If their minds are
as fair, their manners as winning as their fa
ces, then I can easily understand the history
of Adam’s fall. It was impossible, poor fei
| low, that lie should resist.”
I i-Uornt mMMxgioits,
THE CURRENTS IN THE VOYAGE OF
LIFE.
It is sad to watch the advancing years of
one who makes no effort to improve. I
might trace for you the course of a young
man, who started in life with refined tastes
and generous sentiments, with approval and
: admiration for all that was excellent—in fine,
just such a young mail as Jesus would have
regarded with love, and pronounced not far
from his kingdom. But he was not in the
kingdom. His good habits were not found
ed on principle. His approval of goodness
sprang not from love of God in the heart.
His generosity was a sentiment, not a virtue.
With his opening manhood, whatever of the
good seed had been sown in his soul sprang
lup among thorns. His lot was cast among
those who looked to no end beyond the gain
i or pleasure of the day; whose souls had be
come materialized by engrossing occupa
tions, or by equally engrossing amusements.
There was neither refinement nor spirituality
in their communings; but all their influence
was adapted to repress feeling, to deaden
sympathy, and to confine interest and effort
to earthly good. With them piety was fa
naticism, and charity was Quixotism. Under
such tutelage, those who have followed this
young man with a friendly eye have witness
; ed the gradual wearing away of what gave
a charm to his early promise. His face has
lost its frank and guileless expression. His
voice lias parted with its rich and fervent
tones, lie has no longer a ready nppreeia
| tion of the beautiful and good. His heart has
no response for elevated sentiment. He lias
become worldly, sordid, and mean, or else
frivolous, giddy, and reckless, or it may be
head-strong, harsh, and obdurate; and the
friends of his youth fail to recognize any of
those traits which awakened their early love
for him, and their fond hopes in his behalf.
In like manner, 1 might draw the picture,
which has too many originals in real life, of
the young woman who almost took Mary’s
place at her Savior’s feet. But she did not
take it. The covenant angel hovered long
over her steps, and only waited for her to
speak the word of invitation to fold his wings
o’er her spirit; but earth-born angels—fir
cares or the geyeties of opening womanhood
—contended with him for the possession of
her soul, and because she remained passive,
they won the day. While she suspects not
that her character has undergone any change, ,
she has gradually lost her interest, not only
in religious truth, but in all subjects possess
ed of intrinsic dignity and excellence. She
has grown heartless, frivolous and selfish.
No generous impulse stirs her activity; no
prompt and cordial sympathy marks her I
social life. She has, it may be. in a family
of her own, the happiness of o'hers confided ;
to her care—the immortal souls, of children
entrusted to her nature. And she is, perhaps, !
faultless in the order or the thrift of her
household—in the show for the world’s eye,
or in the arrangements for the material com
fort of those under her roof. But in her i
youth would have expected that she would be
one of those of whom it is said in Holy W rit,
“She openethher mouth with wisdom, and in
her tongue is the law of kindness.” Yet,
you can trace nothing of all this in her
domestic character —no spirituality, no |
outgoing of refined thought and ele- j
vated feeling, no influences adapted to j
educate the souls under her charge for lofty j
purposes—Tor virtue, pietv and heaven. In j
| T P . jy , , -
TERMS OF PUBLICATION'.
For one year, if paid in advance, - - - $2 SO
if not paid in advance, - - 300
RATES OF ADVERTISING.
One square, first insertion, $1 00
” each subsequent insertion, - - 50
A liberal deduction made in favor of those who adver
tise largely.
jVO. 12,
looks, voice, manners and character, she is
; simply a woman of the world, endowed with
just those superficial excellencies, without
which she must i’oVfeit her good name among
those as worldly as herself, but utterly unfit for
every relation, office and duty appertaining
j to the spiritual life.
Such is the growth of character earth
ward, from the “heaven” that “lies about yts
in onr infancysuch the “shades of the
prison-house,” that “close upon” those who
abandon themselves to external influences—
float on the current—take life as they find it.
YOUR MOTHER.—TO GIRLS.
You all know the Divine Command, “Hon
or thy father and thv mother.” An unduti
ful child is an odious character, yet few’
young people show the respect and obedi
ence to their parents that is becoming and
beautiful. Did you ever sit and recount the
| davs and nights of care, toil and anxiety you
j cost your mother ? Did you ever try to
! measure £he love that sustained your infancy
1 and guided your youth ? Did you ever think
about how much more you oAveyouV naother
than you will be able to repay ? If so, did
you ever vex or disobey her? If you did, it
is a sin of no common magnitude, and a
shame which should make you burn every
time you think of it. It is a sin that is sure
to bring its reward in this world. 1 never
knew an undutiful daughter make a kf'ppy
wife or mother. The feeling that prompts
any one to be unkind to a mother will
make her who indulges it, wretched for life.
