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TIIE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
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SPARE TIIE INSECT.
O lum that little foot a.?kle,
‘Nor cru>h beneath its tread
The smallest insect ot the earth,
That looks to God for bread.
If He who made the universe,
Looks down hi kmde-t love,
To shape an humble thing like thi,
From his high throne atiove:
Why shouklat thou, then, in wantonne??,
That creature’s life destroy,
Or give a pang to anything
That He has made tor joy ?
My child, begin in little thing*
To act tlf nentle part;
For God wilftum his love away
From every cruel heart.
[From Scotfs Weekly Paper ]
TIIE OLD SHEPHERD.
BY ELIZABETH M. ROBERTS.
“Around us float in charming light
The dazzling forms of distant years.”
Oh! innnv a year hath passed away,
And left its vestige on my brow ;
My once brown locks are thin and grey—
My step tottering now, and slow.
Yet. even now, mt thinks I see
The Willow stoop to kiss the spray—
The sunbeams thro’ the birchen tret 1 ,
Upon the bed of violets play.
As when on summer’s morn I led
My bleating floeks unto the rill—
To pasture in the dewy mead,
Or browse upon the distant hill.
There with mv clarion’s dulcet sound
I called mv gentle train to rest,
When twilight slept upon the ground,
And hied the Cuckoo to her nest.
When mid-day wrapt the sultry heath,
And softly hummed the tireless bee,
I slumbered on the flowery sward
Beneath the aged oakon tree.
The village bell rose on my ear—
The distant spires were pointing hieh—
The cottage smoke, in graceful wreaths,
Dispersed amid the clear blue sky.
When in the early days of Spring,
I wandering strayed her cottage near,
Then Isabel her lute would bring,
To cheer my heart, and charm my ear.
Her golden lock?, in
Adown her snowy shoulders fell; —
Her rosy fingers touch’d the ?trinjr.
And Spring was glad with Isabel.
For her the violet of the vale.
On April’s laughing morn was seen ;
For her the Cuckoo breathed her tale—•
The lambkin gamboled on the green.
Hard by her cottage door, a grove,
In summer, lent its apple shade ;
Where nightingales expressed their love,
And breathed their nightly serenade.
There in that cool, sequestered shade,
I turned mv reed to strains divine: —
’Tw'as there I wooed mv gentle, ntaid,
And all tho charms of life were mine.
There sacred memories arise
To cheer my soft, desponding hour ;
Like holy incense to the skies.
Or dew upon the withering flowers.
Oh ! often in my musing hours,
Indulging in the dream of joy,
I half forget that I am now
No more the same blithe shepherd boy.
But oh ! how brief those sunnv years—
Then came the bier, then tolled the knell;
For dentil, in spite of all mv tears,
Stole from my arms my Isabel.
They strew'd her couch with snow white flowers,
And wreathed them round her pallid brow;
Her lips were livid, and her cheeks
Wore paler than the mountain snow.
Upon her grave the virgin ro=c,
In summer shed a rich perfume:
There oft tho village maid repaired,
To scatter flowers upon her tomb.
There oft when twilight in the vale
In soft renal shadow? fell,
Mt J wandering feet would seek the. dale,
Th .'jtoum my loved, lost Isabel.
Her breath was in the vesper air.
Her voice tfru linnet’s gentler lay ;
So softly stealing on mv ear—
So sweet, so soon to pass away.
I never woke my clarion shrill,
Upon the cheerful mountain side,
Since 1 behold, all pale and still,
The image of my sainted bride.
There’s not a tie to hind me here, .
Nor dearer friends to tempt my stayv
For all that to my heart was dear i
Passed in their morning bloom awnyx
*Tis sweet to know a few short years \
Will calm the fever of my breast, \
And all my hopes, and all my fears.
Lie calmly in the grave at rest.
UtiscflintuMis.
[Front Leigh Hunt's Journal.]
MADELINE.
Madeline Geoffrey was the daughter
of a lineudraper, who had been residing for
three years in the Rue desßourdonnais, close
to the Cemetery of the Innocents. One eve
ning, having gone alone to vespers at the
church of St. Eustace, as she was hastening
home to her mother, who had been prevented
by illness from accompanying her, she heard
a great noise at the top of the street, and,
looking up, saw an immense mob hurrying I
along, shouting and hooting. As they were !
then in the midst of the troubles of the Fonde,
Madeline, in an alarm, hurried toward the
house, and, having opened the door by a latch
key, was turning to close it, when she was
startled on seeing behind her a woman wrap- {
ped in a black mantle, holding two children,
by the hand. This woman rushed past Mad
eline into the shop, exclaiming :
‘“ln the name of all you hold most dear,
save me! Hide me and my children in some j
corner of your house! However helpless and
unfortunate I may appear at this moment,
doubt not nty power to prove my gratitude to
you.”
“I should want no reward for helping the
distressed,” said Madeline, deeply touched by
the’ mother’s agony; “but poor protection
can this house afford against a brutal 1110b.’ ;
The stranger cast a hurried and tearful glance
around; when, suddenly uttering a cry of
joy, she fixed her eye upon part of the floor al
most concealed by the shop counter, and rush
ing to the spot, exclaimed, “I have it!—l
have it.”
