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the southern sentinel
IS PUBLISHED
EVERY FRIDAY MORN IN Gj
BY
T. LOMAX & CO.
TENNENT LOMAX Principal Editor.
Office on RandoljJi street.
Cilamnj Detriment, j
Conducted by CAROLINE LEX HhNTZ.
the granite hills.
The Granite lliils! the Granite Hills!
New England’s rock-built throne;
A rushing strain my bosom fills—
A deep, resounding tone.
It comes from mount and vale and stream—
From forest depths it comes ;
Where thronging spires in sun-light gleam,
Where smile her cottage homes.
From Bunker’s mound—from Bunker’s mound —
The thundering echo swells,
And o’er that blood-stained battle ground
A glorious legend tells.
It rolls from Plymouth’s sea-beat shore—
Our country’s beacon shrine
Oh! nn’er was heard mid Ocean s roar,
An anthem so divine.
When first beside the wild 1 least’s lair,
The pilgrim fathers stood—
That glorious music filled the air,
And shook tho ancient wood.
Faith’s triumph lay—l hear it still,
From wave to wave ’tis borne—
And echoes on, from hill to hill,
For millions yet unborn.
I see them come—.New England’s dead—
Their cleaving tombs they burst;
That strain has pierced their icy bed,
And waked their slumbering dust.
I fear them not —that shadowy band —
My kindling spirit burns,
As, gliding from the unseen land,
Each glimmering ghost returns;
And bending on my gazing soul
Their far, immortal eyes,
Deep thoughts that spurn the earth’s control,
Like rushing billows rise.
Upon the Granite Hills they stand,
And yet how near they seem ;
Space is a dim and narrow strand—
Centuries a vanished dream.
Land of the Pilgrims! by the spell
Os an o’er-inasteriug power,
Once more on thy bold clitls I dwell,
And tread thy wave-washed shore.
New England’s lofty Granite Hills !
Thy children yet shall turn,
Till death their glowing life-pulse chills,
Where high thy watch-lires burn.
C. L. 11.
HOWARD, THE APPRENTICE BOY.
A Tradition of Harvard College.
When the Almighty placed the progeni
tor of mankind in the Garden of Eden, and
gave him command over the beasts of the
field, and the fowls of the air, and all the
works of His hand, it is not supposed that
He made known to him the various powers
of the things animate and inanimate over
which he was appointed ruler. These were
to be gradually learned, by the exercise of
that immortal intelligence—that breath of
the Deity, which animated his new-born man
hood.
After the transgression, when our first pa
rents were exiled from those fair bounds
which sin had dared to enter, they’ were
thrown, by the divine displeasure, on their own
resources for subsistence; and urged by
necessity, they explored the hidden treasures
of the earth, which drank for the first time
the dew from tho brow of industry—that
moisture by which man was henceforth to
earn his daily bread. Labor thus became
tho heritage of our race. Ihe glebe was
upturned, and the deep furrows traced, before
the harvest produced its golden grain, or na
ture yielded its increase.
Is it not with the intellectual, as with the
moral world ? Must not man go down into
the depths of his mind to discover its richest
gems—and is not necessity’ the t.Tskmaster
who rules and directs liis operations? If
this be true, it is not amid scenes where this
stern moralist is unknown, we are to look
for the most indefatigable laborers in the un
fathomable mine of the human intellect. True,
there are many who, born to ppulence and
rank, and believing themselves only the treasu
rers of Heaven, have girded themselves for the
task—have wrought nobly’ and faithfully’,
sustained the heat and burthen of the day,
and aided and strengthened those who were
tolling on with feebler bauds and wearier
footsteps. But there are more who, strug
gling with a morose and wayward destiny,
•wrestling with penury and neglect, with the
sinews of the unshorn giant, have trampled
them under foot, and made them the very
stepping stones of their elevation.
I will not bring, as examples, individuals
whoso histories are identified with the first
impressions and studies of childhood— such as
the great cosmographer and world-discoverer
of Genoa—of the philosopher who laid his
hand upon the “lightning's mane,’’ and direct
ed its fiery course. I will turn to less fre
quented ground, and sketch tho character of
one whose name, though not widely known,
is consecrated in the regions where he dwelt.
