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the southern sentinel
IS PUBLISHED
EVERY FRIDA Y MORNINGj
>IY
T. LOMAX & CO.
TENRENT LOMAX Principal Editor.
Office on Randolph street.
Citcran) P t piulmcut.
Conducted r.Y CAROLINE LEE IIENTZ
LAMORAH:
ou
TIIE WESTERN WILD.
A
TRAGEDY OR NATIONAL DRAMA,
IN FIVE ACTS.
BY CAROLINE LEE IIENTZ.
DRAMATIS PERSONS.
St. Francis, l Soldiers,
Gen. Winfield, l Indians,
h ORESTtK, < 5
Oz.MRKA, ‘ < LaMOR.IH,
WeaTIIERTQN, ( VIRGINIA,
Gaubiel, > Jenny,
Ornaiw, 5 Female Indians.
Scene— The bank* of the Ohio.
ACT I.—SCENE FIRST.
I 1 icild scene on the banks of the Ohio—a
rude hut in the foreground—forests stretch
in” on one side, hills on the other—a boat
moored near the spot where Weatherton and
Gabriel arc discovered—Gabriel looking anx
iously round, as if in search of something. ]
Gabriel. Strange! the hour i3 gone bv
when he should have been back. I can’t wait
much longer or the general will be distressed
at my absence, and it would be a poor con
cern if 1 should chance to get shot or scalped
for following him in this wild goose chase.
Weatherton. Well, I am off. Time and
tide wait for no man,—neither does old
Weatherton.
Gab. Come, don’t he in such a hurry,
man. lam a little too hot in my impatience.
Sit down on this bank and let us chat away
the time. You know the old proverb —watch
a thief, he never steals.
Wcath. (Scaling himself.) I dare say the
young Captain knows what he is after. He’s
a head of his own to care for, worth a dozen
such battered shells as yours and mine.
Gab. (Pulling his hand on his head.) Bat
tered shell! my head is as good a head as
ever was set on a pair of brave shoulders.
Many a bullet has whizzed by it, and there’s
never a loop-hole yet.
Wcath. But, Gabriel, that same head of
vours has a mighty venerable look for such a
brisk frame. My locks are somewhat grizzled,
to be sure, and they’ve a good right to be, for
many’s the storm, and cold’s the sleet, that
has whistled and drizzled over them in that
boat yonder, with no covering but the blessed
heavens, and no bed but a blanket. Whew!
I’ve had a merry life of it for all.
Gab. Zounds! old fel
low—what do you mean by my venerable
head ? None of your reflections. Come to
the point at once.
Wcath. (Catching hold of Gabriel’s head,
who, jumping up, endeavors to release him
self and leaves his icig in Weatherton s
hands.) Ha! ha! ha! I’ve got to the point
of your brains. What the ( putting his
hands over his mouth.) Oh! I promised the old
woman I won’t sware for the next six months,
and I'll b e-(his handover his mouth) —drown’d
if l break my oath.
Gab. Give me my wig, you rascal!
Wcath. What, in the name of all the foul
fiends, do you stick on this skull-cap for?
You had as good a crop as over grew on a
mad fool’s head.
Gab. (Getting possession of his ieig.) Stop
that confounded cackling, and I’ll tell you all
about it. Now, the Lord knows that I don’t
fear the face of mortal man, and I can front,
as unmoved as brass, all the white bloods in
Christendom, but these infernal savages—l've
made a vow never to be scalped by the cop
per-headed villains. When the General start
ed this expedition to the West, where the red
dogs are prowling in every direction, I first
went to a barber and got him to shave off my
own sensible hair, and to give me this scratch
—so that the Indians might take off toy scalp
as sleek as the bark of a birch tree. Hark!
.did you not hear a noise on the water?
Wcath. What, afeard of the red skin? 1
•tell thee, friend, I have lived on this same riv
.er, this broad Ohio, for many a long year ;
I’ve slept on these wild banks; my little cabin
has stood with its light twinkling on the wa
ters; the bark of the Indian has scudded by
on the stream; he has entered my cabin
and slept at my hearth. Look at me—l'm
.alive and my scalp is on inv head ; yet I’ve
an honest heart and a true hand. I fear not
the face of man ; I only fear my Maker—tho’
Jenny says I’m such a sad, wicked fellow,
because, perchance, I rtp out an oath now
and then.
Gab. So you stand up for the copper-heads?