As she spoke, she lifted a trap-door con
trived in the floor, opening on a stone stair- j
case which led to a subterranean passage ; •
and, snatching up her children in her arms, j
darted down into the gulf, leaving Madeline
stupified with astonishment. But the cries of
the mob, who had by this time reached the
shop, and were clamorously demanding ad- ;
mittance, roused her; and, quickly closing
the trap-door, she called her lather, who came
down in great alarm.
After a short parley, he opened the door,
which they were beginning to force. The
mob consisted of two or three hundred miser
able, tattered wretches, who poured into the
house; and after searching every corner of
it, without finding any thing, were so turious
VOL. 11.
with disappointment, that they seized upon
Madeline and her father.
“Deliver up to us the woman we are look
ing for!” they exclaimed. “ She is a vile
sorceress—an enemy to the citizens of Paris;
she Likes the part of the hated Austrian against
us; she is the cause of all the famine and mis
ery that are desolating Paris. We must have
her and her children, that we may wreak just
vengeance on them!”
“We know not who you mean,” replied
Madeline’s father, who, in truth, wa3 quite
ignorant of what had occurred; “we have j
not seen any one—no one has entered the
house.”
“We know how to make such obstinate
old wretches speak,” exclaimed one of the
ring-leaders. lie seized Madeline, and, point
ing a loaded pistol at her breast, cried, “The
woman ! We want the woman !”
At this moment Madeline, being exactly
over the trap-door, heard a slight rustle un
derneath ; and, fearing that it would betray
the stranger’s biding [dace, endeavored to
drown the noise from below by stamping with
her foot, while she boldly replied, “I have no
one to give up to you.”
“Well, then, you shall see how it fares
with those who dare to resist us !” roared one
of the infuriated mob. Tearing off her veil,
lie seized Madeline by the hair, and pulled
her to the ground.
“Speak!” ho exclaimed, “or I will drag ;
you through the streets of Paris to the gibbet
on the Place de la Greve.”
Madeline uttered not a word, but silently
commended herself to God. What might
have been the issue, Heaven only knows, had
not the citizens in that quarter, on seeing their
neighbor’s house attacked, hastily armed
themselves, and dispersed the mob. Made
line’s first care was to reassure her almost
fainting mother. After which, rejoining her
father, she helped him to barricade the door,
so as to be prepared for an}’ new incursion,
and then began to prepare the supper, as
usual.
While laying the cloth, the young girl de
bated whether she should tell her father of the
refuge afforded to the stranger by the sub
terraneous passage ; but, after a fervent pray
er, to enable her to act for the best, she
decided that it would be more prudent uot to
expose him to any risk arising front the pos
session of such a secret. Arming herself,
therefore, with all the resolution she could
command, she peformed her usual household
duties; and when her father and mother had
retired to rest, and all was quiet in the house,
she took off her shoes, and, stealing down
stairs into the shop, cautiously opened the
trap-door, and entered the vault with provi
sions for those who already were indebted to
her for life and safety.
“You are a noble girl,” said the stranger
toiler. “What do 1 not owe to your heroic
devotedness and presence of mind ? God
will reward you in Heaven, and, I trust, he
will permit me to recompense you here be
low.” Madeline gazed with intense interest
on the stranger, as the light of the lamp in her
hand, falling full upon her face, gave to view
features whose dignified and majestic expres
sion inspired, at the very first glance, a feel
ing of respect. A long black mantle almost
wholly concealed her figure, and a veil was
thrown over her head. Her children lay at
her loot in a quiet sleep.
“Thanks for the food you have brought,”
said she to Madeline. “Thanks, dear girl.
As for me, I cannot eat; but my children
have tasted nothing since morning. I will
ask you to leave me your light; and now go,
take some rest, for surely you must want it
after the excitement you have undergone.”—
Madeline looked at her in surprise.
“I should have thought, Madam,” said she,
“ that you would make an effort to find some
asylum, if not more secure, at least more com
fortable than this.”
“Be not uneasy about me, my good girl.
When my time is come, it will be as easy for j
me to leave this place as it was to reveal to I
you the secret of its existence. Good night, j
my child. Perhaps we may not meet again !
for some time; but, remember, I solemnly
promise that l will grant any three wishes
you may form !” She motioned to her to re
tire ; and that indescribable air of majesty
which accompanied every gesture of the un
known, seemed as if it left Madeline no choice
but to obey.
Notwithstanding her fatigue, Madeline
hardly slept that night. The events of the
day had seized hold of her imagination, and
she exhausted herself in continued and won
dering conjecture. Who could this woman
be, pursued by the populace, and accused of
being a sorceress, and an enemy to the peo
ple ? How could she know of a place of
concealment of which the inhabitants of the
house were ignorant ? As vainly did Made
line try to explain her entire composure, the
certainty with which she spoke of being able
to leave the vault whenever she pleased, and,
above all, the solemn and mysterious promise
she had made to fulfil any three wishes of the
| young girl.
