Newspaper Page Text
THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
IS PUBLISHED
EVERY FRIDAY MORNING,
BY
T.* LOMAX & CO.
TENCENT LOMAX, editor.
Office on Randolph street.
Citcvavi) Department.
fgo iv Caroline lee hentz. |
LAMORAH:
OR
the western wild.
A
TRAGEDY OR NATIONAL DRAMA,
IN FIVE ACTS.
BY CAROLINE LEE HENTZ.
ACT V. —scene first.
[ln front of Ihe wigwam of the chief, near
the bailie-ground—Lamorah discovered near
the dead body of the Indian chief —Female
Indians gathered round—Forester and I ir
ginia on either side .]
Lamorah. Child of the forest, let Lamo
rah’s voice
Wake one lingering echo in thy heart.
The daughter of Ozemba bows to meet
The darkness of her destiny alone.
Yet once more: the sacrifice is near.
Forester. Lamorah! sister of 1113’ soul!
arouse
From the cold stupor of despair and woe;
We both are orphans. Weep, Lamorah,
weep,
But let not this, thy eagle spirit, droop.
Lamorah. The death shaft quivers in the
eayle’s breast,
a . , i
She folds her bleeding pinions o’er the wound,
But rankling deep, it feeds upon her life.
(With sudden energy, as Forester raises
her from the ground.)
Raise me, and let me gaze upon the Heavens: |
A flood of glory breaks upon my soul!
Visions of future years, when these green ;
wilds,
Shorn of their branching honors, shall be
come
A mighty city, where a thousand smokes
Shall curl above the forest children’s graves, j
The silver wave shall give the image back 1
Os its throng’d shores to tho Great Spirit’s j
eye.
The vision fades.
[She sinks exhausted on the arm of For
ester.)
Behold a kindly dart!
(Throws back her mantle and discovers vn \
arrow in her bosom.)
’Twas wing’d by tbe Great Spirit to release f
The breath that pants, that flutters to be free.
Oh! thou, tho rainbow of my life’s short ,
dream,
’Tis sweet, while standing on the shadowy
bound
Os two dim worlds, to feel the beauteous
beam
That lent its brightness to a happier hour,
Warm, shining through the chillness and the
gloom. [
Thou weepest, warrior; balm is in thy tears, j
Forest. I could weep blood for tears. Oh! I
is there nought
In healing Art to soothe thy parting hour?
This fatal shaft [Endeavoring to draw it
forth.)
Lamorah. No! leave it quiver here;
My breath would vanish through the opening
wound;
Ope not the gates of life till I have laid
Mv latest offering where I was hipp’d first.
Child of the forest, bear my spiiit up!
Bear it awhile above the gloomy gulf
That darkens ’ueath my feet. My father’s
ghost
Stands beckoning through the clouds that
round it roll!
Fair daughter of the land of snow, receive
Lamorah’s blessing ere she mounts on high !
[Takes the hand of Virginia, who kneels
weeping by the side of the. dying Indian,
kisses it, joins it to that of Forester, and
fixes a long and earnest gaze on his sace —
Then drawing the arrow slowly away from
her bosom, exclaims) —
Master of life, I come !
When the last drop shall quit these ebbing
veins,
All of Ozemba’s eagle blood is drained.
[She sinks from the supporting arms of
Forester—Lays her head on her father's
breast and expires.)
SCENE SECOND.
[Enter Weatherton and Jenny.]
Wrath. Ah! Jenin*, when I saw him fall
like a pine tree of the forest struck by light
ning, 1 felt a choking in my throat and a ring
ing in mv cars, for all the victory. I always
did and always shall think that the Indians
have the best right here. God put ’em in the
forest as he did the fishes in the river; and
we have no more right to drive ’em away
than the beasts and birds have to go down in
to the waters and fasten their claws and horns
into tbe scales of the fishes. But I can
stand up for my own as well as any other
man, and when they lay hands on the inno
cent ones, l can turn upon ’em with au eye
in my head and a bullet in ray rifle.
Jenny. Look yonder! there’s an Indian
glaring through the trees.
II eath. I’ll clear the woods of the dog be
fore he draws another breath. [Aiming at
him.)
Gab. [Leaping forward, with the eagle
plumes oj Ozemba waving in his head.)
You murderous wretch! would you kill your
own flesh and blood l that is your own color
and skin!
