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NEW WORK,
BY MRS. CAROLINE t.KE IIENTZ.
RENA: or THE SNOW BIRD; a Tale of Real
Life, bv Mrs. Caroline Lee Hx.ntz, author of “Linda,”
“The Mob Cap,” “The Peddler,” “Aunt Patty's Scrap
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• ■ - r
VOL. 111.
o.ctriL3^
THEY ALL BELONG TO ME.
BY ELIZA COOK.
There arc riches without measure,
Scattered thickly o’er the land,
There are heaps and heaps of treasure,
Bright, beautiful and grand ;
There are forests, there are mountains, .
There are meadows, there are rills,
Forming everlasting fountains
In the bosoms of the hills;
There are bird- and there are flowers,
The fairest things that be—
And these great and joyous dowers
Oh! “they all belong to me.”
There are golden acres bending
In the light of harvest rays,
There arc garland branches blending
With the breath of June’s sweet day3 ;
There are pasture grasses blowing
In the dewy moorland shade,
There are herds of cattle lowing
In the midst of bloom and blade ;
There are noble elms that quiver,
.-Vs the gale comes fall and free,
There are alders by the river,
And “they all belong to me.”
I care not who may reckon
The wheat piled rip in sack-",
Nor who has power to beckon
The woodman with his axe ;
I care not who holds leases
Os the upland or the dell,
Nor who may count the fleeces
When the flocks are litto sell.
While there is beauty none can barter
By the greensward and the tree ;
Claim who will, by seal and charter,
Yet “they all belong to me.”
There’s the thick and dingled cover
Where the hare and pheasant play,
There are sheets of rosy clover,
There are hedges crowned with May,
There are vines all dark and gushing,
There a - e orchards ripe and red,
There are herds of wild-deer crushing
The heath-bells as they tread.
And ye, who count in money
The value there may lie,
Your hives hut hold my honey,
For “they all belong to me.”
Ye cannot shut the tree in,
Ye cannot hide the hills,
Ye cannot wall the sea in.
Ye cannot choke the rills ;
The corn will only nestle
In the broad arms of the sky,
Tin- clover crop must wrestle
With the common wind, or die.
And while these stores of treasure
Are spread where I may see,
By God’s high, bounteous pleasure,
“They all belong to rnc.”
What care I for the profit
The stricken stem may yield?
I have the shadow of it
While upright in the field.
What reck I of the riches
The mill-stream gathers fu-t,
While I bask in shady niches
And see the brook go past ?
What reck I, who has title
To the widest lands that be ?
They are mine, without requital,
God gave them all to ine.
Oh ! privilege and blessing
To find I ever own,
What great ones, in possessing,
Imagine theirs alone 1
Oh ! glory to the Maker
Who gave such boon to hold,
Who made me free partaker
Where others buy with gold !
For while the woods and mountains
Stand up where I can see.
While God unlocks the fountains
“They all belong to me.”
111 I, ■■■■! < I 11 I'll! Will ,
Rlisce Uaimnts.
| i
THE RIVAL;
OR
A TALE WITH A MORAL.
“So, marriage seems ill fashion,” said
Charles Eustace, throwing the newspaper on
the breakfast table with an air of contempt.
“A good example for us bachelors,” said
j bis friend, William Norton; “and one I real
| ly think 1 shall follow ere long, if I can find
1 some kind-hearted girl who will accept me.
I How feel you, Charles?”
“Mv dear fellow, don’t ask me,” said
! Charles; “1 trust there is no symptom of ap
| proaching-insanity in my manner, and that
! alone could justify the question. Heavens!
to become a husband—perhaps a father! To
see eternally the same woman, and he called
‘papa, papa !’ by an interesting miniature spe
cimen of humanity in short clothes! Uh!
. the idea—the mere idea is dreadful!”
Here Charles Eustace cast his eyes to
! wards a large mirror, so placed that he might
I behold himself reflected at full length. The
I excitement had certainly made him a degree
! paler.
“Charles, Charles, this is too bad!” ex
claimed Norton, laughing. “So, because you
; affect a horror of matrimony, all who have
more courage than yourself are to he consid-
I ered mad. You, ‘a good match’ too! as the
: conventional slang’ goes.”
j “Prove your words, William,” said Eus
tace, leaning hack in his luxurious chair, and
dangling a slipper from the extreme point of
: his right foot.