The whole of the next day Madeline could
think of nothing but her secret. Seated be
| hind the counter, in her usual place, she start
ied at the slightest sound. At one moment
: it seemed to her as if every one who entered
j the shop must discover the trap-door; at the
next she expected to see it raised to give
j egress to the unknown, till, dizzy and bewil
dered, she scarcely knew whether to believe
j her, whose life she had saved, to be a malig
nant sorceress or a benevolent fairy. Then,
| smiling at her own folly, she asked herself
how a woman endowed with a supernatural
I power could need her protection. It is un
necessary to say how long the time appeared
to her till she could revisit the subterranean
passage, and find herself once more in the
| presence of the stranger. Thus the morning,
the afternoon, and the evening wore slowly
j away, and it seemed ages to her till her fa
; tlier, mother, and the shopmen were fairly
; asleep.
As soon as the clock struck twelve, she
i rose, using still more precaution than on the
preceding night, opened the trap-door, de
scended the stone staircase, and entered the
i subterraneous passage, but found no one.—
; She turned the fight in every direction. The
vault was empty : the stranger and her chil
dren had disappeared ! Madeline was almost
las much alarmed as surprised; however, re
: covering herself, she carefully examined tlie
| walls of'the vault. Not an opening, not a
i door, not the smallest aperture was to be
1 seen. Slie stamped on the ground, but no
j hollow sound was heard. Suddenly she
i thought she perceived some written charac
Qdjc iSouHjcnt Sentinel.
ters on the stone-flag. She bent down, and
by the light of her lamp, read the follow
ing words, evidently traced with some point
ed instrument;
“Remember, Madeline, that she who owes
to thee the life of her children, promises to
grant thee three wishes.”
It \Vould seem that Madeline, in her ob
scure and peaceful life, had nothing to wish
for, or that her wishes were all fulfilled as soon
as formed; for she not only never invoked j
the fairy of the vault, but even gradually lost
. all remembrance of the promises made her
by the unknown, and the whole adventure at
I last faded from her memory. It is true that !
thirteen years had passed away,and the young j
girl had become a wife and mother. Shfi j
had long left the house where the occurrence j
took place, and had come to live in the Rue !
St. Jacques, though since then the former ten
ement has been rebuilt.
Madeline's husband was a lawyer. Though
of noble birth, he did not think it beneath
him to marry the daughter of a shopkeeper,
with but a small dowry. He found in Made
line’s excellent qualities, her gentleness and
beauty, irresistible attractions—and who that
knew her could disapprove of his choice l
Madeline possessed, in an eminent degree,
that natural refinement of mind and manner
which education and a knowledge of the
world so often fail to give, while it seerns in
j tuitivc in some. She devoted herself entirely
to the happiness of her husband and her four
sons. Her husband’s income was quite suffi
cient for all the expenses of this happy family; !
for a truly happy family it was, till it pleased
God to lay a heavy trial upon them. He fell ill,
and for a whole year was obliged to give up
the profits of his situation to provide a sub
stitute ; and he had scarcely begun, after his
recovery, to endeavor to repair the losses he
had suffered, when a fresh misfortune oc
curred.
One night, as Madeline was lying quietly in
bed, with her four little cubs around her, she
was awakened by an unusual noise to behold
the house wrapped in fiaines, which had al
ready almost reached the room in which, they
were. At this moment the father appeared,
and took the eldest child in his arms, while
Madeline bad charge of the two youngest. The
flames crackled and hissed around them, cast
ing a livid hue over the pale faces of the father
and mother, who boldly advanced through the
fire. With great difficulty they gained the
staircase. The father dashed bravely forward.
Nicholas, whom Madeline held by the hand,
screamed violently, and refused to go a step
further. She caught him up in her arms; but
during the short struggle the staircase had
given way, and, fora few moments, Madeline
stood paralyzed by despair. But soon the im
minent danger roused all the energy of her
heroic nature. She immediately retraced her
steps, and, firmly knotting the bedclothes to
gether, fastened her two children to them, and,
letting them down through the window, the
father received them in his arms. Her chil
dren once saved, Madeline thought but little
of danger to herself, and site waited, in calm
self-possession, till a ladder being brought, she
was rescued.
This trial was but a prelude to many oth
ers. The loss of the house completed the ru
in of which her husband’s illness was tho be
ginning. He was obliged to dispose of his
situation, and take refuge in small lodgings at
Chaillot, and there set to work, steadily and
cheerfully, to support his family, opening a
kind of pleader’s office for legal students; but
bis health soon failed, and he became danger
ously ill. Madeline struggled hard to ward
off the want that now seemed inevitable; but
what availed the efforts of one woman to sup
port a sick husband and four children ? One
night came when they had literally nothing
to eat.
She now resolved to apply for help to the
nuns of Chaillot; a step which, to her inde
pendent spirit, was a far greater trial than to
I brave the threats of the mob or the fury of the
1 flames. But what is there too hard for a
! mother who lias heard her children ask for
1 food, which she had not to give them? With
sinking heart, and cheek now pale, now crim
son, from the struggle within her, she pre
sented herself at the convent, and timidly
made known her desire to speak with the su
perior. Her well-known character procured
Iter instant admission, and her tale, once told,
obtained for her much kindly sympathy and
some relief. As she was passing through the
cloisters on her way back, she was startled
by a voice suddenly demanding, “Art thou
not Madeline Perrault?”