Weath . I’m one who will give the devil
himself his due. I say they are good friends,
and as for enemies——let them alone—that’s
all.
Gab. Who knows, while we are gabbing
here, hut Capt. Forester is in their hands? I
thought it would he the end of his wild ad
venture.
Weath. What the deuce sent him gadding
through the forests, instead of sticking to lus
post?
Gab. The Lord knows—not I. It is one
of his old tricks, lie uas always given to
rambling and dreaming. Heaven keep him:
a nobler, braver heart, never beat in a human
body; Id lollow him all the world over—ex
cept to the wigwam of the savage.
Weath. Folks say he is to be married to
the General’s daughter, Miss Virginia—the
Lord love her sweet soul. She trips over the
ground as light and merrv as a boat on the
VOL. 111.
Ohio when the wind blows fresh and down
ward.
Gab. I’ll tell you a secret, old fellow ; for
I’ve been in the camp and know which way
the gale sets. The Captain’s brain is all but
turned for Miss Virginia; that one can see
with their eyes shut; but the General is a
haughty old aristocrat, and though Captain
Forester looks like a prince, and if he was in
the old world they would say he had noble
blood in his veins, nobody knows who he is
or where he came from; he does not know
his own father’s name, and though the Gen
eral loves him as a soldier, he will never mate
his daughter to the like of him. The eyes of
the young lady tell a different tale. I never
see them turn toward the Captain but I think
of the old ballad:
She looks up, ruddy as the rose of June,
And thanks him with her eyes.
Wcath. Ha! I remember a smattering of
poetry —
“There was a man all shaven and shorn.”
But away with this nonsense. There’s some
thing strange in all this—Jenny’s lamp begins
to burn dim. The Captain wouldn’t loiter
so. There’s a tribo of Indians not far from
here—the Shawanas. Their chief, Ozembra,
is as wild as a panther and fierce as a wolf,
when roused to vengeance; some of ’em have
been lately killed in skirmishes with the
whites, and I wouldn’t wonder if lie were on
the scent. Come, jump into my boat and
sail down to that point yonder; here, stand
still when a friend is in a strait. Why, what’s
the fellow gaping at ?
Gab. (Retreating.) What, that point?
Wcath. Yes, that point.
Gab. After the Indians? ■
Wrath. Zounds! you are quaking for your
wig. Shame on you for a coward ! If you
should leave a brave man in extremity, you
aint worthy the name of soldier and shall nev
er disgrace the honest scudder of Job Weath
erton. Out upon you for a white livered
knave!
Gab. Call me coward again and I’ll make
daylight in your skull! I tell you, I’ve stood
at the cannon’s mouth when it vomited death
and thunder, and I’d go through fire and
brimstone to save the Captain. But these
infernal savages —it makes my flesh creep to
think of them. O! heigh! ho !
Weath. O-hi-o! Weil there it is, and a
true friend you’ll find it. I’ve trusted it many
a long year and it never played me false. Yet,
come—in with you, my brave fellow—in with
you. (Pushing him into the boat.) Faint heart
never won fair lady. I’ll sing you a bit of a
song to cheer you, and I’ll scare away the
copper-skins at the same time. (Weatherton
sings as they put off from shore.)
Oh! merry, merry, merry is the boatman’s life.
SCENE SECOND. %
[.l path in the forest —Forester passes
along—Two or three Indians, lurking in am
bush, seize and make him a prisotter. ]
SCEN'E TIIIKD.
[ The depth of the forest —The wigwam of
the savages in the background —Female Indi
ans grouped in front —Enter Forester from
one side, guarded by the savages, and Ozein
bra from the other side , with a hatchet in his
right hand and a bow and arrow in his lift. ]
Ozembra —
Son of the white man! thou art brave and
*
strong;
Thou hast not shrunk from danger. It is
good.
The Eagle gazes on the mid-day sun—
The Owl, in blinking terror, shuns its beams.
Thou, of the eagle-soul, shall die a death
The free-born warrior should rejoice to meet.
Forester. (Gazing steadfastly on the chief.)
Thou art most rich in mercy 7 . Is then death
So rare a boon from the Shawanas’ chief
That I must hid my spirit rise in joy,
While thrills my heart beneath the arrow’s
barb ?
Here is my bosom—pierce it if thou wilt,
But dare not mock me in my helplessness.