Wealh. Ha! I know you, old comrade;
o*X with your false feathers. Why, you plan-
VOL. 111.
derer and poltroon, you have stole my tro
llies- ( Snatches it from his head, exposing,
by the act, his bare skull.) What have you
done with your scratch ?
Gab. I lost it, like a brave man, in honora
ble strife. While I was defending the Gen
eral from a dozen tomahawks, one of them
hooked into my head and took off my scalp.
And let who will gainsay me, I swear ’tis
better to have one’s wig taken off than the
living scalp.
Wcalh. That’s true enough; but where’s
the Captain ?
Gab. The Captain ! oh ! I saw him a min
ute ago crying over a pretty young squaw,
who died, they say, out of pure love for him.
I saw him in the battle when I was in the
hottest of the fight; and an arrow sent by
one of the savages missed its aim and went
right into her heart. I would have shielded
her, but was defending my General. Zounds!
she was a brave
Weath. That must have been her who
knelt by the dead chief, fixed like a stake in
the ground; she’d the natural feeling about
her, Jenny.
Gab. Why, this Lamorah, I believe they
called her so, was a wonder. I saw that
strange man, they name St. Francis, shed tears
when they told him she was dead. I must
go and find out who he is, and get better ac
quainted with him.
[Exit.]
Jenny. St. Francis! did you hear that
name, Job ?
Wcalh. Yes; but don’t let it upset you so ;
I’ll try to right the matter. But he’ll never
know you ; you was a small buxom lass
when he saw you, and now you as well as I,
Jenny, are little the worse for wear; so brace
up, old gal, I’ll keep the helm.
Jenny. Oh ! I feel as dizzy as if a boat was
rocking under me.
Wcalh. Why, if you have to tell a lie for
conscience’ sake, better stick to it than make
such a botheration about it. Split my ears!
these women veer about like March winds,
but some how or other they always continue
to keep ahead.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE THIRD.
[ The tent of Gen. Winfield —Winfield and
Virginia .]
Gen. Whom do the soldiers usher to my
tent ?
[Euler soldiers and St. Francis .]
Soldier. General, this man demands ad
mittance here;
llis garb is savage, hut his skin is white,
And speaks him of our race.
Virginia. He is my friend ;
Ho prayed for me when my deep prayers
were spurn’d.
St. F. (V’o the soldiers.) Ye may depart;
I want no witness here.
Gen. What means this mystery ? Who
and what art thou,
Who wear this tone and aspect of command?
St. F. I'll toll thee when there’s none but
Heaven to hear.
Gen. (Makes a sign to the soldiers, u'ho
depart.) Leave me, Virginia.
Virginia. {ln a low voice.) Father, he is
thy foe.
Gen. Go, foolish girl, I fear not mortal foe.
[Exit Virginia, slowly and reluctantly.]
Now, strange intruder, Heaven alone can
hear.
St. F. Augustus Winfield, know’at thou
not the man
W ho, face to face and soul to soul, now meets
thee ?
Win. Stranger, I know thee not.
St. F. What! hast not thou,
In some dark, lonely hour, when midnight
dreams,
Chased by accusing phantoms, fled thy
couch ?
And conscience, naked, trembling, shrinking,
crouched
Before its own dark shadow ? Hast thou not
Felt some avenging fiend, resembling me,
Fastening its grasp upon thy quivering heart,
And shrieking in thy ear, revenge! revenge?
Win. {ln great agitation, yet assuming a
gesture and look of defiance.) Avaunt!
thou madman.
St. F. Madman! aye! Ha! mad!
{Approaching close to Winfield and grasp
ing his arm.)
I'll tell thee who I am—thy soul shall listen —
I am St. Francis! that confiding friend !
| Who warmed a gilded serpent in his breast;
| Aye, in his heart’s best foldings; cherish’d,
hugg’d,
The coiling reptile, while its poisonous tongue
Was darting venom through life’s vital core.
. *
That trusting lover, whose fair perjured bride
Forsook him, smiling ’mid her bridal flowers,
Fled with that serpent! that betraying
wretch!
And brought damnation on himself and me!
Win. Thou shalt not curse the dead ! ’Tis
sacrilege.
St. F. What is it thou call’st death ? Trai
tor! she lives—
Lives in the immortality of shame !
Win. Villain! she died a martyr to re
morse !
She loved me—she was mine—l will not hear
A savage maniac curse her sainted name.
St. F. I curse her not. What! cold and
lifeless clay!