Madeline started; the tones of that voice
found an echo in her memory, and though
thirteen years had elapsed since she had heard
I it, she recognized it to be that of the being
whom her husband was wont to call her “Fai
ry.” She turned round, and as the pale
moonbeams, that were now struggling through
I the long, dim aisle, fell upon tho well-remem
bered stately form, in its black garb and flow
ing mantle, it seemed to Madeline’s excited
imagination to be indeed a being of some oth
er world.
“I made thee a promise,” said the unknown.
“Didst thou doubt my power, that thou hast
never invoked my aid ?”
Madeline crossed herself devoutly, now
convinced that she was dealing with a super
natural being. The phantom smiled at her
awe-struck look, and resumed:
“Yet, fear not; you have but to name three
wishes, and my promise is still sure; they
i shall be granted,” “My husband—oh, if he
’ were but once more well!” “I sav not that
to give fife or healing is within my province
to bestow. God alone holds in his hands the
issues of life and death. Say what else lies
near thine heart ?”
“Bread for my husband and children. Save
them and me from beggary and want!”
“This is but one wish, and I would grant
two more.”
“I ask not —wish not for more.”
“Be it so, then, Madeline Perrault; hold
: yourself in readiness to obey the orders that
shall reach you before twelve hours have pass
•ed over your head.” And she disappeared
I from Madeline’s sight as suddenly as she had
j appeared to her.
Madeline returned home, in considerable |
j agitation, and told her husband all that had
! occurred. He tried to persuade her that the I
| whole scene had been conjured up by her own ;
i excited imagination. But Madeline persisted
| in repeating that nothing could be real if this
j was but fancy ; and they’ passed a sleepless i
j night in bewildering conjectures.
Early the next day a carriage stopped at
the door, and a footman announced to Mad
, eltne that it was sent to convey her and her ;
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, APRIL 3, 1851.
family to a place appointed by one whose j
summons there was good reason they should j
obey; No questioning could extract from j
him any further information. You may well
fancy how long they debated as to the pru-;
dence of obeying the mysterious summons.— ,
But curiosity at last prevailed; and, to the
unntixed delight of the children of the party,
they all got into the carriage, which took the
road to Paris, and drove on rapidly till it
reached the Rue St. Jacques, where it drew
up before anew house; and as the servant
opened the carriage-door and let down the
steps, the husband perceived that it occupied
the site of his house which had been burned
down.
The little party was met in the entrance- by
a deputation of the civic authorities, who
welcomed the husband to his house, and con
gratulated him on his being re-instated in the
situation he had so long held with such cred
it to himself, and, as they were pleased to add,
to themselves as members of the body to
which he was such an honor.
He stood as if in a dream, while Madeline
shed tears of joy and gratitude; A letter was
now handed to her; and, hastily breaking
the seal, she read, “Madeline, hast thou still
a wish ? Speak and it shall be gratified!”
“Only that I may be allowed to see my j
benefactress, to pour out at her feet my heart’s
gratitude.”
And at the instant the dcior opened, and
the unknown appeared. Madeline, with clasp
ed hands, darted suddenly forward; then, as
suddenly checking herself, uttered some inco
herent words, broken by sobs.
“Madeline,” said the lady, “ I have paid
but a small part of the debt I owe you. But
for you, a ferocious mob would have murder
ed me and my children. To you I owe lives
dearer to me than my own. Do not deem
me ungrateful in so long appearing to have
forgotten you. It has pleased our Heavenly
Father to visit me also with heavy trials. Like
you, I have seen my children in want of food,
which I had not to give, and without a spark of
fire to warm their chilled Ijmbs. But more,
my husband was traitorously put to death,
and I have been myself proscribed. When
you rescued me, they were hunting me like
a wild beast, because I refused to take part
against the son of my brother. But brighter
days have dawned. My son is restored to
the throne of bis fathers, and Henrietta of
England can now pay the debt of gratitude
she owes Madeline Perrault.”
“But how can poor Madeline ever pay the
debt she owes ?” exclaimed she.
“By sometimes coming to visit me in my
retreat at Chaillot; for what has a queen with
out a kingdom, a widow weeping for her mur
dered husband, a mother forever separated
from her children—what has she any more to
do with the world whose nothingness she has
so sadly experienced? To know that, amid
my desolation, I have made one being happy,
will be soothing to me, and your children’s
innocent merriment perchance may beguile
some lonely hours. Henceforth, Madeline,
our intercourse will not bear the romantic
character that has hitherto marked it, and
which chance, in the first instance, and after
ward a whim of mine, lias made it assume. —
By accident, I w!ts led to take refuge in your
house in the Rue des Bourdonnais, and in
stantly recollected it as the former abode of
Ruggieri, my mother’s astrologer. His lab
oratory was the vault which, doubtless, you
have not forgotten, and the entrance to which
was as well known to me as the subterraneous
passage by which I left it, and which led to
the Cemetery of the Innocents. Last night
I heard all you said to the superior, and was
about to inquire directly of yourself, when,
seeing the effect of my sudden appearance,
I was induced to play the fairy once more.—
The instant you left me I put in requisition
the only fairy wand I possessed, and money
soon placed at my disposal the house which
I have the happiness of making once again
your own. You now know my secret, but
though no fairy, I have still some influence,
and you shall ever have in me a firm friend
and protectress.”