Oz. Ido not mock thee. ’Tis the white
man’s lips
That smile and smile, when poison lurks be
neath.
Thrice have my victims fled, and I have vowed
The next an instant sacrifice should die.
I doom thee; for I’ve sworn to sate my thirsty
The thirst of vengeance, in the white man’s
blood.
The alligator—warrior of the wave—
Say 7 , does he pause because the gilded fish
Is sporting in the stream ? No! no! revenge
is sweet!
For. Revenge! dark warrior! Tell me of
thy wrongs!
What have I done, an unoffending man,
Mho roamed, with peaceful step, the wild
wood path
Which Nature’s God has opened free to all!
What have I done to thee, that, like the wolf
Prowling in darkness, thou, and your fierce
dogs,
Shouldst rush upon me in unguarded hour,
And drag me to this den ?
Oz. What hast thou done ?
Thou art of that fell race whose words are
lies;
Who smoke with us the calumet of peace,
Then hurl heaven’s thunders at our forest
homes!
; W hat hast thou done ? The sounding woods
can tell.
Our fathers’ ghosts there wander unavenged.
The skies can answer—for their clouds reflect
‘Fhe red man’s blood to the great Spirit throne.
What means thy warlike garb ? The belted
. sword
Qfljc Soutljcni Sentinel
Our brother wrested from thy scalping grasp ?
For. I wear a soldier’s garb. That name
declares
That all my country’s enemies are mine.
I bear a trusty sword—but never drew
The faithful steel, but for my country’s glory !
Whate’er the wrongs inflicted by my kind,
’Tis most inglorious vengeance thu3 to wreak
A nation’s wrath on my defenceless head.
Oz. Shawanas’ chief has sworn. His oath
is strong. (Throws his hatchet into the
[ground.)
Thy breath is vapor curling round the rock—
It melts in air—the rock unmoved remains.
For. Ido not ask for mercy—l disdain
To bow my soul to man—much more to thee,
Who bears man’s image, but the tiger’s heart!
Oz. (Twanging his bow string.) Now look
thy last on the beholding stars,
And chant thy death song. Then this strong
right hand—
Lamorah. (Coming rapidly forward from
the group behind, and casting herself
on her knees before her father.)
Oh! Father, stay ! Let not his mother weep!
Oz. Away! the reed stays not the torrent’s
course.
Lam. Then let the reed be crushed!
Oz. - Off! off!
Lam. Think! if Lamorah wept in other
lands,
Beneath the stranger’s roof, condemned, for
lorn,
Would not the warrior’s soul be dark?
Oz. Lamorah!
Thou art to me as is yon silver moon
To the grey clouds that sweep around its orb,
But tempt me not —away!
Lam. Oil! such is lie to his far mother’s
home;
Such to his father’s heart. Oh! spare him !
spare!
He is too young, too fair, too brave to die !
Oz. (Pushing her from him with a threat
ening gesture.) Stand not between the
panther and his prey!
Lam. Stay, till the white friend comes!
Oz. It must not be.
Son of the white man, look upon my brow;
Be worthy of the arrow of a chief;
1 give thee death, because thou art a brave.
Free and unshackled to the land of ghosts
Thy spirit shall be winged.
For. Kind daughter of the fierce,
I’ll bear the memory of thy prayers on high ;
But o’er my lonely 7 fate no father’s sigh,
No mother’s tears, will fall. Then mourn
me not. [To the chief.
Here is the breast that shrinks not from thy
dart.
I am not left alone, for Heaven is with me
To shield me in this hour. (Folds his arms
over his breast, and looks up to Heaven.
Ozembra draws his bow, when Lamorah,
rushing forward, throws her arms about
Forester, and exclaims:)
Now hurl the shaft,
But let it quiver in Latnorah’s heart!
(Ozembra stands transfixed, while the sav
ages utter a yell of wonder and admira
tion. St. Francis enters.)
St. F. What do I see? Two victims—one
thy child !
Oz. Ozembra's arm is as his bow, unstrung.
The maiden’s voice has had a power upon me.
Like the great spirit’s mandate—l am weak.
(Shoots his arrow into the forest; La
morah, seeing the act, releases her arms
from Forester and throws them around
her father's neck.)
Lam. Ozembra’s soul is great—he cannot
slay
The brave, the innocent. Lamorah’s life
Shall be one glow of gratitude and love.
Oz. Warrior! thy 7 breath is safe ; remain
with us;
Drink of our cup of peace, and chase the deer
j With the red warriors of this western wild.