If you should lose vour mother, yon little
dream how the memory of every unkind look,
or undutiful word, every neglect of her wish
es, wiil haunt you. I could never tell how
I sometimes feel in remembering instances of
i neglect to my mother, and yet, thanks to her
care, I had the name of bring a good child.
She told me, shortly before she died, that I.
; had never vexed her by any act ot disobedi
once, and I w ould not resign the memory of
j her approbation forthe plauditsof a world,even
though I knew’ it was love that hid the faults,
and magnified all that was good. I know’
how many things I might have done t d add
’ to her happiness and repay her care, that I
did not do; but the grave lias cut off all op
portunity to rectify mistakes or atone for neg
j lects. Never, never lay up for yourself the
memory of unkindness to your mother. If
. she is afflicted, how can you possibly get
i tired of waiting upon her? How can you
s trust any one else to take your place about,
r her ? No one could have filled her place W
• your peevish infancy and troublesome, child
-1 hood. When she is in her usual health, re
. member she is not so young and active as
t she once was. Wait upon her. If she wants
> anything, bring it to her, not because she
could not get it herself, but to show that you
r are thinking about her, and love to wait upon
her. No matter how active and healthy she
! may be, or how much she may love to work,
she will love to have you do any little thing
that will show you are thinking of her. One
thing more: never call either of your parents
“old man” or “old woman.” This is rude
and undutiful. Thro should be something
, sacred, something peculiar, in the word that
designates parents. The tone of voice in
which they arc addressed should be aft’ection
f ate and respectful. A short surly answer
; from a child to a parent, fall very harshly on
r j the ear of any person wffio has any idea of
| filial duty. Be sure, girls, that you each wall
1 for yourselves the name of a dutiful daughter.’
It is much easier to be a good daughter than
. a good wife or mother; but she who fails in
• this first most simple rchtion, need never
. hope to fill another well. Make her your
confidant; the secret you dare not tell her is
i a dangerous secret, and one that will be like
ly to bring you regret, and you should love
her so well that it would not be felt a pun-’
j ishment to give up the happiest party to re
; main with her. But unloved and unloving,
you will live and die, if you do not love and
honor your father and mother. —Northern
Ensign.
LIFE OF ST. MARK.
This Evangelist was of a Jewish family,’
and of the tribe of Levi. Eusebius tells us
{ that he was sent into Egypt by St. Peter to
j preach the Gospel, and that he planted a
: church in Alexandria, the Capitol of Egypt.
; St. Mark did not confine himself to Alexandria
i and the oriental parts of Egypt, but removed
westward to Lybia, passing through the
! countries of Mennacia, Pentapolis, .and oth
’ ers adjacent, where, though the people were
both barbarous in their manners and idola
trous in their worship, yet he
them to embrace the tenets ~i i r“—
After this long tour, he returned tp Alexan
dria, where be preached vfitu the greatest free-.
! dom. But the ruthless enemy of the souis of
I men would not suffer the apostle to continue
in peace and quietness, for while he was as
siduously laboring in the vineyard of bis Mas-’
I ter, the idolatrous inhabitants, about the time
| of Easter, when they were celebrating the so
lemnities of Serepis, tumultuously entered the
church, forced St. Mark, then performing di
vine service, thence, and, binding his feet with
j cords, dragged him through the streets and
over the most craggy places, to the Bucelus, a
precipice near the sea, leaving him there in a
lonesome prison for the night, where, it is said,
the Saviour appeared to him in a vision, com
posing and encouraging his soul, under
the ruins of his shattered body.
The next morning early the tragedy began
afresh ; they dragged him about in the same
cruel and barbarous manner till he expired.
But their malice did not end with his death ;
; they burnt bis mangled body after they had
| so inhumanely deprived it of life ; but the
Christians, after the horrid tragedy waeover,
gathered up his hones and ashes, and decent
ly interred them near the place where he fised
t o preach. FI is remains (or some that
! taken for his) were afterwards, with gFeat
i pomp, removed to \ enice, where they were
j religiously honored, and he was adopted a%
| the tutelary saint and patron of that State.
He suffered martyrdom on the 25th VtT
[April, about the end of Nero’s reign, fois
Gospel was the only writing he left behind
[ him.
Crime.— Crime is a wretched Vagabond,
| travelling from place to place, iri fruitless en
j deavor to .escape from justice, who is con
j stantly engaged In hot pursuit. A foe to virtue
: and happiness, though at times the compan
j ion of poor innocence, which is too often
’ made to suffer for the guilty.