And from that time the Queen never lost
an opportunity of serving Madeline and her
family.
COLONEL ARCHIBALD YELL, OF AR
KANSAS.
The first case on the docket was called,
and the plaintiff stood ready. It was a case
that had been in litigation for five years.—
Gen. Smoot arose for the defendant, and re
marked, in an over-bearing tone :
“Our witnesses are absent, and, therefore, I
demand that the case be continued until the
next term, in course.”
“Let the affidavit be filed, for not till then
can I entertain a motion for continuance,”
was the mild reply of the judge.
“Do you doubt my word as to the facts ?” (
Gen. Smoot exclaimed sharply, and involun- \
tarily raised his huge sword-cane.
“Not at all,” replied the judge with his j
blandest smile; “but the law reouires that the
facts justifying a countinuance must appear j
on record, and the court has no power to an- ]
nul the law, nor any will to see it annulled.” j
The judge’s calm and business-like tone
and manner only served to irritate the bully,
and he retorted, shaking his sword-cane in the
direction of the bench—“ Whatever may be
law r , I, for one, will not learn it from an up
start demagogue and coward!”
Judge Yell’s blue eves shot lightning; but
he only turned to the clerk and said—“ Clerk,
you will enter a fine of fifty dollars against |
Gen. Smoot, as I see him named on my dock- j
et, for gross contempt of court; and be sure I
you issue an immediate execution.”
He had hardly communicated the order,
when Gen. Smoot was seen rushing towards
him, brandishing his sword-cane, all his fea
tures writhing murderous wrath, and palid as
a corpse.
Every glance was fixed on the countenance
of the judge, for all wished to know how he
would brook the coming jftiock of the duel
list’s fiery assault. But none, however, could
detect the slightest change in his appearance.
His cheek grew’ neither red nor white, nor a
nerve seemed to tremble; his calm eyes sur- i
veyed the advancing foe, with as little sign of
purturbation as a chemist might show’ scrutin
izing the effervescence of some novel mixture. |
He sat perfectly still with a little staff of,
painted iron in his right hand.
Smoot ascended die platform and immedi-I
ately aimed a tremendous blow with his
enormous sword cane full at the head of his j
foe. At that blow five hundred hearts shud- i
dered, and more than a dozen voices shrieked, j
j for all expected to see the victim’s skull shiv
j ered into atoms. The general astonishment,
; then, may be conceived, when they beheld the
little iron staff describe a quick curve, as the
| great sword cane flew from Smoot’s fingers
| and fell with a loud clatter at the distance of
twenty feet in the hall! The baffled bully
uttered a cry of wrath, wild as that of sortie
wounded beast of prey, and snatched his
bowie from its sheath, but ere it was poised
for the desperate plunge, the little iron staff
cut another Curve, and the big knife followed
the sword cane. He then hastily drew a re
volving pistol, but before he had time to touch
the trigger his arm was struck powerless
by his side.
And, then, for the first time, did Judge Yell
betray perceptible emotion. He stamped his
foot till the platform shook beneath it, and
shouted in trumpet tones—“Mr. Clerk, you
will blot this ruffian’s name, as afoul disgrace,
from the roll of attorneys. Mr. Sheriff', take
the criminal to jail.”
The latter officer sprang to obey the man
date, find immediately a scene of confusion
ensued that no pen could describe. The
bravoes and myrmidon friends of Gen. Smoot
gathered round to obstruct the sheriff, while
many of the citizens lent their aid to sustain
the.authority of the court. Menaces, screams
and horrid curses, the ring of impinging and
crossing steel, alternate cries of rage and
pain, all commingled with the awful explo
sion of fire arms blended together a vivid idea
of Pandemonium. But, throughout all the
tempestuous strife, two individuals might be
observed as leaders in the whirlwind and ri
ders of the storm. The new Judge used his
little iron cane with terrible efficiency, crip
pling limbs yet sparing life. Bill Buffum, im
itating the clemency of his honored friend,
disdaining the employment of either knife or
pistol, actually trampled and crushed down
all opposition, roaring at every furious blow
—“this is the way to preserve order in court,”
—a sentiment which he accompanied with
wild peals of laughter. In less than two mi
nutes the party of the Judge triumphed, the
clique of General Smoot suffered disastrous
defeat, and the bully himself was borne away
to the prison.
Such was the debut of Archibald Yell in
Arkansas; and from that day his popularity
as a man, as a Judge, as a hero, and as a pol
itician, went on rapidly and brilliantly in
creasing, till it eclipsed all the oldest and
most powerful names. Within the first year
of his emigration, ho became a candidate for
the Governor’s chair, and, notwithstanding the
bitterest opposition, be was elected by nine
tenths of the number of votes polled. At the
end of his term, bo canvassed for Congress,
and again swept the State like a hurricane.
He continued to serve with success in the su
preme councils of the nation until the period
of the war with Mexico. He then resigned,
hurried home to Arkansas, and raised a regi
ment of volunteer cavalry, with which he
made all possible despatch to the scene of
action.
The writer of the present sketch saw him
on his line of march to coalesce with the
grand army of occupation, and never will he
forget the evening passed by the light of his
hospitable camp fire, on Red river, within the j
limits of Texas. The prophecy of his fare- |
well words rings on my ears with mournful
distinctness.