Brothers! the pale fac’d stranger is our son ;
’Tis the Great Spirit’s bidding,—l obey.
! For. Chief of the wilderness! my country
claims
All that a soul of fire, and arm of strength,
Can yield, in freedom’s cause. When foreign
foes
Invade her ancient bounds, her chartered
lands—
When British tyrants trample on her rights,
Shall I, whom she has fostered with her smiles,
Desert her in her need? an ingrate, sting
The bosom that has nourished, cherished,
blest ?
No! welcome death, if life be bought with
shame!
Oz. What is thy country ? Ours is this fair
land;
Ours the green fields; the wealth of waters
ours;
j What are the ancient rights of which you
boast l
j Who talks of tyranny ? Who talks of shame ?
When from its prey the howling wolf shall
turn
j To chide the panther at its bloody feast,
Then may the white man tell the Indian this.
For. It is iu vain, dark chief. The moun
tain cliff
And fair Ohio’s waves, shall melt in one,
Ere we, whom Heaven has sundered, dwell
in peace.
St. F. Hear me, young man. There’s
something in thy voice
j That stirs unwonted feeling in my heart,
j Surely 7, I’ve seen thee, heard thy voice before;
But when, or where? ’Tis like a troubled
dream !
For. Remembrance does not tell me of the
heur—
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, APRIL 16, 1852.
But it may be; for through thy forest garb
I trace the hue and features of my kind.
St. F. The chain that bound me to my
race is broken,
And I have turned in scorn, and loathing
hate,
From all, whose pallid brow and waving locks
Declare them of the lineage I abjure. But
thou!
Thou art not one of them. Thy soul looks
forth,
Undismayed and pure, from those dark, fear
less eyes.
Remain with us ; let not the world corrupt
Thy spirit’s whiteness.
For. Strange, mysterious man !
I never heard thy deep-toned voice before,
And yet its t sounds come like the distant strain
Os martial music to the dreaming ear.
What means this sympathy—so wild, yet
strong ?
St. F. What means the wind that murmurs
through the trees ?
Yon glittering stars, and yon deep, rolling
stream ?
The mysteries of the spirit who can tell?
Young man, thy fate is sealed. Shawanas
chief
Will not forswear his words ; reject not life.
There is no shame—there is glory in submis
sion.
For. And must I bear a traitor’s name —
be deemed
A base deserter from my country’s banner?
Live on the scorn of brave and loyal hearts ?
Is not this death ? Aye, more ?
Lam. (To Ozembra.) Strength of thy tribe,
Chain not the free-born will. Be great once
more,
And speed the youthful warrior to his home.
Oz. Silence! thy talk is vain—my word is
strong.
St. F. Leave us alone! I’ll be his guard
to-night,
And if he flee, my life shall be the forfeit.
For. No! let the coward flee. I’ll meet my
doom.
My guard’s thy honor, and thy safe-guard’s
mine.
Oz. (Placing Forester’s hand in St. Fran
cis’s hand.) I’ll leave thee till the forest
fires grow pale.
Ozembra’s friend is wise. Lamorah! hence.
[end of act first.]
(D m* Contributors.
[WRITTEN FOR TIIE SENTINEL.]
M Y MOTII E:: DEAR.
In memory I see thee,
As the hour drew near,
Os our sad, sad parting.
My mother dear.
When thy fond arms clasped me,
And the silent tear
I kissed from thy pale cheek,
My mother dear.
Thy kind words of blessing
Fell sweet on my ear;
They are always whispering
My mother dear.
I never forget thee,
Thou art imaged clear
In the depths of this soul,
My mother dear.
Meona.
Columbus, Ga.
[WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.]
TO CORALIE, MY LOST LOVE.
BY ERNEST SOLE.
When the purpled evening falls
O’er the vernnl-tinted halls—
The west’s cloud-cinctured halls—
And gently the vesper calls
The earth-stained soul away,
Where the silvery moonbeams play—
The gauze-winged moonrays play—
And the silent star-gleams stray,
Coralie!
Then I think that thou dost come
From thy radiant spirit-home—
Thv far-off empyreal home—
Beneath the heaven’s arching dome ;
And I feel thee softly fold
About me, thy wings of gold—
Thy pinions all-instarred with goid—■
In the twilight clear and cold,
Coralie!