“Thus it stands,” replied Norton: “you
are the eldest son of a baronet, have five
j thousand a year, and are a member of Al
mack’s. You are young, not ill-looking, nor
; ignorant, and have talents—if you were not
| too indolent to exercise them.”
! “You flatter me,” said Eustace, smiling
languidly. “But, my good friend, if I pos
sess all these advantages, why give up all the
consideration they bring, by marriage ?
Who would care for me then ? Depend up
, on it, the most foolish -thing a young man of
1 any pretension can do is to take a wife. If
he must commit the folly, let him wait till he
has had his day. Forty or fifty is the proper
age for a husband.”
“Very philosophical, and very selfish ?” ex
claimed Norton. “Then, if ever you become
that strange animal called a husband, it will
not be until you are ‘forty or fifty.’ Mind you
are not entangled before —that’s all. ‘Hie
fair hlWn will hardly wait so many years I
am afraid.”
“Nonsense, Norton,” said Charles, looking
a little confused, however; “what should
j make you think of her ? Wo have known
each other from childhood, and I am sure that
she only considers me as a brother. We
call each other Charles and Ellen—and that
is too familiar by far.”
“Well,” said Norton, “take care no disin
terested friend of the family asks you sudden
, ly some fine morning, ‘What vour intentions
i are.’ If you were called upon at once to de
cide, you would find perhaps that you could
not give her up very easily. But adieu ! I
must go home and write letters, and will
leave you to meditate on my words and El
len Dalton.”
Norton departed, and left Charles Eustace
indeed meditating deeply. His tirade against
matrimony had been more in jest than earnest,
and he began to imagine how he should feel
if he had seen the marriage of Ellctj Dalton
Sljc Southern Sentinel.
announced in the newspaper that morning.
He discovered plainly that he should not
have felt at all placid. To say- the truth,
though lie had talked to Norton about Ellen’s
considering him only as a brother, he had
long entertained a suspicion that he did not
look upon her only as a sister; and at the
present moment this suspicion became stron
ger than ever. He remembered how distur
bed he had been more than once when some :
handsome young fellow had whispered com- !
pliments in her ear, and how indignant he j
had felt to see her smile instead of frown, j
“I hope to Heaven,” said Charles Eustace,
with a sigh, “I hope to Heaven I am not in
love!”
A servant entered with a card which he
presented. It was Mr. Dalton’s and on the
hack was writen in pencil, “.Mr. Dalton re
; quests the pleasure of Mr. Eustace’s company
to a quiet dinner at seven.”
Charles’ note was a brief reply, accepting
the invitation, and the servant left the
loom.
“1 shall seo her then in a few hours,” said
Charles. “It is strange what an impression
those few careless words of Norton have !
; made upon me. Yesterday I should have ;
met Ellen with self-possession; to-day I feel
that I shall not do so. Why is this? Can it
he possible that I am in love ?”
He sighed again more heavily than before,
and, raising his eyes from the ground, was to
! discover, hv the intelligence of the mirror,
how pallid lie looked. His hair too was in
: great disorder, and seemed to solicit the
; friendly aid of a comb. He would not have
! had Ellen see him for the world.
lh •eeisely at seven the cab of Charles Eus
tace stoped at the door of Mr. Dalton.
“Charles,” said that gentleman, shaking
hands heartily with our hero as he entered
the room, “I am delighted to see you. Let 1
me introduce you to some old friends of mine, j
Mr. Thompson, who has just returned from
the West Indies, and Mr. Stephens, and Mr.
| Hawkins, and Miss Arabella Jenkins ”
j Charles Eustace bowed coldly, and sink
j mg into a chair, amused himself by pulling
1 the ear of a favorite dog. In a few minutes
! afterwards Ellen appeared. She certainly
looked most beautiful. There was some em
i barrassmeut in the manner of Charles as he
offered his greeting, and it seemed to him
i that she slightly blushed. But why should
: she blush on this particular occasion ? Per
j haps he was more observant than usual.
At dinner he found himself, somehow, sea
■ ted by her side: and the conversation was so
I interesting that it was impossible to help re
: suming it as soon as the gentlemen joined
| the ladies in the drawing-room. A quiet shel
; tered corner was the spot chosen, and the
; subject of the conversation was—marriage.
“Ah, my dear friend!’” said Charles, with
| a sentimental air, “beauty and happiness are
not always found together. For instance,
’ there is the charming Lucy Melcombe; it is
; whispered that she is fully aware of the mcr
: its of another, while her father wishes her to
marry that monster, Simmons. Really it is
S dreadful—perfectly! for there is the favored •
j one totally and wilfully ignorant of what is !