In the vicinity of the metropolis of New
England, there resided a poor boy r . Igno
rant of bis parentage—without one acknowl
edged relation—he was thrown for care and
protection upon the family of a tanner. For
tunately tor him, this family was kind and
good; and the delicate and lonely child was
cherished with parental tenderness. But his
benefactors were poor, and the wants of a
growing family impeded the exercise of their
loving kindness and Christian charity. ‘Flic
sensitive boy often felt as if h were a burden
VOL. 111.
on their care, and sought by every means in :
bis power to prove his gratitude and devotion, j
As he was of slender frame, no rough manual
labor was imposed upon him ; but with most ;
mistaken tenderness, the office of nurse was
allotted to him, as congenial to his strength
and loving disposition. Howard —(the friends
of the nameless boy had given him a name
which every lover of mankind cherishes with
reverence) —used to wander abroad with the
infant, his foster sister, in his arms, and a !
book in his pocket, and seeking the shade of j
some natural arbor, seat the infant gen- ;
tly on the grass, and taking his hook in his \
hand, alternately scan the well-thumbed
page and caress* the gentle child—who
would gaze up into the deep blue sky-, or !
down into the clear blue stream, with smiling
earnestness, as if holding communion with i
kindred cherubs there. His extraordinary j
power sos mind, and exquisite tenderness of
heart, were thus early’ and simultaneously
developed.
One beautiful summer afternoon, he thus
sat in a little bower, near the tannery and
not far from the road-side. It was one of the
most wildly beautiful, picturesque spots in
New England, and the young dreamer drank
in draughts of beauty and sublimity almost
maddening, for lie had no one to whom ho
could breathe his enthusiastic emotions—his
aspirings after the destiny to which, even then,
lie felt conscious that he was born. This eve
ning he was roused from his reveries, by the
approach of a gentleman on horseback. The
gentleman redo leisurely, with the reins hang
ing loosely on the horse’s neck, as if he were
taking in the whole loveliness of a landscape
shining with the glory-hues of meridian
summer.
lie was attracted by the student boy, and
the quiet, musing infant at his feet. Dis- |
mounting and suffering his weary horse to j
browse on the grass of the way-side, be walk
ed towards the boy, who threw his book on
the ground and rose with natural politeness,
as the distinguished looking stranger ap
proached. lie had never seen a man with so
imposing an appearance. He was richly and
elegantly dressed, and the unmistakable
stamp of a proud intellect was on bis brow.
He fixed upon the boy- an eve keen as a fal
con’s, and gazed upon him a few moments
without speaking. There was something
j magnetic in the glance, and Howard felt its
influence to his spirit’s core. Why should
the stranger look on him so steadfastly ? lie
was not a beautiful boy, though thought and
sensibility often made him appear so. lie was
dressed in a suit of brown homespun, and his
shirt-collar, though white, was of the coars
est domestic.
“ What is your name, my boy ?” asked the
stranger.
“Howard, sir.”
“Docsydur father live here, at the tan-j
nery
“No, sir—l never had any father.” The |
stranger smiled.
“And your mother—where does she live ?”
“She’s dead; she died when 1 was a baby.
Mrs. Mason took mo home, and I’ve lived
with her ever since.”
The gentleman kept his unreceding gaze
upon the boy T ANARUS, whose naturally pale cheeks
at length grew crimson under his scrutiny.
“Are you fond of reading?’’ he asked,
pointing to the book lying on tho grass.
“Yes, sir—l love it better than any thing
else in the world.’’
“What book is that ?”
“It is the Life of Franklin, sir. I almost
know it by heart. I love to read of great
men who were once poor boys; because ”
| he stopped and blushed, and began to pull the
leaves from the low branches sweeping over
him.
“Because what, my boy- ? Do not be afraid
to speak.”
“Because, though I am a poor boy’ now, I
think l could be a great man some day-, if I
; tried hard.”
“Doyou go to school?”
“No,” sir.”
“Why not?”
“I have to stay at home and take care of
the baby.’’
A scornful smile played for a moment on
the lips of the stranger, followed almost in
stantaneously by a dark frown.
“A pretty employment fora boy like you.”
Howard shrank from the expression of that
haughty, handsome face looking down upon
; him. An irresistible repulsion made him draw’
back as far as possible from him.
“It’s all I can do for them,” answered the
boy—“and if it hadn’t been for them, I should
have been a beggar.”
“Well, I shall be back in a few’ days, and
will call and see Mr. Mason—perhaps I can
do something for you. You are too smart a
boy to spend your time watching such lit
tle brats as these.”
The gentle little baby-, who had apparently
listened with quiet interest to the conversa
j tion thus far, here suddenly’ put its chubby,
■ sun-browned arms round one of the stranger’s
! ankles, and looked up smilingly in his face.