A martyr to remorse! Oh! passion! love!
Thou dotest on dust and ashes! In the grave
There s no memory. Shall revenge pnrsue
The poor, uneouscious earth ? The molder
ing bones
Wrestle with worms, corruption and decay ?
; But thou, cold, selfish wretch! thou dar’st
to live,
! Unknown by care, unharrowed by remorse,
Thou dar’st to look upon this blasted brow,
Where once the spirit in its glory shone,
And read the malediction written here,
And call me villain, too—a mad man ? Durst
thou ?
Win. Unhand me. Thou slialt rue thy
bitter threats;
| I am a soldier; did I not disdain
To stain my sword in such inglorious strife,
And wert thou weapou’d, 1 would make thee
seal
Thy calumnies in thy heart’s blood, or mine.
St. F. Draw, then; I’m armed; armed with
that fearful strength
; Remembered wrongs and thirsting ven
geance give.
For years I’ve worn this dagger next my
heart—
(Draws one from his bosom.)
IMy naked heart—and when its beatings prest
! Against the cold, blue steel, a shuddering joy
. Crept through my frame—the herald of re
venge.
; What! dost thy ciieek turn pale ? Thou sear
est to draw!
J (Winfield draws his sword, inflamed with
passion.)
Yes; steel to steel; now pause upon the
brink
| Os the unknown, tho imperishable void.
; Death lurks as sure upon this dagger’s point
As in the lightning’s bolt. The venomed
blade
Will poison while it drains the vital stream.
Tremble, deliberate murderer!
Peace! avaunt!
Why should I give thee that for which I yearn
And pant with deep, insatiate desire ?
J I’ll find a nearer passage to thy heart!
; I’ll stab thee where the death pang shall en
dure
’ Long as vitality is in thy soul.
This! to thy conscience! This!
(Stabbing himself.)
Virginia, I am avenged !
Win. What l ho! there! He bleeds, he
sinks, he dies.
{Enter Weathcrlon and Jenny.)
Weath. Halloo! your honor, are the toma
hawks behind ?
Jenny. Where is St. Francis? sure they
| sent me hither.
Wcalh. Peace! babbling woman! He is
a dying man !
Help me to bind his wound. I’m dizzy, sick
(Staggers back against the lent.)
Jenny. [Throwing herself on her knees be
fore St. Francis.) Oh! if you love a
fellow mortal’s peace,
Forgive me ere you die. lam the wretch
Who lost your precious baby in tho woods—
The child you had committed to my charge—
Where the big savage stole him. Lack-a
day !
It almost broke my heart; when he was lost
I was afraid to tell the righteous truth,
And said the boy was dead. Oh ! wicked lie!
He else might have been saved. ( Weeps
bitterly.)
St. F. (With reviving energy.) Woman,
as thou hast an immortal soul,
Swear that thy words are true.
Weath. She never lied but ‘once,
And that had well nigh crazed her brain.
St. F. Forester! where is he? The flood
of life
Rolls back and struggles ’mid the sullen
waves;
My fainting spirit grapples to return.
Where art thou, gallant boy ? Thy father
calls.
Am Ia father ? Have I cursed my son ?
II in. Weatherton, hence; speed thee for
thy life; she, too,
% daughter —both.
[Exit Weatherton .]
W retch that I am!
St. Francis, ’tis in vain. With late remorse
I shudder at my crime. lam a murderer.
[Kneeling by his side.)
j Live for thy son. Is thine the forest child ?
1 Behold this token—all the gem he wore.
[Talcing a bracelet from his breast.)
St. F. [Snatching it and kissing it.) Mine;
all my own ! His dying mother clasp’d
The golden links Not yet, ye ebbing
veins!
Down, down, ascending spirit; nature, oh!
[Enter Weatherton, Forester and Virginia .]
Forest. St. Francis bleeding! dying! Gra
cious Heavens!
St. F. Thou whom I’ve lov’d, unknowu,
dear, noble boy,
Come to a father’s arms. My son ! my son j
Forest. [Throwing himself by St. Francis’
side and embracing him.) Thy 7 son ! My
father! Oh! ’tis nature’s voice.
[Springing vp and gazing wildly round
him.)
Where is thy murderer? Aye! thou didst
say
That this man was a villain !
[Seizing Winfield by the arm with violence .]
Virginia. [lnterposing herself between For
ester and her father.) Oh ! part thorn !
Father ! Forester ! forbear !