; evident to all hut himself; and, in the mean- !
time, the poor girl may he sacrificed to his !
| blindness. So that you see, Ellen,” contin- ;
ued Charles, “a lady may be actually in love I
with a gentleman and he not at all aware
! of it”
These words were uttered in our hero’s
usual non-chalant manner, hut they seemed
to produce a strange effect upon the fair El
len. She became first flushed, then pale, as
she turned away her head, and exclaimed, fal
tering, “Too true, indeed! Poor Lucy! But
come,” said she, resuming her composure by
an effort, “the company, [ perceive, is ad
journing to the dancing-room. Shall we fol
| low ?”
Charles hesitated. lie felt that he could
have remained for ever as he was—he felt a
wish to avoid the company below—and, in
short, lie felt for the first time aware that he
loved Ellen. Her evident emotion at his last !
words had filled him with delight, and he
ventured to indulge the sweet hope that he !
was not indifferent to her. Had he, indeed,
been describing his own folly in the person
of another? and might not the same punish
ment await further delay ?
“Stay, Ellen,” said he, detaining her; “now
that we are alone, I wish to speak to you on
a subject which I feel is essential to my hap
| pi a ess.”
“Oil,” said she, struggling to appear un
concerned, “you solicit my hand in the first
quadrille. Well, your prayer is granted.—
But let us join our friends immediately, or I
fear we shall lose our place.”
“No, dearest Ellen,” exclaimed Charles,
• “my prayer is holder —far holder. I can no
longer conceal from myself, nor from you,
how deeply I love you.”
Ellen did not speak; hut she suffered him
| to retain her hand, and her silence was more
eloquent than speech possibly could have
’ been. In a few moments, however, she turn
ed her face toward him, and said firmly,
“Charles, I will not answer only by blushes
and half-finished sentences, as most of my
sex perhaps would do, hut I will speak to you
calmlv and sincerely’. lam aware, then, that
I have a favored rival to whom less attention
must ho paid before you can hope for any re
turn of the affection you profess for me.”
“A rival!” exclaimed Charles, “let me as
-1 sure you ’
“Nav,” interrupted Ellen, smiling, “I know
all. Do not think to deceive me. Listen:
* There is one who, under the guise of a friend,
| continually lures you to the object you now
disavow. Have I your permission to remove
this false friend from about you ?”
“To do anything,” said Charles. “But
what means this mystery ? Believe me ”
“Enough,” said Ellen; “I accept your
permission, and promise you I will act upon
it.”
With these words, and a look full of mean
ing, she tripped away, leaving Charles in a
| state of the most unaffected astonishment.
Too thoughtful to rejoin the company, he quit
ted the house and proceeded home.
He slept not at all that night, and morning
found him still bewildered in a labyrinth of
thought. A rival! What could she mean ?
“One who, under the guise of a friend, con
tinually lures you to the homage you now dis
avow.” It was a perfect enigma. “There is
but one way,” said Charles: “I will seek an
interview with Ellen at once, and request her
—demand an explanation from her own lips.”
He descended to the breakfast room. “But
stay,” said he; “a feverish, sleepless night!
I must look wretchedly haggard.” Advan-
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, JANUARY 8, 1852.
cing to the mirror he suddenly started back;
it was shivered to atoms. He was about to
ring the hell violently, when his eye was at
tracted by a sealed paper lying among the
fragments. He seized it, broke the seal, and
read as follows:
“1 have kept my word, and your false friend
is no more. Do not be angry—for the mur
deress is Ellen.”
The paper fell from his hands. “Sweet
Ellen,” exclaimed he, “I thank you for the
deed. Too well I understand now who was
your rival. The enigma is solved, and I see
how poor a part I have played. I have tri
fled with your feelings like a vain fool; but
my future conduct shall make amends.”
And it did. He was more affectionate and
unselfish as a husband than he had been as a
lover. His friends were astonished at the
great change in his character; and a little
change in his habits struck them too. In the
whole house, from the garret to the kitchen,
not a full-length mirror was to he seen.
MORAL.
A man who is so far enamored of himself,
as to neglect all others, is very apt to he j
left by others with the single object of his j
regard.
WASHINGTON JUMPING FOR A WIFE.