“Let go,’’ he exclaimed, in a stern voice,
drawing back so suddenly that the little crea
ture, rudely* loosened from its hold, w’as
thrown upon the ground, to the great indigna
tion of Howard, and probably much to its
ow’n astonishment. Howard sprang forward,
raised his protege in his arms, and giving a re
buking glance at the stranger, exclaimed —
“You are not a kind gentleman, sir, or you
I wouldn’t hurt a baby. I don’t wish you to do
any thing lor me, I thank you, sir.”
The stranger laughed, touched the boy’s
head lightly with his whip handle, told him
he was a boy of spirit and bid fair to be a
hero; then sauntering back to bis horse,
mounted him and rode away.
“I do not like him,” said the boy; “he is
not good ;be is cruel and wicked, I know. If
1 cannot be a great man without his help, I
don’t want to be one at all. Poor little Al
ice!” continued lie, kissing away the tears
that sto&l on the baby’s velvet cheeks. “How
could he call you a brat, when you are so
sweet I”
About a week after this incident, the stran
ger called on Mr. Mason, and had a long con
versation respecting the boy 7 , the result of
which was communicated to him after his de
parture.
“Come here, Howard,” said Mr. Mason, ta
king the boy’s band and drawinghitn between
liis knees. “There’s been a gentleman here,
who says lie has taken a fancy to you. lie’s
going to take you home, send you to school,
and make a man of you.’’
“Is he?” cried Howard, an expression of
unconquerable repugnance settling on his
countenance.
“You are to leave us,” continued Mr. Ma
son, his voice growing rather husky in its tone?
“and forget that you have ever been with us.
He is a rich, proud man, and it would boa
disgrace to him to have it known that a tan
ner’s boy was in his house.”
“I’ll never live with him—l’ll never leave
you for him, sir,” answered Howard emphati
cally ; “I cannot tell the reason, but I hate
him.’’
It was strange to hear so gentle a boy
| speak in such bitter terms, especially of one
i who had made him so munificent an offer.—
But an unconquerable aversion to the stran
! ger, made him recoil with loathing from a
proposition which promised him all the intel
lectual advantages for which his young and
ardent mind was earnestly panting. The
moral principle triumphed over ambitious de
sire, and he resolutely refused to leave his
benefactor, for the protection of the haughty
stranger.
“He refuses!’’ exclaimed tho gentleman,
when informed by Mr. Mason of the boy’s
obstinate determination. “The ungrateful
little wretch ! well, let him stay and be a tan
ner, if he will. I would have done something
for him, but now ”
Here he uttered a blistering oath, and de
parted.
Years passed on. The self-education of
Howard continued, marked by 7 the most as
tonishing results. The little Alice was grown
to be a lovely, affectionate child, no longer
requiring of him the cares of a nurse, though
still clinging to him with more than sisterly
affection. Nothing more was heard of the
stranger, who had so singularly crossed his
j path. There were times when the boy felt the
; “strong necessity’’ of acquiring knowledge
: urging him so powerfully, that he looked back
\ with keen regret, upon tlie unaccountable
j moral antipathy, which had led him to reject
| an offer which would have placed him in that
; station of life, an inner voice told him he was
{ horn to fill. As lie grew older, the difference
j between his own nature and those around him
j became more and more apparent, and discon
| tent, which he deemed ingratitude, preyed
I upon liis heart. He assisted Mr. Mason in
j the labors of the tannery, with all the zeal
of which he was possessed, but his frame
| was slender, and what little strength he had
j was consumed by an insatiable thirst for
knowledge—a mental fever, that became more
and more burning and intense. A number of
literary gentlemen, who heard of the extraor
dinary apprentice boy of the tanner, at length
came to see him, and through their influence,
he obtained admission into one of the colle
giate institutions of New England.
lie loft the humble home, where he had
been so kindly sheltered, with many tears, but
kindling hopes. Alice, the pretty and affec
tionate Alice, was inconsolable at bis depar
ture, but lie promised to return every vacation
and teach her all he learned.
Poor, poor boy 7 ! how little he knew the
future which stretched out before him, a green,
i enchanted land. The home he left was a Par
| adise to the one which now received him.
He knew not the conditions on which he was
j permitted to receive the droppings of this
i sanctuary of learning, where lie hailed with
! rapture the dawn of liis literary Millennium.