“I go,” said he, with a look of fire, and in
tones of thrilling emphasis, “to make fame
that shall be co-extensive with the length and
breadth of the Union, or to extinguish life it
self in a blaze of glory.”
He kept his word—he did both. He ar
rived on the gory arena in time to witness the
magnificent storm of Buena Vista; and where
is the true child of American birth that can
not name the three transcendant stars of
chivalry, who fell quenched in blood that day?
Aye, who fell, but as they fell such a parting
sun-burst of everlasting sunlight over the
field of glorv and of graves ? Harden! Clay!
Yell!
“I CAN.”
Os course you can. Yon show it in your
looks, in your motion, your speech, in your
every thing I can! A brave, hearty, sub
stantial, soulful, manly, cheering expression.
There is character, force, vigor, determina
tion, will in it. We like it. The words have a
spirit, sparkle, pungency, flavor, geniality,
about them which takes one in the very right
place.
I can! There is a world of meaning ex
pressed, nailed down, epigrarnized, rammed
into these few letters. Whole sermons of
solid-ground virtues. How we more than ad
mire to hear the young man speak it out
bravely, boldly, determinedly; as though it
was an out-searching of his entire nature, a
reflection of his inner soul. It tells of some
thing that is earnest, sober, serious; of some
thing that will battle the race, and tumble
with the world in a way that will open and
brighten and mellow men’s eves.
1 can ! What spirit, purpose, intensity, re
ality, power and praise. It is a strong arm,
a stout heart, a bold eye, a firm port, an in
domitable will. We never knew a man,
possessed of its energy, vitality, fire and light,
that did not attain eminence of some sort.
It could not be otherwise. It is in the nature,
constitution, order, necessity, inevitable, of
events that it should be so. I can ! rightly 7 ,
truly said, and then clinched and rivited by
the manly, heroic, determined deed, is the
’ secret solution, philosophy of men’s lives.
They took I can for a motto, and went forth
| and steadily made themselves and the world
| what the} 7 pleased.
Then, young men, if you would be some
! thing besides a common dusty, prosy, way
! farer in life, just put these magic words upon
your lips, and their musing, hopeful, expand- j
ing philosophy in your hearts and arms. Do j
it and you are a made man.
Clgricuiinrf.
[From “The Soil of the South.”]
STOP AND THINK.
Messrs. Editors: It is a common remark, as j
goes one, so goes the gang. This propensity is j
not so exclusively sheepish, as we might at first j
suppose. Men are inclined to run with the i
crowd, without stopping to think,, whether the j
crowd are right. We have been so perfectly be- J
wildered with the idea of 10 or 12 cents for cot
ton, that I fear we shall forget to raise corn, or, I
at least, put ourselves and the country upon short ,
allowance. I have felt the charm of these prices j
myself, and acknowledge the temptation which I
have felt, to run after them, and this very temp
tation has admonished rue to say to myself and j
my brethren of the plow, beware, lest we migh
be found picking cotton, some cold wintry day,
to be sold at a price made low by the excess, to
buy corn made high by its scarcity. The Soutl.J
ern country is very likely to run into this double
error, this very year. Corn is scarce and high
to begin with, and I apprehend if we could see
a catalogue of all the places for the year, that We
should find that the order had been a few more
acres, and that of the best land for cotton, and
the corn shoved off to the mere chances of the sea
sons. If very good and favorable every way, j
just enough will be made to make out, it any j
mishaps, a little short. Then to shifts and short
allowances. The hogs will probably suffer with
“ sore throat” and pains in the stomach: the cows j
with hollow-horn, and the mules next plowing
time, with staggers; and as the Almanac man
would say, about this time, many of them may
be expected to die. These things need not be
so, no money is made by the operation. 1 think
we had better move along upon the good old
plan, of making sure first of a plenty of corn,
and then as much cojton as can conveniently
come in ; and then we may have the fun of high
S rices for our cotton for many years to come.
ut if we are determined, that laying all other
business aside, we will make one concentrated
effort to overstock the cotton market, aided as
wo will, doubtless, be by the English spinners, we
can soon achieve the victory, though it may be
lean and bootless. I think this is one of the
times when the planters in convenient reach of a
market, should make sure calculations as to the
relative profits of the grain and cotton crop.
And for fear you will consider it a question with
but one side, and therefore not make the calcu
lation, I will do it for you. You will admit twen
ty acres to the hand to be a very fair, if not a
heavy crop, eight in corn, and twelve in cotton.