In one of the loveliest villages of Old Vir
ginia, there lived, in the year 175—, an odd j
old man, whose daughter was declared to he
the loveliest maiden in all the country round.
‘l’he veteran in his youth had been athletic
and muscular above all his fellows; and his
breast, where he always wore them, could
show the adornment of three medals received
for his victories in gymnastic feats when a
young man. Ilis daughter was now eighteen,
and had been sought in marriage by many
suitors. One brought wealth ; another a fine
person; another industry; another military
talents; another this and another that. But
they were refused by the old man, who be
came, at last, a by-word for his obstinacy
among the young men of the village and
neighborhood. At length the nineteenth birth
day of the fair Annette, his charming daugh
ter, who was as amiable and modest as beau
tiful, arrived. The morning of that day the
father invited all the youths of the country to
a hay-making frolic. Seventeen handsome
and industrious young men assembled. They
came not only to make hay, hut also to make
love to the fair Annette. In three hours
they had filled the farmer’s barns with the
newly dried grass. Annette, by her father’s
command, had brought the malt liquor of her j
own brewing, which she presented to each i
enamored swain with her own fair hands.
“Now, my boys,” said the old keeper of the I
jewel they all coveted, as leaning on their
pitch-forks they assembled round his door, in
the cool of the evening—“Now, my lads,
you have nearly all of you made proposals for
my Annette. Now, you see, 1 don’t care
anything about money, talents, nor book
learning. I can do as well by my gal as any
man in the country. But 1 want her to mar
ry a man of my own grit. Now, you know,
or ought to know, when I was a youngster, l
could beat anything in all Virginia in the
way of leaping. I got my old woman by
heating the smartest man on the Eastern
Shore, and I have vowed that no man shall
marry my daughter without jumping for it.
Understand me, boys. There’s the green,
and here’s Annette,” he added, taking his
daughter, who stood timidly behind him, by
the hand. “Now, the one that jumps the
furthest on the “dead level” shall marry An
nette this very night.”
This unique address was received by the
men with applause. And many a youth
as ho hounded forward to the arena of
trial, cast a glance of anticipated victory
hack upon the lovely object of village chiv
alry. The maidens left their looms and
quilting frames, the children their noisy sports,
the slaves their labors, and the old men their
arm charms and long pipes, to witness and j
triumph in the success of the victor. All j
prophesied, and many wished it would be
young Carroll. He was the handsomest and
best youth in the country-, and mutual at
tachment existed between him and the fair
Annette. Carroll had won the reputation
of being the best, leaper, and in a |
country where such athletic achievements
i were the sine qua non of man’s cleverness,
this was no ordinary honor. In a contest
like the present, he therefore, had every ad
vantage over his fellow athlet-ce.
The arena allotted for this hymeneal con
test, was a level space in front of the village,
denominated “the green.” The verdure was
quite worn off at this place, by previous ex
ercises of a similar kind, and a hard surface
of sand, more befitting for the purpose for
i which it is used, supplied its place.
The father of the lovely, blushing, and j
1 withal happy prize, (for she knew who would |
win,) with three other patriarchal villagers,
j were the judges appointed to decide upon the |
i claims of the several competitors - The last !
time Carrol tried his skill in the exercise, he j
; “cleared,” to use the leaper’s phraseology, J
twenty-one feet and one inch-
The signal was given, and by lot the young ;
men stepped into the erena.
“Edward Grayson, seventeen feet,” cried
one of the judges. The vout-li had done his
I utmost. He was a pale, intellectual student.
But what had intellect to do in this arena?
Without a look at the maiden, he left the
!ground.
“Dick Moulden, nineteen feet.” Dick, with
a laugh, turned away and replaced his coat.
“Harry Preston, nineteen feet three inches.”
“Well done, Harry Preston,” shouted the
spectators, “you have tried hard for the acres
and homesteads.”
“Harry also laughed, and said he only
i jumped ior the fun of the thing. Harry was
a rattle-brained fellow, but never thought of
matrimony-. He loved to walk and talk, and
romp with Annette, hut sober marriage never
came into his head. He only “jumped for ;
| the fun of the thing.”
“Charley- Simms, fifteen feet and a half.”
i “Hurrah for Charley! Charley’ll win !” cried
I the crowd, good humoredly. Charley Simms j
was the cleverest fellow in the world. Hisl
mother had advised him to stay- at home, and ;
told him if he ever won a wife, she would fall ‘
in love with his good temper, rather than his
; legs. Charley, however, made a trial of the j
latter’s capabilities, and lost. Many refused
to enter the list, altogether. Others made !
the trial; and only one had as yet cleared j
twenty feet.