He was compelled to perform the most ser
vile offices for the other students, as the wages
of his own instruction. He carried wood
and water up the high and winding stairs, usu
ally found in sucli buildings, till his frame,
which, as we have said before, was any thing
but robust, bowed beneath the burden, and
his spirit groaned under the Egyptian bondage
of liis destiny. Still he toiled over his scho
lastic duties, till he distanced all his competi
tors in the literary career on which he had
entered with such soaring ambition.
At last, in an auspicious moment, he be
: came acquainted with some students of Har
vard University, and learned with rapture, that
he might there be received into the cherishing
arms of the Alma Mater, freely 7 and uncondi
tionally, without any of those depressing cir
cumstances which weighed him down with a
| consciousness of degradation. He sought
I those groves sacred to science, and he was
welcomed—as the child of genius and want is
ever welcomed there—as a son and a brother,
i Here his heart was warmed, his mind expand
j ed, iiis views elevated.
He became the candidate for the highest
’ collegiate honors, and so great was the love
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, MARCH 5, 1852.
and admiration of his classmates, they would
have woven with their own hands, the
laurels which were soon to decorate his
brow.
But while thus gaining friends and admi
rers among the wealthy and noble, he did not
forget his early benefactors, his sweet foster
sister. Most of his vacations were passed at
the humble home of his childhood, and he ful
filled his promise to Alice of imparting to her,
as far as possible, the information he acqui
red. In summer, he would lead her to the
green bowers, where he used to sit with her,
when an unconscious infant, she lay upon the
grass or nestled in his arms, and read with
her the pages where genius had impressed its
burning lines. Child as she was, he never
looked forward into life, without associating
her with all its hopes and all its joys. Should
he become distinguished in any of the great
paths opened to the sons of ambition, she
should be his companion, sister, or something
dearer still—and the child, though she dream
ed not of his future visions, read, studied,
thought and felt, with reference only to him.
But poor Howard did not always find his
path strewed with roses. In spite of the most
rigid economy, he could not help running in
debt. He had no means to meet the demands
against him, and he knew not where to turn
for assistance. lie could not drain the purse
of the good tanner, the father of Alice. He
shrank from tho thought of taxing the kind
ness of his classmates —for he was proud—
because he was poor.
One evening he sat down in the loneliness
of his chamber, with a heavy heart. His
head ached with the burden of great thoughts,
his spirit with the burden of destiny.
He thought of the past with bitterness, of
the future with despair. He remembered the
apparently munificent, but haughty stranger.
As he had grown older, something had whis
pered to him the secret of the stranger’s in
terest. Ho had an instinctive conviction that
he was his own father, who, having left his
infancy to destitution, refusing him even the
dignity of a name, perhaps urged by an im
portunate conscience, was willing to receive
as a dependent on his bounty, one whom
shame prevented from acknowledging as his
son. Never had he felt so deeply the wrong
and injustice inflicted upon him—by being de
frauded of the holiest rights of nature; never
had he felt suehinappeasable heart-yearnings.
Oh ! for a mother’s bosom on which to pil
low his aching heart—a sister’s fond arms to
twine him with one dear caress! What was
literature, fame, honor, to him ? Who would
exult iu his success, or glory 7 in his renown?
A gentle child appeared to glide before him;
a child in the first, tender bloom of girlhood;
and fixing on him her soft, loving eyes, seem
ed to say —“Haveyou forgotten Alice?”
At the remembrance of Alice, bis poverty
pressed upon him with a crashing weight,
lie tried to banish her from his thoughts.
At length ho remembered Him, who feed
eth the young ravens when they cry 7 , and
took up his Bible, which lay before him, and
on which he had just pillowed his aching
temples. Ho turned to the forty 7 -second
Psalm; and when he came to the fifth verse,
“Why art thou cast down, O mv Soul?
and why art thou disquieted within me ? Hope
thou in God ! for I shall y 7 et praise him, who
is the help of my countenance and my God !”
he read it aloud, in devout and trembling
accents.
“Forgive me, O my God,” he cried, lifting
the Bible upward, as if he would make it the
wings of his soul, when a shower of bank
notes fell from the fluttering leaves, as if the
divine pages were suddenly 7 animated by 7 a
living spirit of benevolence. The collegians,
conscious of his necessities, and knowing too
| iiis evening custom of reading the word of
God, had adopted this method of relieving
his wants, without wounding his pride. Sink
ing on his knees, in an ecstacy of gratitude,
he accepted the bounty as from the hand of
Providence, and the dark cloud of desponden
cy passed away from his soul.