Thy meek, wan face is pictured, too,
Lit by thine eyes of tendered hue—
Serenest heaven’s azure hue—
And on thy locks the stars weep dew;
Whilst a sad, sweet smile doth play
Upon thy speechless lips, and stray—
To dimpled chin and cheek doth stray —
’Tis thus thou call’st my soul away,
Coralie!
Thou call’st to some bright, fairy clime,
Where reigns eterne the summer-time—
That lush-leaved, fresh and blithesome time —
Writ of alway in minstrels’ rhyme.
Nay, nay, my love, ’tis all in vain.
Th’ essential doth the essence chain—
Th’ pure ethereal essence chain.
But thou wilt come to me again,
Coralie!
Aud on my brow wilt press thy hand ;
And in the calm, sweet gloaming stand—
Beside me oft, sweet spirit, stand ;
My locks by lulling pinions fanned.
\ es! thou wilt visit me for aye,
Through life's brief, thorny way—
Lonely, toilsome, tear-stained way—
And greet me in unending day,
Coralie!
O” Three young, conceited wits, as they 7
thought themselves, passing along the road
near Oxford, met a grave old gentleman,
with whom they 7 had a mind to be rudely
merry:
“Good morrow, father Abraham,” said one.
“Good morrow, father Isaac,” said the
next.
“Good morrow, father Jacob,’’ said the
last
“I am neither Abraham, Isaac, nor Jacob,’’
replied the old gentleman, “but Saul, the son
of Kish, who went out to seek his father’s
asses, and lo! here I have found them.”
[WRITTEN ron TV'E settinel.]
THOUGHTS OF A CHILD.
If it were possible to trace the workings of ,
a child’s mind from the first perceptions, 1
through all the delicate and intricate wind
ings of thought, down to mature reason, it
would cast more light on mental science ;
than all the books that have been written on j
that abstruse subject.
Genius is but the union of a man’s head
with a child’s heart, and her brightest gems
are the impressions of childhood seen through
the convex glass of manly reason —“child-
hood being the poetry of age.” My kind ;
reader, will you leave the heated and dusty j
highway of life, and wander awhile along j
the quiet and shady banks of childhood’s 1
gentle stream? I am persuaded you will;
for eager as we may be in earlv life to has
ten on and plunge into the absorbing pursuits
of higher manhood, yet in the evening of
life, we often return with our disappointed
and sorrow swollen hearts, to ease them in
the soothing and balmy memories of early
days.
The following circumstance occurred when
I was but four j’ears of age, which roused
my reason and emotions, that had hitherto
lain embedded in the mind, like a rose-bud
in its calyx. My brother Lewis was a year
and a half younger than myself; I loved him
as dearly as I did my own soul; he was my
daily companion in toils and pleasures; ma
ny a wild flower we had gathered, many a
butterfly we had chased and captured as a
golden prize.
One day he was sick, and could not play
with me as usual. I well recollect the old
Doctor and aunt Jane were talking in an un
der tone of voice about Lewis. I heard the
Doctor say “he is dying.’’ I was not appris
ed of the import of the word, “dying,” but
associated it in my mind with once having
seen my mother stain some thread black,
and call it “dyeing.” I eagerly watched
my little brother’s pale face, expecting every
moment to see it turn black. Just then the
thought struck my mind, that it was the way
negroes were made, and the Doctor was
about to change my brother’s face black,
and make his pretty golden locks rough and
kinky, like Simon’s. My heart burned with
in me and swelled with fury at the Doctor,
which was greatly increased at seeing mv
mother weeping and wringing her hands, as
if her heart would break. I went and asked
her if the Doctor were making Lewis black,
like a negro. “No, my love,” she replied,
in a suppressed tone, “he is dying, and you
will have no little brother now.” Just then,
he was seized with a convulsion, —he strug
gled, gasped, and ceased to breathe.
Quick-as a flash, I for the first time under
stood what it meant “to die,” associating
Lewis with a pet Robin we once had in a
cage, that often amused us with hopping and
chirping; once he was drooping, and would
neither eat nor sing, but fell down, fluttered
and gasped. Next day, Peter (for that was
Lis name) was missing. I often went and
looked for him, but he never camo back. I
listened, but never heard his song any more.
As Lewis had struggled and now lay still,
and mother said “I would have no little
brother now,” so Lewis was to leave like
our pet Robin, and return no more. Oh! the
bitter anguish of that hour ; it was the first
cloud to darken my infant horizon; it was
the first bitter drop in life’s cup,—the begin
ning of sorrow, but not the end.