“Now,” said the villagers, “let’s see Henry*
Carroll. He ought to beat this,” and every-
one appeared, as they called to mind the mu
tual love of the competitor and theswset An
ette, as if they heartily wished his success.
Harry stepped to his post with firm tread.
His eye glanced with confidence among the
villagers, and rested, before he bounded for
ward, upon the face of Annette, as it to
catch there, that spirit and assurance which
the occasion called for. Returning the en
couraging glance with which she met his own,
with a proud smile upon his lip, he bounded
forward.
“Twenty-one and a half!” shouted the
multitude, repeating the announcement of the
the judges, “twenty-one feet and a half!
Harry Carroll forever! Annette and Harry!”
Over the heads of the spectators waved hands,
caps and handkerchiefs, and the ey-es of the
delighted Annette sparkled with joy.
When Henry Carroll moved to his station to
strive for the prize, a tall, gentlemanly looking
y-oung man, in military undress, frock coat,
who had ridden up to the inn, dismounted and
joined the spectators, unperceived, while the
contest was going on, stepped suddenly for
ward, with a “knowing eye,” and measured,
deliberately, the space accomplished by the
last leaper.’ He was a stranger in the village.
His handsome face and easy address attract
ed the village maidens, and his manly and
sinewy, frame, in which symmetry and i
strength were happily united, called forth the j
admiration of the young men.
“Mayhap, sir, stranger, you think you can
heat that,” said one of the bystanders, re- i
marking the manner in which the eyes of the !
stranger scanned the area. “If you leap
beyond Henry Carroll, you’ll heat the best
man in the colonies.” The truth of this ob
servation was assented to by a general mur
mur.
“Is it for mere amusement you are pursu
ing this pastime?” inquired the youthful
stranger, “or is there a prize to the winner ?”
“Annette, loveliest and wealthiest of our
village maidens, is to he the reward of the
victor,” cried one of the judges.
•“Is the list open to all?”
“All, young sir,” replied the father of An- |
nette, with interest, his youthful ardor rising j
as he surveyed the proportions of the sleight- j
limbed young stranger. “She is the bride of j
him who outleaps Henry Carroll. If you
will try, y-ou are free to do so. But let me
tell you, Henry Carroll has no rival in Vir
ginia. Here is my daughter, sir; look at her,
and make your trial.”
The young officer glanced upon the
trembling maiden about to he offered upon
the altar of her father’s unconquerable mo
nomania, with an admiring eye. The
poor girl looked at Harry, who stood near
with a troubled brow and anxious eye, and
then cast upon the new competitor an implo
ring look.
Placing his coat in the hands of one of
the judges, he drew a sash, he wore beneath
it, tighter around his waist, and taking the
appointed stand, made, apparently without
effort, the hound that was to decide the hap
piness or misery of Henry and Annette.
“Twenty-two feet and one inch!” shouted
the judge. The announcement was repeat
ed with surprise by- the spectators who
crowded around the victor, filling the air
with loud murmurs from those who were in
terested in the happiness of the lovers.
The old man approached, and grasping
his hand exultingly, called him his son, and
said he felt prouder of him than if he were a
prince. Physical activity- and strength were
the old leaper’s true parents of nobility-.
Resuming his coat, the victor sought with
his eyes the fair prize he had, although name
less and unknown, so fairly won. She
leaned on her father, pale and distressed.
Her lover stood aloof, gloomy and morti
fied, admitting the superiority of the stranger
in an exercise in which he prided himsolf as
unrivalled, while he hated him for his success.
“Annette, my pretty prize,” said the victor,
taking her passive hand—“l have won you
fairly.” Annette’s cheek became paler than j
marble. She trembled like an aspen leaf, j
clung closer to her father, while her drooping
eyes sought the form of her lover. liis brow
grew dark at the stranger’s language.
“I have won you, my pretty flower, to
make you a bride ! —tremble not so violently
—I mean not for myself, however proud I
might he,’’lie added, with gallantry, “to wear
so fair a gem next to my heart. Perhaps,”
and he cast his eve around inquiringly, while
the current of life leaped joyfully to her
brow, and a murmur of surprise ran through
the crowd—“perhaps there is some favored
youth among the competitors, who has a
higher claim to this jewel. Young sir,” he j
continued, turning to the surprised Ileury, j
“methinks you were victor in the list before j
me. I strove not for the maiden, though one ,
could not well strive for a fairer, hut from j
love for the manly sport in which I saw you
engaged. Y'ou arc the victor, and as such, j
with permission of this worthy assembly,
receive from my hand the prize you have so
well and honorably- won.’’