So onward lie urged his course—upward
and onward—cheered by friendship, inspired
by hope, warmed by zeal, lifted by ambition,
and more than all, sustained and sanctified
by 7 religion. From the bright promises of
such a youth, what a glorious manhood might
not he anticipated ! But alas! the scourge of
New-England came on the wings of the chill
eastern blast, and marked him as its victim.
The eyes, which had been the lamps of sci
ence, now burned with consumption’s wast
ing fire—its dry, hectic cough checked the
clear, impassioned utterance, and its slow
agonies arrested the elastic and buoyant step.
It was hard to die thus in the day-spring of
his fame. He had just reached that height
from which lie could look down and back
upon the rough ascent he had climbed, and
see the green fields and magnificent plains
stretching beyond. He could hear the mu
sic of the distant waters as they gushed and
sparkled in the sun. As Moses gazed from
the summit of Mount Pisgah, on that promis
, ed land he must never be permitted to enter,
lie cast his yearning eyes upon the scene, over
which the curtain of death was slowly, dark
ly descending. Still he bowed his head and
exclaimed: “Even so, Father ; for so it seem
i eth good in thy sight.’’
; He was borne to his early 7 home. Alice,
1 his child-love, sat by him, as of old, and he
talked to her of heaven and heavenly things.
Just before he died, he learned that a rich
and proud gentleman of the city of Boston,
( had left him the heir of all his fortune, ac-
knowledging him to be his son, with his last
breath.
“It is too late,” cried the dying youth.
“What are riches and honors to one on the
threshold of the eternal world?”
Yes, it was too late for him, but the child
of his benefactors was made the recipient of
his wealth, and he was thus enabled to pay
the debt of gratitude. His spirit still walked
the earth in the gentle form of Alice, who
was indeed one of the ministering angels sent
by God, to let mankind see of whom the
kingdom of Heaven is made.
Howard died—but his memory is immortal.
Ilis name is hallowed in Harvard’s venerable
walls. It is associated with all that is best
and brightest and most worthy of emulation.
His monument is a shrine where pale genius
comes to worship and gather strength, from
example, to struggle with the ills of destiny
and the will —to be victor in the conflict. For
Howard was victorious, though he died, at
last, a victim to the life-battle which he had
undauntedly fought. 11 e gained immortality—
he left a name —a pure, a glorious name—
and the great purposes of his being were ac
complished.
Tis not where wealth uproars its pillared dome,
That pilgrim genius finds its favorite home—
’Tis not where grandeur dwells, rolls the deep tide
By which the springs of science are supplied.
The mind, on its sublimest pinions soars,
When clouds are heaviest, and the tempest low’rs;
And from its eagle eyrie, in the skies,
Smiles on tlxe dark storms that below it rise.
C. L. 11.
Selections from the Classics,
THE HOUSE OE SLEEP.
lie, making speedy way through spersed air,
And through the world of waters wide and deep,
To Morpheus’ house doth hastily repair :
Amid the bowels of the earth full steep,
And low, where dawning day doth never peep,
His dwelling is ; there Tethys his wet bed
Doth ever wash, and Cynthia still doth steep
In silver dew his ever-drooping head ;
Whiles sad Night ever liiin her mantle black doth
spread,
Whose double gates he findeth locked fast—
The one fair fram’d of burnish’d ivory,
The other all with silver overcast;
And wakeful dogs before them far do lie,
Watching to banish Care, their enemy,
Who oft is wont to trouble gentle Sleep.
By them the sprite doth pass in quietly,
And unto Morpheus comes, whom drowned deep
In drowsy fit he finds ; of nothing he takes keep.
And, more to lull him in his slumber soft,
A trickling stream from high rock tumbling down,
And ever-drizzling rain upon the loft,
Mixt with a murmuring wind, much like the sound
Os swarming bees, did cast him in a swown.
No other noise, nor people’s troublous cries,
As still are wont t’ annoy the walled town,
Might there be heard : but careless Quiet lies
Wrapt in eternal silence far from enemies.
SrXNSER.
Music and Moonlight.
llow sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank !
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears ; soft stillness, and the night,
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, .Jessica ! Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold ;
There’s not the smallest orb, which thou behold’dt,
But in his motion, like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the voung-ey’d cherubims ;
Such harmony is in immortal souls—
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Dotli grossly close it in, wo caunot hear it.
Marseillaise.
The Marseillaise preserves notes of the
song of glory and the shriek of death : glori
ous as the one, funereal like the other, it as
sures the country, whilst it makes the citizen
turn pale. This is its history :
There was then a young officer of artillery
in garrison at Strasburg, named Rouget de
Lisle. He was born at Lonsle-Saunier, in
the Jura, that country of reverie and energy 7 ,
as mountainous countries always are. This
young man loved war like a soldier—the Rev
olution like a thinker. He charmed with his
verses and music the slow dull garrison life.