Here another thought broke on my mind,
like a thunder crash, —my own mortality. 1
too might die! sunk like iron into the very
centre of my soul, —my brain reeled, and a’
smothering sensation came over me, as eter
nity swept out in boundless expanse on all
sides. Its dim and leaden hue strangely con
trasted with time, which seemed a beauti
ful green stripe, dividing the past and the fu
ture; across which, I saw men, women and
children flitting swift as birds upon the wing,
and were instantly lost in the dense fog that
overhung the great ocean of the future. I
felt nothing was left me on which to stand,
save a speck of earth, and that was whirling
round and round, and seemed to be sinking in
to the yawning gulf, which was greedily swal
lowing time with an appetite ravenous as the
grave. Alarmed, I seized hold of a chair to
keep from falling, and held on to it as a drow
ning man ! what a strange mingling of sounds
was in my ears! how cold and chilly the
wind’s breath on my cheek! No criminal ever
heard his sentence with greater conster
nation, than I read my own doom of mor
tality in this dark thought that swept like
a winter storm across my soul. In this hour
of darkness and travail, reason and con
science, twin rulers of the soul, had their
birth. Reason, young lord of the soul, was
seated on his throne; conscience, mistress of
the heart and a faithful counsellor, leaned on
his arm and smiled in his face. Their first
official act was to restore order and tranquili
ty to the thoughts and feelings of a bewil
dered brain and a trembling heart.
I had observed that Lewis was lying down
when he died, and aunt Jane closed his eyes.
I thought if I could keep on my feet, and pre
vent my eyes from closing, I would not die.
So I determined, if I felt like dying, to hold
myself up with one hand, and with the dis
tended fingers of the other, keep my eyes
open, and thus evade death. I was greatly
surprised that the Doctor and Mother had
not thought of this plan, to save Lewis.
No mathematician was ever more delight
ed with his discoveries. No! not Archimedes
himself, running and crying Eureka, Eureka;
than I was, with my fancied life-preserver.
As night came on, under this delusive opiate,
my hot brain grew cool: the deep and heavy
swells of mv infant bosom were gradually
becoming calm, and I ventured to creep soft- j
ly to the door of the sitting room, and looked j
in, Lewis was lying on a table, white ns a j
snow-drop; long and earnestly 1 gazed to ‘
see if his eyes would open, or his hands move;
bat no! cold and stilt as a marble statue, he
lay reflecting the dim light of the lamp : sad
and quietly I retired to my bed, all alone.
Lewis was in the habit of sleeping with me,
but that night he came not as usual to onr lit
tle bed ; everything seemed so still and dark, i
I covered up my head, and wept and sobbed,!
until the flow ot tears gave ease to mv achiim !
J ° t
heart. Half asleep, in a dreamy state, I fan- j
cied little Lewis was again in bed, and turn
ing to lay my arm over him, was partially
aroused by grasping the cold and vacant
space, instead of him. Soon I was again
sinking Irom sorrow into the downy arms of
Morpheus, when an alarming thought shot
across my mind, —like a meteor athwart the
face of night, or as the Indian war-scream
pouring into the ear of midnight slumber.
What! if you should die when asleep?
lou could not use your preventive to death.
Sleep instantly fled from my eyes, and slum
ber from my eyelids; I saw at a glance, the
inefficiency of my plan, and reason, though
put upon the rack, could suggest no scheme
of perfect security. And now, unpleasant as
it was, I was forced to meet the idea of
death; my soul was chilled a3 with a winter
frost, when I met the shadow of death and
strove to realize what it was to die. 1 fancied
I was shut up in a black coffin, with nothing
to eat or drink, and then carried to the old
field, where I had seen the grave dug; I was
covered up in the deep grave ; I panted for
breath, and all was now still and dark, and
I was left alone; Father and Mother were
gone, and I could never get out of the ground.