Weath. [Unloosing the grasp of Forester.)
Young man, your father’s hand is wet
with blood;
It holds the dagger yet clinched like an oar.
St. F. I die my own avenger and destroyer.
My son, remember, in my bloody grave,
i Bury with this, (slowly lifting vp the dag
ger,) the memory of my wrongs!
; The heritage of vengeance is not thine;
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, MAY 14, 1852.
Curse not her father. (Taking the hand of
Virginia and uniting it with that of For
ester, who noic kneels by his side.) ’Tis
a fearful thing;
This world of sin and passion.
Erring, blind.
All Merciful, forgive; cold, cold and dark;
Chill, midnight darkness. Oh! ’tis death!
death! death!
[Expires in the arms of his son—Curtain
falls to slow music.]
THE END.
[WRITTEN rOR THE SENTINEI.]
A TRIP TO THE BAY.
[ CONTINUED. ]
LETTER 11.
Quincy, April IG, 1852.
Seated ori the boiler deck, and feeling the
exhilarating influence of the rising sea-breeze,
we watched the jolly tars of the Portland, while
they transferred the sacks of salt with which
the ship was freighted to the charge of the
W vnnton. One would imagine this must be
a very uninteresting process, but music can
lend enchantment to any scene—and then it
was performed with real grace and spirit.
There was one man who seemed to direct
the operations, short in stature, with a broad,
fat, good nalured face, who occupied a cen
tral position, and pulled a rope with might
and mam. He wore a white hat, and his
white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his el
bows, showing scarlet flannel undersleeves.
The sailors, by two and two, departing from
him, their common centre, tugged at their
ropes, singing some wild melody with grow
ing spirit, and by the time they had reached
the end of their rope, a huge bag of salt
emerged from the hull of the ship, then was
swung by one man to receive a stronger im
pulse from another, to pass from him to an
other, who stood on the very verge of the
vessel, and unhooking the sack from the noose
that encircled it, gave it a toss on the inclined
plane, on which it slid down into the boat.
This continued for hours, and all the time
they kept up their wild minstrelsy, and all
the time we gazed and listened with unabated
interest, while the fresh breeze curled the wa
ter and blew inspiringly round us. As the
boat departed, the sailors gave three loud,
hearty cheers, to which waving handkerchiefs
responded, and it was not long before Apa
lachicola appeared in sight, illuminated by
the cloudless rays of the setting sun.
Another delightful evening there, and
homeward bound, the Wynnfon went on its
course rejoicing. The next morning there
were clouds and heavy falling rains, accom
panied by the deep bass of the thunder and
the vivid flash of the lightning. But bright
and clear was the social spirit within, and
music, poetry and sentiment gave wings to
passing hours. We stopped at Oehesee, in
“thunder, lightning and in rain.” Ah! when
“shall we all meet again ?” we silently asked,
as after bidding adieu to the delightful party
which had accompanied us on our winding
way, we climbed up the steep, wet banks, not
forgetting the magnolias and wild flowers
which gallant hands had gathered from the
fragrant shores, crossed a broad, grassy plain,
and ascending a long flight of steps in front
of Mr. Gregory’s mansion, looked back to
wards (lie friends whose figures still lingered
on deck and whose countenances beamed
through the clouds and rain, with that sun
shine of the soul, brighter than the solar rays.
We looked till the black smoke no longer
darkened the sky—the foaming wake no
longer divided the water.
There is but one house at the Oehesee
Landing, owned and occupied by Mr. Grego
ry—one of the most industrious, energetic
and thriving planters of Florida. The dwel
ling-house is lofty—raised so as to avoid the
danger arising from an overflowing river—
and its white walls look down commanding
ly on the beautiful water-view in front. The
negro cabins are also white, as well U3 a no
ble gin-house on the right hand. A rich*
grassy-green carpet covers a smooth lawn
stretching down to the river and spreading
out on either side of the building. But the
glory of the place consists of the grand old live
oaks, that stand side by side, gigantic twins,
throwing their mighty shadows far and wide
and extending towards each other their hun
dred branching arms. What a history might
be read in those majestic trees! Unchang.
ing as the ocean in their perennial verdure,
they have witnessed ten thousand mutations,
themselves unchanged, and may witness ten
thousand more.
Hail, prophets of nature—hail, beacons of time—
Proud kings of the forest, ye’re reigning supreme,
’Mid beauty, luxuriance, and bloom ;
The glories of nature have fled since your birth—
The mighty been swept from the face of the earth,
And the sun of the conqueror gone down.