We will suppose this eight acres shall make a
supply for the plantation, and that the twelve
acres in cotton shall make five bales of live hund
red pounds each, or twenty-five hundred
pounds of ginned cotton to each hand, this at 10
cents per lb. would make $250. It will be con
ceded, I suppose, that twenty-five acres all in
corn, would be cultivated with as much ease, as :
the twenty in corn and cotton; I will deduct the
eight acres allowed lor the corn to be used on
the farm, and have seventeen left for market;
allow these to produce twenty bushels each, and
we have 340 bushels of corn for sale, which, at
one dollar per bushel, will make $340, showing a
difference of S9O in favor of the corn. I have
said nothing about the bagging and rope for bale
ing the cotton, but have allowed these to sell for
as much as they may cost, and I have omitted
to put down any thing for the surplus fodder and
shucks. There would probably be tour thousand
pounds of fodder from the products of the seven
teen acres of corn cultivated for market; this
I will throw in as a sett-off against the cotton
seed, leaving the balance of ninety dollars still,
in favor of the corn, provided my prices are
right, and I think those who will look into the
prospects for the next year, will admit that about
all market towns, where there are many consu
mers, corn will be quite as likely to sell for a dol
lar a bushel, as cotton for ten cents. It is objec
ted that corn is a wasting article, and delivered
slowly and at much cost. This 1 will admit, but
If our arrangements were made for it, as they
could easily be made, much of thisobjection could
be removed. And then the corn crop, with lots
of peas in the bargain, could be saved in one
third of the time required for picking and pre
paring the cotton for market, leaving all the ba
lance of the fall and winter for making manure,
and putting every thing in fine order for another
year. •And last, though perhaps not least, am
ple time could be allowed, about the last of Au
gust and through September, for turning under
all the pea vines, and grass and weeds upon all
the lands upon which such vegetation might be
found, and then such wheat crops as would be
seen next winter, and such renewed vigor as
would be imparted to the lands next year, would
astonish “ the natives.” My estimates may not
be right. I think, however, they are pretty fair
ly made; turn them over and modify them to
your own liking, and if you arc not convinced
that it will be to your interest to make some corn
for the town folks, the mechanic and the manu
facturer, at least conclude to make enough lor
yourself.
A PLANTER.
[From the American Farmer.]
Notwithstanding all the existing obstacles
and difficulties, American agriculture has made
much greater progress in the last thirty years,
than in all previous time. This greater pro
gress is mainly due to the diffusion of agricul
tural papers and other periodical publications.
In the actual absence of all other means, these
puclications, defective as they have been, al
most alone have rendered good service tn ma
king known discoveries in the science, and
spreading knowledge of improvements in the
art of agriculture. But even this, the only ex
isting aid, is much less affective and beneficial
than it might be. The buyers and readers of
these publications are comparatively few 7 .
Probably not one farmer in twenty takes one of
these papers; and even of all those receded
South of Mason’s and Dixon’s line, perhaps one
half, or more, are Northern publications. Every
farmer w 7 ould greatly promote his own instruc
tion and interest by reading such a paper; and
still more, by giving his preference and support
to publications of his own agricultural region.
In this respect, we cannot too closely follow the
example of the Northern farmers. They sus
tain well their own agricultural papers, and,
(with the few exceptions directed by self-inter
est,) give none of their money to any others.
The farmers of the slave-holding States, on the
contrary, have hnretofore offered but little en
couragement to the agricultural papers estab
lished by their own countrymen, and yet have
paid full as much to support Northern publica
tions, which are much less suitable for their
wants, and their benefit. This remarkable and
inexcusable rnis-direction of Southern patron
age is not attracted by any superior merit of
the Northern publications. At first, indeed,
they were lower-priced; which advantage was
the effect of the much larger demand, and the
much larger editions printed and sold. But
even this difference of price does not now exist.
For there are Southern agricultural papers at
the now universally established low subscrip
tion price of one dollar, which are at least equal,
in the quantity and quality of their reading mat
ter, and greatly superior in particular applica
tion to Southern husbandry, to any of the
Northern publications.
The most efficient cause which has operated
to direct so much of Southern patronage to the
support of Northern publications, is neither
their greater merit, cheapness, nor any other
ground of actual preference. It is to be found
in the system of agencies, and especially of trav- j
elling agents for some of the Northern publish
ers, traversing every part of our country—and j
who are enabled to do so almost free of expense, ;
by living on hospitality —and personally and ur
gently soliciting subscriptions. Most of our !
people find it difficult to repel personal solicita
tions of this kind—and still more when urged
by persons before received as stranger-guests,
and welcomed to their hospitable boards.—-and
thus, under a kind of duress, they will yield l to
the bold begging for a Northern print the aid
which (either from carelessness or indolence,) ;
they had not voluntarily offered to the better, j
but more modest and quiet claims, of any
Southern publication. Perhaps there is scarce- ,
iy one of my present auditors who does not
know, from personal experience, something of
the operation of this state of things. It is full ,
time to change this heretofore usual procedure, j
It is full time for every farmer of Maryland, and ,
of the other Southern States, who has hereto
fore paid such extorted tribute to Northern pub
lications, to withhold it, and direct the amonnt J
TERMS OF PUBLICATION.
For one year, if paid in advance, - - - $2 50
“ “ if not paid in advance, * 3OO
RATES OF ADVERTISING.
One square, first insertion, - * - * -$1 00
each subsequent insertion, - - 50
A liberal deduction made in tavor of those who adver*
tise largely.
NO. 14.
to someone or more of such papers in his own
agricultural region. In this region there are al
ready some of the best of existing agricultural
papers, (which it would be improper for me to
designate.) and nothing is required but better
general support, to rentier such papers more
numerous, and of very far more beneficial op-*
elation.