The worst had come; I was dead and buried ;
despair with raven wings hovered closely
over me, when one bright thought like a
stray angel crept into my dark and silent
home, and whispered in my ear—“you can
dream in the grave.” My whole soul was
thrilled as with an electric spark ; yes, if I
die, l will yet have the conscious pleasure of
dreaming in the grave. And though I can
not get out of the ground, [ will dream of
wandering by the little brook, gathering flow
ers and chasing butterflies. Yes; I will go
home in my dreams, and Mother will kiss
me, and Father will say, “my good little
son.’’ I clung to this grave-born compan
ion, a conscious, dreamy existence after death,
as a frightened child does to its mother ; soon
quieted by this good angel, I resigned myself
to the hazard of dying asleep. Soon the sil
ver-footed hours turned round the tread-mill
of time, and brought the sad and weeping
morn. The previous day and night had
changed my wholo being ; the world wore a
different aspect, and I felt strange and lonely,
a mere pilgrim and wanderer on earth. The
funeral and burial then ensued,—all making a
deep, wild, and strange impression on my
mind. I thought my little brother would
smother in the ground, and would be fright
ened alone in the old field; when night came
on, I heard the whippowil’s sorrowful notes,
arid I fancied it was Lewis crying to come
home, and 1 wanted Mother to go with me
after him, and thought strange that she would
not. Soon after his death, I dreamed one
night I met him in our old play ground, and I
was happy as I used to be; next day I went to
the play ground fully expecting to meet Lew
is; I thought I saw him run and hide behind
a rose-bush; I ran to see, but the flitting
shadow of a bird, which I had mistaken for
him, was gone. I called him, and the barn
echoed an answer; I supposed he had run
and hid in the barn ; I pursued my fancy, but
never found Lewis. I told Mother what I
had seen and heard; she wept bitterly and
pointed up to the clouds, and said, “your*
little brother is in heaven.” This strangely
perplexed me, for I did not understand how
he could be in the grave and among the clouds
both, unless he were in the clouds when he
was dreaming. For years, a vague impres
sion rested on my mind, that of nights, Lew
is was in his dreams walking among the
clouds, and warming himself at the stars,
which I thought were little play-fires built by
the grave-dreaming children that had g ather
ed to play in the clouds. Often I long and
earnestly gazed at night, up into the face of
the silent heavens, hoping to see my little
brother, and sometimes I thought that I had
found him, but the little white cloud which I
had mistaken for him, was soon folded under
the dark wing of thicker clouds, and thus my
hopes ever perished.
Little Lewis has been gone for thirty years,
and long since, I have exchanged the dim
taper of conscious dreams in the grave, for a
surer light ot Revelation, that pours its heav
en-boi n beams into the heart of the tomb and
the shades of the future.
COLUMBUS.
03” The Louisville Democrat suggests that
the following amendment to the Maine Law
would render it perfect and effectual when
enforced : Be it enacted, that from and af
ter the passage of this act, the appetite for
ardent spirits be Agreed I
$3” Matrimonial Sweets.—Here is a
wicked epigram from some hen-pecked old
grumbler :
Cried I,iz to Bill, ’midst matrimonial strife,
Curs’d be the hour I first became vour wife.
By ah the powers, said Bill, but that’s too bad,
i ou'vc cursed the only civil hour we’ve had i
TERMS OF PUBLICATION,
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A liberal deduction made in favor of those who
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NO. 10.
[Correspondence of the Southern Christian Advocate j
REV. r. P. NEELY, D. 3).