But that Power to whom nature and empires have
bowed,
Who has robbed of their glory the mighty and proud,
Will prostrate your grandeur in dust;
That Power, who the changes of nature controls—
Who can stay the dark ocean of time as it rolls—
Eternal, Almighty and Just.
As the ferry-boat at Aspalaga was out of
order, we were compelled to cross at Chat
tahoochee, adding about thirteen miles to the
distance between Oehesee and Quincy.—
Nothing can be more gorgeously beautiful
than the scenery on the banks of the river
which we followed for several miles. The
foliage of the trees was so rich and luxuriant;
such wild, wanton vines clambered round the
trunks; the swamp-flowers bloomed with
such superabundant life and fragrance ; and
then the bright, yellow weed, that made such
a golden carpet for the trees, —and the river
rolling and glistening, and softly murmuring !
along one side, with its sweet, glad smile of
almost human loveliness, —oh ! it was magnifi
cent —charming,—and to crown the whole,
just over a gate which opened into a rich
plantation, two lofty trees, bending down, as
if burdened by their weight of leaves, inter
laced their branches, and formed a graceful
and triumphal arch overhead.
Near the ferry at Chattahoochee is the
i confluence of the Chattahoochee and the
Flint, and you can plainly distinguish the
darker, clearer waters of the latter, as they
mingle with the more turbid waves of the
former. After crossing the river, the ride
through the pine woods is lonely and monot
onous, onlv at long intervals interrupted by
signs of human inhabitancy. At every step
the ruins of the tremendous August gale are
visible. I.es cadavres des arhres, as Cha
! teaubriand calls them—corpses of trees, of
| gigantic pine trees, lie piled upon each other,
like fallen heroes on a battle plain—and the
| road is constantly making zig-zag freaks, to
avoid desecrating these forest remains.
1 ■
j Just as the twilight shadows were begin
! ning to steal over the woods, we entered the
beautiful and oak-embowered town of Quin
i cy. We had been told that the summer
storm had made fearful ravages here, but in
the dense oaken groves and among the mag
nificent shade trees which adorn and embo
som the place, we look in vain for the foot
prints of the angel of the whirlwind. We can
see, however, many proofs of its visitation.
Under the window by which we are seated,
; there is an orange tree nearly twenty feet in
; height. The topmost branches are all blight
j ed and leafless ; only the lower boughs retain
i their vitality. All the orange trees here are
j blasted in their bloom, and the cultivation of
years destroyed.
If you think it would interest your readers,
we will occasionally transmit to you a few
petals from the land of flowers, on which,
like the Magnolia leaf, some passing thoughts
may be traced. We will give them to the
passing breeze, to bo wafted on the Chat-
I tahoochee’s current, to the feet of the Scnti
| ncl, which perchance may bear them to the
hearts of our friends.
C. L. H.
(Our Contributors.
[written for the sentinel.]
I’M GLADDEST WHEN I STAG.
BY ERNEST SOLE.
I.
I'm gladdest when I sing
The merry songs of yoro,
With the wooing breeze of Spring,
And the sunshine on the floor—
While the wild-bird sits beside nre
On the zephyr-kissing spray,
And his warbling love notes chide me,
That I do not sing alway.
11.
When my heart droops sad and lonely,
For rny soul-star far away,
Whose breast for me throbs only.
With a pulse that knows no stay ;
I remember Time full fleetly
The meeting hour will bring :
Comes that angel hope so sweetly,
I’m gladdest when I sing.
111.
In the shadow-haunted twilight,
When tlie day is past and gone,
Beneath the glimmering starlight,
Upon the scented thorn,
The Nightingale sits singing,
With meekly folded wing,
‘Till the od'rous bowers are ringing,
I’m gladdest when I sing.
IV.
I love a lay of childhood
That I erewhile gladly sang,
When wandeiing in the wild wood
Whence yon laughing brooklet sprang;
When the stealing on of moonlight,
Such memories will bring,
To my heart that shuns the daylight,
I'm gladdest when I sing.
[WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.]