Much in request from his twofold talent as
musician and poet, he visited the house of Die
trick, an Alsatian patriot, [maire of Stras
bourg,) on intimate terms. Dietrick’s wife
and young daughters shared in his patriotic
feelings, for the Revolution was advancing
; towards the frontiers, just as the affections
| of the body always commence at the extrem
j ities. They were very partial to the young
officer, and inspired his heart, his poetry 7 , and
his music. They executed the first of his
ideas hardly developed, confidantes of the
earliest flights of his genius.
It was in the winter of 1792, and there was
a scarcity 7 in Strasburg. The house of Die
trick was poor, and the table humble; but
there was always a welcome for Rouget de
Lisle. This young officer was there from
morning to night, like a son or brother of the
family. One day 7 , when there was only some
coarse bread and slices of ham on the table,
Dietrick, looking with calm sadness at De
Lisle, said to him, “Plenty is not seen at our
feasts; but what matter if enthusiasm is not
wanting at our civic fetes, and courage in our
soldiers’ hearts. I have still a bottle of wine
left in my cellar. Bring it,’’ he added, address
ing one of his daughters, “and we will drink
to liberty and our country. Strasburg is
shortly to have a patriotic ceremony, and De
Lisle must be inspired by these last drops to
produce one of those hymns which convey to
the soul of the people the enthusiasm which
suggested it.’’ The young girls applauded,
fetched the wine, filled the glasses of their old
father and the young officer until the wine
was exhausted. It was midnight and very
cold. De Lisle was a dreamer; his heart was
moved, his head heated. The cold seized on
him, and he went staggering to his lonely 7
chamber, endeavoring, by degrees, to find in
spiration in the palpitations of his citizen
heart; and on his small clavicord, now com
posing the air before the words, and now tho
; words before the air, combined them so inti
mately in his mind, that he could never tell
i which was first produced, the air orihe words,
| so impossible did he iiifcl it to separate the
poetry from the music, and the feeling from
the impression, lie sang everything—wrote
nothing.
Overcome by this divine inspiration, his
head fell sleeping on his instrument, and lie
did not awake until daylight. The song of
the over night returned to his memory with
j difficulty, like the recollections of a dream,
lie wrote it down, and then ran to Dietrick.
lie found him in his gardert; Ilis wife and
daughters had not vet risen. Dietrick arous
ed them, called together some friends as fond
as himself of music, and capable of executing
De Lisle’s composition. Dietrich's eldest
daughter accompanied them. Rouget sang.
At the first verse all countenances turned pale,
at the second tears flowed, at the last enthu
siasm hurst forth. The hymn of the country
was found. Alas! it was also destined to bo
the hymn of terror. The unfortunate Dietrick
went a few months afterwards to the scaffold
to the sound of the notes produced at his own
fireside, from the heart of his friend,- and the
voices of his daughters.
The new song, executed some days after
wards at Strasburg, flew from city to city, i.i
every public orchestra. Marseilles adopted i’
to be sung at the opening and the close of the
sittings of its clubs. Thu Marseillais spread
it all over France, by singing it everywhere
on their way. W hence the name of Marseil
laise. De Lisle’s old mother, a royalist and
religious, alarmed at the effect of her son’s
voice, wrote to him: “What is this revolu
tionary hymn, sung by bands of brigands,
who are traversing France, and with which
our name is mingled?” De Lisle himself,
proscribed as a royalist, heard it and shud
dered, as it sounded on his ears, whilst escap
ing by some of the wild passes of the Alp3.
“What do they call that hymn?” he inquired
of his guide. “The Marseillaise,' 1 ’ replied the
j peasant. It was thus he learnt the name of
! his own work. The arm turned against the
hand that forged it. The Revolution, insane,
• no longer recognized its own voice!
These words were sung in notes alternately
flat and sharp which seemed to come from
J the breast with sullen mutteriugs of national
i anger, and then with the joy of victory.
They had something as solemn as death, but
j as serene as the undying confidence of patri-
I otism. It seemed a recovered echo of Tlier
j tnopyke—it was heroism sung.