About the time of the late Conference
here, the Rev. P. P. Neelv, D. D, preached
two sermons; and as his fame had reached
me, lof course heard him. How one is often
disappointed in the appearance of a person,
of whom we have often heard ! Before see
ing him, 1 had pictured Dr. N. as a slight,
graceful man, of ftpirituellc expression; but
he is tall, and large-framed, florid complexion,
light eyes and hair. His voice is soft, sweet,
yet withal a little husky. He reads the hymns
and scripture lessons pleasantly, but not im
pressively. And upon standing up to preach,
you are grieved to perceive what appears to
be a manuscript volume before him. Let mo
whisper in your ear, Mr. Editor, my fear lest
these written and read sermons are becom
ing too common in your Methodist connec
tion. As the other sects are beginning to ap
preciate the power of what is called extem
pore speaking, yours seems to he discarding
it. When your pulpit ceases to be uritram
meled by read, or meinoriter sermons, it loses
the right arm of its power! But to return to
Dr. Neely. With the exception of the eye
in the main kept book-ward, }'ou would
scarce guess he was reading. He has a good
deal of action, and his voice has ail the ca
dences suited to the” passage. His style is
elaborate, but not finished; ornate, but not
elegant: it lias copiousness, but not preci
sion ; abounds in finely conceived attenuativo
passages, but lacks the bullet-like accuracy
and telling power cf the short, terse sen
tences. The smooth, liquid sounds predom
inate. lie does not seem to have made the
harsh, grating sounds a study. This I should
think important in the last degree, to a
speaker as well as a poet. His voice, to
gether with the effects he produces by it, is
astonishing. It has no compass of tones,
and its volume is limited, yet its influence
over you is very great. Jt propitiates, then
wins you. You cannot resist its soft and
touching sweetness. It blends, too, in beauti
ful accord with the style and matter of the
discourse. I am mistaken, if much of his
power does not lie here. llis view of a sub
ject is marked by adaptation to popular ap
prehension, rather than original or profound
thought. It is not a bold and comprehen
sive grasp of it, but rather an embellished
reproduction of what has. been already said
and thought. His presentation of it tends to
excite emotion, rather than stimulate reflec
tion. And hence he is effective. It is no
mean office, so to re-clothe old thoughts, an
imating them with the breath of a rich life,
bringing them again to our acquaintance, as
unknown, and yet well known. The pas
sions he awakens are admiration, pity, and
love: rarely fear, never terror. liis passion
is his strength—-without it, his adornment
would be tinsel, his moving appeals, but as
“sounding brass, or tinkling cymbal;” his
rhetoric faulty to the last degree, and his
whole discourse but a declamation.
To sum him up, I should say, he has more
fancy than imagination ; excelling in embel
lishment, rather than creation; more feeling
than thought, passion than reason ; less culti
vation than natural vigor ; prolixity without
condensation ; greater affluence of language
than finish ot expression; more power than
you can well account for. liis genius is luxuri
ous, not ascetic: it has the singing robes, but
not the purged ear or the rapt vision; dis
porting itself in descriptions, never girding up
its loins for a pilgrimage in the pathless
realms of thought; delighting in sentiment,
more than principles; breathing dulcet sounds
of melody, but never reaching the lofty pitch
of harmonic sublimity. Me is a man to do
good, much good. God speed him upon his
mission!
And now, Mr. Editor, the time is at hand
when winter visiters here, leave for their dis
tant homes. So I must bid you and your
readers good bye. Perhaps at some time,
from other latitudes, our acquaintance may
be renewed.
Mobile, March 21,1852.
Movements of Kossuth.
The distinguished Hungarian reached Mo
bile on the 2d, and addressed her citizens on
the 3d inst. The Tribune says :
The audience was very large—doubtless tho
largest that has ever assembled in Mobile.
M e think that there is no exaggeration in
saying that there were twenty-five hundred
persons present; and from an interior view
many must have made unsuccessful attempts
to pack themselves within the dense assem
blage. Considering the inconvenient hour of
the address and the wetness of the morning,
it is fair to presume that hardly a moiety of
those who take an interest in Kossuth was
present on tho occasion.
Some two hundred or more ladies graced
the audience.
At the close of his speech loud cries were
made for several gentlemen, and Judge
Gayle, A. B. Meek, Esq. and Col. Percy-■
Walker responded in brief, earnest and elo
quent addresses. They spoke to Kossuth,
and expressed to him their entire approval of
vvliat he had read. Afterwards the Rev. Mr.
Milburn was called, and here was a verv
touching and impressive scene. The audi
ence by this time was deeply interested and
rather excited. The pale and attenuated
form of the eloquent student and preacher
contrasted strikingly in its gravity and seri
ousness, with the manner of those who spoko
before him. The audience felt the change,
and when in a clear, solemn and low tone,"he
proceeded, until turning to Kossuth, with
hands extended and uplifted eyes, he blessed
the cause and the man, and invoked the aid
of Heaven upon them, a. calm foil upon the
immense assemblage, and hardly a breath
was drawn. The quivering around the mus
cles of the mouth of the Hungarian showed
tuat he felt the earnestness of the appeal.
He rose and grasped the hands of Mr. Mil
burn, and wrung them, amidst shouts which
seemed to prove that the hearts of the audi
ence dwelt in the prayer for the emancipation
of Hungary and the triumph of truth and
liberty throughout the world.
rhis was a fitting close of the proceedings,
and then the meeting broke up, in shout after
shout, which shook the roof of the amphi
theatre.
O* A wag told <is the other day fclDf „
halt the lawyers live without caJs an l a ®
without refjcctb\ ‘ ar, ~‘ die