THE MEMOIRS OF VASHTI,
QUEEN OF PERSIA ;
OR,
| The first great Martyr lor ‘Woman’s Rights,’
In order fully to realize the great sacrifice
t made by Queen Vashti, for the inestimable
i privilege of having her own wav, we must
1 carry our minds back to the former greatness
and gorgeous magnificence of the ancient
Persian Empire—with its walled cities sixty
miles in circumference, with high towers,
gates of brass, and marble palaces, and also
enriched by tho conquest and wealth of the
then known world. The throne of the king
dom was in S'nushan the palace, which was
built of marble and was five or six miles in
circumference, containing spacious and ele
gant courts and gardens. Its rooms were or
namented with white and blue and green
hangings, fastened with cords of fine linen
and purple to silver rings, and pillars of mar
ble, and were paved with red, blue, black and
white marble, while all the drinking vessels
were of gold and all the beds of fine gold and |
silver. When we think of a delicate and
beautiful Queen forfeiting this regal home
with all its riches, honors and glories, rather
than resign or give up woman’s just and in
alienable right, that of having her own will
and way, we cannot but wonder at her great
ness of mind, and marvel that her character
has heretofore never been more celebrated,
and her example held up for the admiration
of all womankind by the modern reformers
of the present day.
Now, King Ahasuerus, her liege lord, gave
a great feast in the third year of his reign un
to all his princes and nobles of the provinces, i
and all his servants, in order to show them
the riches of his glorious kingdom and the
honor of his excellent majesty; which lasted
even an hundred and fourscore days.
Mr. Editor, we may talk of modern gran
deur and the sovereign people in load, swel
ling phrases, hut it seems to me as if there
must he a great deal of humbug in it—for on
ly think of one of the sovereign people of this
our Empire State, attempting to give such a
grand feast, to such a concourse of people,
for such a number of days, with provisions
at the present, prices! After this feast had
expired, he gave a still greater feast of seven
days unto all the people of his palace, and
Queen Vashti also made a feast for the wo
men of the royal house, and on the seventh
day, when the heart of the King was merry
with wine, he commanded his chamberlains
to bring Vashti the Queen before him,, with
the crown royal, to show the princes and the
people her beauty—for she was fair to look
upon.
Oh! most beautiful Queen ! methinks I can
see thy bosom heave and thine eyes flash fire
with indignation, as thou heareth this ungra
cious command of thy intoxicated sovereign
master—to make thyself a puppet show, a
sight unto the people—to lay aside the cus
tom of thy nation and appear unveiled, to
exhibit thy sacred, royal beauty to the gaze
of the curious multitude.
We know thou canst not do it; to be the
only Queen of Persia thus dishonored ; to be
exposed before the public, like a slave in the
market place, and have this blot upon thy
fair fame, go abroad throughout all the earth,
and down to all future time! oh, we rejoice
for the honor of thy sex that thou wilt not
do it.
An indignant refusal to obey this com
! mand rushed to thy lips; but then thou thiuk
est of the anger of thy husband-king, and thy
cheeks pale with fear. Thou lookest abroad
! upon the city, embowered with luxuriant
trees, with its palaces, temples, gardens, foun
tains and pleasant, busy streets. Thou look
est around upon the gorgeous, splendid com
forts and luxuries of thine own saloon, and
upon the sweet faces of thy dear companions,
and upon thy faithful, devoted servants, and
thine heart fails thee in making the great
sacrifice, of resigning thy royalty for ban
ishment.
Again the chamberlains urge thee to go, and
thou ariseth and arrayeth thyself with the
royal vesture and the crown with its glitter
ing jewels—but 10, thou shrinkest from the
crowd —thou feelest thine own royalty—thou
const no.t go.
Thou hast thought upon the humble, sub
jected condition of the ladies of Media and
Persia, who have no will of their own, but
obey their masters in all things; and thy bo
som again heaves and thine eyes glow, at the
thought, that by setting them a bright exam
ple, which they may follow, that thus thou
wilt break their galling, degrading servitude
from this time forth and forever more.
Strong in the spirit of patriotism, greatness
and goodness, thou castest all thy doubts
i from thee,
J “For they are naugM but traitors
Which make us lose the good,
V e oft might win, by fearing to attempt.’’
But, oh! most lovely martyr, thy doom is
sealed even as thy lips pronounce thy firm
refusal to the King’s command, and the sac
rifice which thou hast made of thyself, for
the independence of thy suffering sisterhood,
lias been in vain ; but thy acts have been re
corded as a bright example of heroism for all
succeeding time.