The youth sprang forward and grasped
his hand with gratitude, and the next moment
Annette was weeping for pure joy upon his
shoulders. The welkin rung with the accla
mation of the delighted villagers, and amid
the temporary excitement produced by this
act, the stranger withdrew from the crowd, !
mounted his horse, and spurred at a brisk trot
through the village.
That night Henry- and Annette were mar- ;
ried, and the health of the mysterious strang- j
er was drunk in overflowing bumpers of rustic j
beverage.
One evening, having just returned home
after a hard campaign, he was sitting with
his family on the gallery of his handsome
country house, when an advanced courier
rode up and announced the approach of Gen.
Washington and suite, informing him that he
should crave his hospitality for the night.
The necessary directions were given in refer
ence to the household preparations, and Mr.
Carroll, ordering his horse, rode forward to
meet and escort to his house the distinguished
guest, whom he had never seen, although
serving in the same army-.
That evening at the table, Annette, now be- j
come the dignified, matronly and still hand
some Mrs. Carroll, could not keep her eyes |
from the face of her illustrious visitor. Her
absence of mind and embarrassment at |
length became evident to her husband, who j
inquired affectionately- if she were ill?
“I suspect* ‘Colonel,” said the General,
“that Mrs. Carroll recognizes in me an old
acquaintance.”
The Colonel started, and a faint memory- of
the past seemed to be revived, as he gazed,
while the lady rose impulsively from her
chair, bending eageri v forward over the tea
urn, with clasped hands, and an eye of intense
interest fixed upon him, stood for a moment
with her lips parted as if she would speak.
“Pardon me, my dear mad—pardo timte,
Colonel-, I must put an end to this scene. I •
have become, by dint of camp-fare and usage, j
too unwieldly to leap again twenty-two feet:
one inch, even for so fair a bride as I wot of.’’ ‘
The recognition, with the surprise, delight !
and happiness that followed, is left to the i
imagination of the reader.
General Washington was indeed the hand
’ some young “leaper,” whose mysterious ap
pearance and disappearance in the native vil
lage of the lover, is still extraordinary, and
whose claim to a substantial body of bona
fide fiesh and blood, was stoutly contested
by the village story-tellers, until the happy
announcement which took place at the hos
pitable mansion of Col. Carroll.
DOGS IN SIBERIA.
Man’s friend and companion in almost eve
ry clime is the dog; but in Northern Siberia,
without this invaluable animal, to live would
hardly be possible. He is harnessed to the
| light sled, which carries no small load, and I
j in which, during winter, the natives travel to’
lan incredible distance. The Siberian dog |
! looks much like a wolf. He has a long j
! pointed snout, sharp, upright ears, and a bushv j
! tail. Some have short hair, others a tolerable ;
! thick fur. In size they differ greatly; but a
dog is not thought fit for the sled, if less than i
thirty inches high and three feet long. Their !
bark is not ot the most melodious character, !
being much like the howling of the wolf, i
They always remain out of doors. In sum
mer they cool themselves by digging holes in
! the frozen earth, and against the cold of
j winter they seek shelter by burying them
! selves in the snow.
The rearing of these dogs is an occupa
j tion requiring great skill and judgment. A
i team seldom consists of more than twelve
dogs, of which one is used as a leader. He j
must be perfectly trained to obey his master’s
voice, and to continue on his course, re- j
gardless of all temptations in the shape of j
game. This last point is very import- i
ant; for if he turns to pursue some chance
animal, the whole pack will follow open
mouthed, to the great consternation and per
plexity of the bundle of skins calling itself
their master. A leader who is like Virgil’s
calf, as Dryden renders it, and been “betimes i
to school,” is not only proof to all seduction,
but will often evince wonderful tact in re- !
straining the animal appetite of his yoke-fel- 1
lows. During a dark night, when a blinding !