! There was heard the regular footfall of
thousands of men walking together to defend
the frontiers over the resounding soil of their
country, the plaintiff notes of women, the
wailing of children, the neighing of horses,
the hissing of flames as they devoured palaces
and huts; then gloomy strokes of vengeance,
striking again and again with the hatchet, and
immolating the enemies of the people and the
pro falters of the soil. The notes of this air
rustled like a flag dipped in gore, still reeking
on the battle plain. It made one tremble—-but
it was the shudder of intrepidity which passed
over the heart, and gave an impulse—redou
bled strength—veiled death. It was the “fire
water” of the Revolution, which instilled into
j the senses and the senl of the people the in
toxication of battle. There are times when
all people find thus gushing into their nation
al mind accents which no man hath written
down, and which all tho world feels. All
the senses desire to present their tribute to
patriotism, and eventually to encourage each
other. The foot advances—gesture animates
—tho voice intoxicates the ear—the ear
shakes the heart. The whole heart is inspi
red like an instrument of enthusiasm. Art
becomes divine; dancing, heroic; music,
martial ; poetry, popular. The hymn which
was at that moment in all mouths will never
perish. It is not profaned on common occa
| sions. Like those sacred banners suspended
j from the roofs of holy edifices, and which are
only allowed to leave them on certain days, we
keep the national sqng as an extreme arm for
the great necessities of the country. Ours
was illustrated by circumstances, whence is
sued a peculiar character, which made it at
the same time more solemn and more sinis
ter : glory and crime, victory and death,
seemed intertwined in its chorus. It was the
j song of patriotism, but it was the imprecation
!of rage. It conducted our soldiers to the
: frontier, but it also accompanied our victims
ito the scaffold. The same blade defends the
’ heart of the country in the hand of the sol
dier, and sacrifices victims in the hand of
the executioner;
How to get on.
In a charming book, “Companion of my
Solitude,” occur a touch or two of counsel
to young men. well worth recording :
One of the great aids, or hindrances, to
success in anything lies in the temperament of
a man. Ido not know yours ; but I venture
to point out to you what is the best tem
perament ; namely, a combination of the de
sponding and the resolute, or, as I had better
express it, of the apprehensive and the reso
lute. Such is the temperament of great com
manders. Secretly, they rely upon nothing
and upon nobody. There is such a powerful
element of failure in all human affairs, that a
shrewd man is always saying to himself,
what shall I do, if that which I count upon
does not come out as l expect ? This fore
sight dwarfs and crushes all but men of great
resolution. *■
Then, be not over choice in looking out
for what may exactly suit you; but rather
be ready to adopt any opportunities that oc
cur. Fortune docs not stoop often to take
any one up. Favorable opportunities will not
happen precisely in the way that you have
imagined. Nothing does. Do not be dis
couraged, therefore, by a present detriment
in any course which may lead to something
good. Time is so precious here.
Get, if you can, into one or other of the
main grooves of human affairs. It is all the
difference of going by railway, and walking
over a plowed field, whether you adopt com
mon courses, or set up one for yourself. You
will see, if your times are anything like ours,
most inferior persons highly placed in the ar
my, in the church, in office, at the bar. They
have somehow got upon the line, and have
moved on well with very little original motive
power of their own. Do not let this make
you talk as if merit were utterly neglected in
these or any professions; only that getting
well into the groove will frequently do instead
of any great excellence.
*******
Whatever happens, do not be dissatisfied
with your worldly fortunes, lest that speech
be justly made to you, which was once made
to a repining person much given to talk of
how great she and hers had been. “Yes,
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madam,” was the crushing reply, “we all find
our level at last.”
Eternally that fable is true, of a choice be
ing given to men on their entrance into life.
Two majestic women stand before you : one
in rich vesture, superb, with what seems like
a mural crown on her head, and plenty in her
hand, and something of triumph, I will not
say of boldness, in her eye : and she, thequecn
of this world, can give you many things.—
The other is beautiful, but not alluring,’ nor
rich, nor powerful; and there are traces of
care and sorrow in her face ; and (marvellous
to say) her look is downcast, and yet no
ble. She can give you nothing, but she can
ma ke you somebody. If you cannot bear to
part irons her sweet, sublime countenance,
which hardly veils with sorrow its infinity, fol
low her, I say, if yon are really minded so to
do; but do not, while you are on this track,
look back with ill-concealed envy on the glit
tering things which fall in tho path of those
who prefer to follow the rich dame, and to
pick up the riches and honors which fail from
her cornucopia.
This is, in substance, what a true artist
said to me only the other day, impatient, as
he told me, of the complaints of those who
would pursue art, and yet would have for
tune.