Everywhere in the United States a decided
preference for low-priced agricultural papers
prevails—and it seehis that a dollar a year is
! the highest price that can be obtained for anv
j one of general circulation and popular use. ft
is true that for sd low a price, a large quantity
of useful matter is supplied, and that practical
agricultural instruction is thereby greatly ad
vanced. It is Well that the taste of the great
majority of readers should be conformed to, in
both the contents and the cheapness of these
papers. But publications so limited in size, and
in price, cannot supply all the published instruc
tion needed for agriculture.
iilorftl mu) Ocligious.
THE MORAL SUBLIME;
Firmness and constancy of purpose, that
withstand all solicitations, and in spite of all
dangers, goes on struiglitly to its object, is
very often sublime. The resolution of St.
Paul, in going to Jerusalem, where he has
the firmest conviction that lie shall undergo
every species of persecution, quite comes
within this description of feeling. “What
mean yc, to weep and to break my heart?
I am ready, not to be bound only, but to die
nt Jerusalem for the name of Jesus. I know
that ye all, before whom I have preached the
kingdom of God, shall see my face no more!
Wherefore I take you to record this day, that
lam pure from the blood of all men. I have
coveted no man’s silver, or gold, or apparel
Ye yourselves know, that these hands have
ministered unto my necessities, and onto them
which were with me; and now it is witness
aid in eyery city through which I pass, that
bonds and affliction await me at Jerusalem;
but nonie of these things move’ me, neither
count I my life dear to my sell) so that I
might finish my course with joy, and the
ministry which I have received, to testify the
Gospel of the grace of God.”
There is something exceedingly majestic
in tho steadiness with which tho Apostle
points out the single object of his life, and
the unquenchable courage with which ho
walks towards it. “I know I shall die, but I
have a greater object than life—the zeal of
the high duty. Situation allows some men
to think of safety; I not only mlist not con
sult it, but I must go where I know I Will he
most exposed. I must hold out my hands
for chains, and my body for stripes, and my
soul for misery. I am ready to do it all.”
These are the feelings by which alone bold
truths have been told to the worid; by which
the bondage of falsehood has been broken,
and the chains of slavery snapt asunder! It
is in vain to talk of men numerically; if tho
passions of a man are excited to a summit
like this, lie is a thousand men! If all the
feebleness and fluctuation of his nature are
shamed away, you must not pretend to cal
culate upon his efforts.
Under the influence of sublime feelings,
sometimes religious men, have sprung up
from tho dust, to shiver the oldest domftiiOfis;
to toss to the ground the highest despots; to
astonish ages to come, with the immensity, and
power, and grandeur of human feelings. In
all desperate situations, these are the feelings
which must rescue us; when prudence is mute*
when reason is baffled, when all the ordinary
resources of discretion are exhausted and
dried up—there is no safety but in heroic pas
sions, no hope but in sublime men. There is
no other hope for Europe at this moment,
but that high and omnipotent vengeance,
which demands years of cruelty and oppres
sion, in order that it may be lighted up in the
hearts of a whole people; but which, when it
does break out into action, is so rapid and so
terrible, that it resembles more the judgments
of God than the deeds of men.— Sidney
Smith.
REST OF THE SABBATH.
Whether we look at the Sabbath as a day
of rest from the common toils of life, or as a
day hallowed and consecrated to the worship
of God, we are alike struck with tho wisdom
and mercy of God, displayed in this institu
tion. Man and beast require relaxation, that
the energies expended in the labor of six days
may be renewed, and each prepared for the
efforts of another week. No doubt remains
but that our physical nature can accomplish
more in tho space of a year’s toil, by resting
one-seventh portion of our time, than if the
whole seven days were employed. And then
it forms a kind of holiday period to which
the mind looks forward a3 a pause in the busy
scenes of life, and gives relief even by an
ticipation. One constant unbending round,
would so weary body* and mind as to render
toil intolerable, and make the hours to a lr
boring man gloomy and burdensome.
But look at the Sabbath as a day of wor
ship. The very idea of going to a house of
prayer with equipage neat and clean, suitable
to a decent worship of the God of order,
promotes civilization, and tends greatly to
promote the health and happiness of those
who live in Christendom. And then, the
very fact that the mind is called off from
earthly pursuits and directed to those sub
jects that are of a holier character, has a
tendency to elevate tlse thoughts and
feelings of our nature, and cannot fail to
sublimate and refine society. With what
cheerfulness does the mind of the devout
worshiper address itself to the weekly task,
after the rest of the Sabbath and the devout
exercise of worship in God’s holy sanctuary.
Viewed in every light, goodness and wisdom
are displayed in the institution of the Sabbath,
and he is both ungrateful and profane who
disregards the law of God, commanding him
to rest and keep the Sabbath day holy.
Beautiful Extract.—Do trees talk?
Have they not leafy lungs—do they not at
sunrise, when the winds blow, and the birds
j ar e carolling their songs, play a sweet music?
1 Who has ever heard the soil whisper of the
j green leaves in Spring time, on a sunny
morning, who did not feel as though rainbow
! gleams of gladness were running through
his heart? And then, when the peach blos
soms hung like rubies from the stem of the
i parent tree—when the morning-glory, liko
i a nun before the shrine of God, unfolds her
j beautiful face, and the moss-roses open tbeir
I crimson lips, sparkling with the nectar that
: falls from heaven, who does uot bless his
j Maker?