snow-storm is sweeping over the boundless
plain, it is the intelligence of this leader that
saves the benighted wayfarer, if the animal
has travelled the path but once before, he fails
not to find the customary halting place, even
buried beneath the snow. Suddenly, when
the driver’s eye can perceive no signs of hu
man habitation upon the trackless and un
broken surface, he will halt, and, by the
smiling shake of his tail, inform his master
; that he need only set to work with his snow
; shovel, that indispensable part of a Siberian’s
travelling equipment, to find the door of the
hut which offers him a comfortable lodging
for the night. In summer, the dogs are no
less serviceable than in winter. They are
then employed to drag the canoe up against
the stream, and here they display an equally
surprising amount of sagacity. At a word
they halt, or when an imposing rock bars
their progress on the one side, they will
plunge into the water, swim across the river,
and resume their course on the opposite
bank. In fine, the dog is as necessary to the
Siberian settler, as the reindeer to the Lap
lander, or the camel to the Arabian ; and the
mutual attachment between him and his ca- j
nine friend, is in proportion to their mutual
dependence on each other.
I
j I SEE A LIGHT l\M ALMOST HOME, j
j The following is related of a young girl ,
! whose journey of life was near at its end :
About her chamber glided gently the loved
! forms of her parents and only sister. She si
j lently noted their movements with a mild ex
, pression of her dying eye, turning it from
side to side. Arrested by her peculiar look,
so expressive of affection and patient suffer- !
ing, that they paused to look upon her, whom I
they only now saw but dimly through their i
tears; and so soon should see no more.
A feeble effort to speak, a quivering, voice- j
less movement of the lips drew closely !
; around her the loving hearts of the sorrowing i
| circle. Mother, father, sister, all came closer
j to her side. A playful smile lit upon her
countenance. She laid her pulseless hand
within her mother’s palm, then closed her eve- i
lids to the light of earth, and sank awav. j
The cold damp air of death’s shadowy valley
seemed circling over her. Slowly sinking
down, she glided towards that river’s shore,
which like a narrow stream divides the spirit ;
land from ours. But see the quivering lips j
essay to speak? “Mother!” Oh! how each
heart throbbed now, and then each pulse !
stood still. They list! “Mother !” the dying j
girl breathes forth—“l—see—a—light—l’m ,
almost home!” Blessed thought! Light is
sown for the righteous, even amid the gloom
and darkness of the grave.
The Bomo Shell Ltxe.— Somebody, !
speaking of the hurrying propensities of Van- ,
kees, says:
“If a mortar could be constructed, which
would throw an immense bombshell, contain- j
ing fifteen passengers, from St. Louis to Bos- j
ton in five minutes, with an absolute certain- I
ty that fourteen out of fifteen would be kill- !
ed by the explosion, tickets for state rooms i
by the “Express Bomb Shell Line,” would at j
once be at a premium ; each passenger being
anxious for the chance to prove himself the j
“lucky fifteen.”
The last Westminister Review says, in
the splendid article entitled “Reason and
Faith.”
“In England, one-half of the people can :
neither read nor write; and in many of our
agricultural districts —studded with churches, 1
the peasantry are as savage, superstitious, and \
illiterate as those of the Campagna or the ;
Basque provinces of Spain.” What a humili
ating confession!
Beware of mental intoxication and fan
tasies.
1
THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
IS PUBLISHBD
EVERY THURSDAY MORNINtf
Bf WILLIAM H. CHAMBER*,
EDITOR AXD PROPRIETOR.
Office on Randolph street.
NO. 2
fovnijn Hews.
FURTHER BY THE BALTIC.
Clostng Scenes of the French Revolution — Desperate
[ Fighting at the Barricades in Paris—Desjierate
Resistance of the Insurgents — Severe Lou of Lift —
All the Barricades Finally Denrjlished—Succtss of
! the Troops—Armed Insurgents ordered to he Shot—
-120,000 Troops in Paris —Success of Louis Na
| poleon.
! The New-York papers of Thursday con--
taiffnull details of the news by the Baltic.
We give the following details of the closing
scenes of the French revolution: *
A rumor that twenty-five millions of francs
had been taken from out the Bank of France
had been contradicted by the Governor of tho
Bank.
The Belgium papers had been prohibited
from entering France. English papers are’
admitted.
‘‘'he Prefect of Police had ordered search-’
es,- and made arrests on a large scale.
At the very latest moment, previous £o the
sailing of the Baltic, all was quiet in Paris.
Louis Blanc was arrested immediately on
landing in France.
Two correspondents of English papors
had been ordered to leave the country.
Sixty-five towns had sent in their adhesion
to the president.