An Adventure in a Earber Shop.--A
Thrilling Sketch.
In tbe month of October, IS2O, my vessel
was lying at Mobile. I went ashore one bright
morning, to do some business with the house
11 which I was con signed, and as! pass’d along
the street, it occurred to me that I might as
well have a beard of a week’s growth reap
ed, before I presented myself at the counting
room. I stepped into a barber shop and told <
the barber to proceed.
He was a bright mulatto, a good looking
young fellow, not more than two and twenty
years of age, it appeared. His eyes were
large, black and unusually lustrous, 1 thought.
His manner at first was quiet and respectful.
I thought he was a long while lathering my
face, and I told him that he must have bought
his soap at the wholesale price. Laughing,
he replied that mine was a long beard, and
that lie knew what he was about.
“Are 3’ou boss here, my man ?” I
asked.
‘ \ es,” be answered, “m3 7 master set me up,
and I pay him twenty dollars a month for my
time.”
“That is a good interest on the capital in
vested,” I remarked ; “can yon pay your rent
and live on the balance of your savings ?”
“Oh, yes ! and lay up something besides.
Sometimes 1 receive thirty bits a day.”
“Then I suppose you will buy your free
dom some of those days.”
“As for that,” he replied, “1 care but little*
I have all the liberty i want, and enjoy my
self as I go along.”
“But should you get married and have
children, you would not wish to leave them
slaves ?”
“Yes, I would ; because they would be bet
ter off’than if they were free.”
By this time he had laid down the brush,
and commenced running his razor over tho
strop, looking at the blade every time he drew
it across the leather. His harid trembled a
little, and his eyes absolutely burned like
coals of fire. I did not feel uneasv, but I
could not avoid watching him closefy.
At last he commenced shaving me. My
head being thrown back, I was enabled to
keep my eyes fixed directly on his own.— f
Why I did so I cannot tell; certainly I ap
prehended nothing ; but I did not remove my |
gaze for a single instant while the razor was
passing over nyy neck and throat. He
seemed to grow more and more uneasy: his
eyes were as bright but not so steady as when
I first observed them. He could not meet
my fixed and deliberate look. As he com
menced shaving my chin, he said abruptly—
“ Barbers handle a deadly weapon, sir.”
“True enough, my man ; but you handle
3 7 ours skillfully, although I notico that your
hand shakes a little.”
“That’s nothing, sir—l can shave just as
well. My hand shakes because I did not
have much sleep last night. But I was think
ing just now,” he added with a laugh, “flow
eas3’ it would bo for me to cut 3 7 our throat.”
“Very likely,” I replied, laughing in return,
but looking sternly at him—“very likely, but
I would not advise vou to try the experi
ment.”
Nothing more was said. lie soon finish
ed, and l arose from the chair just as an el
derly gentleman was entering the shop. The
last comer divested himself of his coat and
cravat and took the seat 1 had vacated.
I went to the glass, which did not reflect
the chair, to arrange my collar. Certainly I
had not stood before it a single moment,
when 1 heard something like a suppressed
shriek, a gurgling sound, that made my blood
run cold. I turned. Great God! there sat the
unfortunate gentleman, covered with blood,
his throat cut from ear to ear, and the barber,
a raving maniac, dashing his razor with tre- I
inendous violence into the mangled neck.—
On the instant the man’s eye caught mine, the
razor dropped from his hand, and he fell down /■!
in a fit. I rushed towards the door, and call- f
ed for assistance.
The unfortunate man was dead before wo
readied the chair. i
We secured the barber, who, as I subse
quently learned, had been drinking deeply tho
night before, and was laboring under mania jjj
a polu. II is fate I never heard.
Legal Jeu D’esprit.—ln one of our wes
tern counties, says Wheeler’s History of
North Carolina, while Mr. James IL Dodgo
was making a speech, Messrs Swain, (now
President of the N. C. University,) Hillman
and Dews perpetrated tbisye/t d’esprit, which i
Mr. Dodge found Ring on his table when ho
had finished his speech :
EPITAPH OX JAMES R. DODUE, ESQ., ATT’Y AT LAW. j
Here lies a Dodge, who dodged all good, . j
And dodged a deal oi evil—
Who, after dodging all lie could,
He could not dodgo the Devil.
He read the paper and replied impromptu—
Here lie a Hillman and a Swain,
Whose lot let no man choose ;
They lived in sin and died in pain,
And the Devil got his Dews, [dues.]
OCr” The Spanish Government has abolished
the franking privilege of its officials from the begin- |
ning of this year.