Gen. Cavaignac is lodged in the same room
of the Fortress of Ham which Louis Napo
leon formerly occupied himself.
The Barricades. —The following details
of the military operations on Thursday, are
given by Galignani’s Messenger; “Up to test
o’clock on Thursday morning, the aspect of
Paris was perfectly calm.
At about twelve o’clock it was generally
reported that barricades had been erected at
the Porte St. Dennis, and Porte St. Martin,
rues Baubourg, Transnomain, St. Mary and
St. Martin. This rumor was subsequently
found to be quite correct. The alarm now
became so great that not only in the neigh
borhood of the disturbed district, but in other
parts of the Boulevards, the rue Richelieu,
the rue Vivienne, and all that part of Paris,
the tradesmen closed their shops.
It appears that during the night an attempt
had been made to excite the people by a rep
etition of the proceeding which produced
such serious results in February, 1848. About
one hundred men, en blouse, commanded by
several chiefs of sections, and preceded by
two torches, paraded two corpses, ot which
they had become possessed after the carrying
of the barricades which had been erected in
the Faubourg St. Antoine and the Rue St.
Marguerite, went through the rues Grenetal,
Baubourg and Transnonain, shouting “aux
armes!” A few determined sergciis.de villc
attacked this party, and carried off the dead
bodies to the Morgue. Speculating on this
scene of horrors, the rioters became more’
numerous and proceeded to man four barri
cades which they had formed in this quarter.
They were attacked by some detachments of
the division of General Levasseur, and car
ried in a few moments.
Several insurgents were killed, and about
fifty chiefs of sections and men in blouses
were arrested Three other barricades were
abandoned at midnight by the insurgents.
On Thursday morning, at an early hour, the
perfect of police, having been informed that
120 montagnard ex-representatives had met
during the night, and drawn np a manifesto,
took successful means to prevent its being
posted up. The first barricades in the Rub
Baubourg and Transnonain, were carried at
twelve o’clock. The troops after the victory
showed great clemency towards the insur
gents, instead of shooting them.
At one o’clock the insurrection had evident
ly made much progress. The insurgents ap
peared to be entirely masters of the quarters
St. Denis and St. Martin. The houses form
ing the angle of these two boulevards woro
occupied by a great number of men armed
with muskets and swords, many of which
had been obtained by robbing the shops of
armorers. In the Rues St. Denis and St.
Martin several insurgents entered the houses,
and threw out furniture to assist in forming
barricades. There was great stupor in tho
whole of the quarter until the arrival of the
Chasseurs de Vincennes and some regiments
of the line, who in a few moments carried
the barricades, and gave no quarter to the in
surgents. At half past four the troops wero
masters of the whole of the ground which had
been occupied by the insurgents, and tho
wounded were carried away to the hospitals.
The troops began to move down the Boule
vards towards the Porte St. Denis about one
o’clock, and the necessary measures being ta
ken for an attack, the advance was made
about two, on the large barricade there erect
ed ; more resistance was made than was ex
pected, but at last the troops obtained posses
sion of this first and greatest obstacle, and
where, in fact, the insurgents had concentra
ted their principal forces. The action here
was an exceedingly sharp one, and it was even
found necessary to batter down the barricade
with cannon. The inside of the barricade,
when the troops entered, was found covered
with corpses and wounded men. The insur
gents who escaped fell back on the barricades
near the Porte St. Martin. Hero, after the
ground had been cleared away near the Porte
St. Denis for the passage of troops, another
series of attacks took place by the troops, on
the four barricades which had been erected
across the boulevards. The insurgents had
here taken possession of several of the houses
at each side, from which they prepared to tiro
on the troops. When the attack took place,
it was found necessary to send bodies of en
gineers into these houses to dislodge the in
surgents. The resistance here was not bv
any means a vigorous one, and the troops
successively, and without much trouble, took
possession of the various barricades on tho
boulevards.
Friday. —All the barricades made during
the night were carried rapidly. The armed
insurgents were shot on the spot or taken to
the Ecole Militaire, to be tried by court mar
tial. After their condemnation, they were im
mediately taken into the Champ de. Mars and
shot. The number is said to be very great.
Several of them were well known Socialist
chiefs. In many parts of Paris, yesterday,
where the insurgents wore caught breaking
into houses, they were made to go on their
knees, and were shot on the spot. At the shop
of a milk-dealer four were shot in this way*
The irritation of the troops on the boulevards,
when fired upon from three or four of the
houses, was very great. They returned the