Satan, the Prince of this world, knowing
the great good that would accrue to all man
kind, if woman could universally have her
own way, hath entered into the heart of Me
mucan, one of the King’s counsellors, and
advised him of thy designs and the grave im
portance of thy acts, and hath given him dia
bolical advice to speak before the King. So
King Ahasuerus’ anger burned, and his wrath
was kindled against Queen Vashti, because
she had refused to come, and he assembled
all his wise men and counsellors to know
what should be done unto her, according to
the law and judgment.
And Memucan, arising, answered before
the King and Princes: “Oh, most noble
King, the Queen Vashti hath not done
wrong to the King only, but also to the prin
ces and all the people of the provinces; for
when this deed of the Queen shall be report
ed and come abroad unto all women, thev
shall despise their husbands in their eyes,
when they learn that the King hath comman
ded, but that she would not appear before
him. Likewise will ail the ladies of Media
and Persia say and do unto their husbands,
even after the manner of the Queen ; so from
this deed there shall arise much contempt and
wrath for all men.
“Now, if it please the King, let there go
j forth a royal commandment, that cannot be
| altered, that Vashti come no more before
| the King, but let him give her royal estate
unto another that is better than she. So that
when the King’s decree shall be published
throughout the Empire, all wives shall give
! their husbands honor, both great and small.”
And the saying pleased the King, and he
did according to the word of Memucan, and
sent letters unto all the provinces, and to ev
ery people after their language—“ That eve
ry man should bear rule in his own house.”
So the wrath of the King was appeased,
when he remembered Queen Vashti, and
what war- decreed against her.
TERMS OF PUBLICATION.
One Copy, per annum, if paid in advance,.. .$2 00
“ “ “ “ “ “ h: =me nth*, 250
“ ‘* M M “ “ at end of year, 300
RATES OF ADVERTISING.
One square, first insertion, - - - - - SI 00
“ “ each subsequent insertion, - 50
A liberal deduction made io favor of those who
advertise largely.
NO. 20.
How few have estimated the grave impor
tance and the heroism of* this act of the great
Queen Yashti, in becoming a martyr in t!fo
vain attempt to secure to woman her great
right—that of ruling equall y with her husband
in her own household! Who can number the
evil that has befallen all mankind, from this
diabolical advice of Memucan, and this ill ad
vised decree of the King ? Its immediate ef
fects were soon perceived in the great degen
eracy of the people, when the children were
raised according to the wishes and opinions
of the husbands, which was followed by the
rapid and speedy decline of the immense Per
sian Empire, even to its complete overthrow.
Though all mankind have suffered by this
deed, as the whole world might now have
been blooming like the Garden of Eden, and
the Millennium have dawned ere this, if all
women could, in past times, have only had
their own way—still it is the women who have
suffered most evil, from this Satan-inspired
advice, of the bald-headed, hook-nosed, blear
eyed, old tyrannical prince, Memucan. For,
from this time, women descended lower and
lower, until they became the servants of ser
vants, hewers of wood and drawers of water,
and hath endured such indignities, burdens,
impositions, trials, crosses, and domestic ty
ranny, for the last three thousand years, that
one cannot but exclaim, on viewing their sad
condition : “Oh, that mine head were waters,
and mine eyes rivers of tears, so that 1
might weep day and night for the sufferings
and evils of the daughters of the people!”
But the spirit of Queen Yashti is not yet
dead, and a portion of her great mopal cour
age hath reappeared in the conduct and ac
tions of some heroic souls of the present day,
who are devoting their lives, time and ener
gies, to the great task of loosing the bonds of
servitude from off’ the shoulders oi women,
and restoring them to their natural rights of
equality and freedom. All such should meet
in solemn convocation, for the purpose ot
doing honor to the memory of the great
Queen Yashti, and erecting a monument, to
show to all future times, their appreciation of
her conduct and self-sacrifice, while they
should also decree that Prince Memucan
should be annually burnt in effigy in the midst
of the greatest obloquy, derision and con
tempt. O tempora ! O mores!
EMELDA.
HOW TO RAISE THE WIND.
Taylor, of the Opera House, used to say of
Sheridan, that he could not pull off his hat to
him in the street without its costing him fifty
pounds, and if he stopped to speak with him
it was a hundred. No one could be a strong
er instance than he was of what is called /ic
ing from hand to mouth. He wn3 always
in want of money, though he received vast
sums which he must have disbursed ; and
yet nobody can tell what became @f them, for
he paid nobody. He spent his wife’s fortune
(sixteen hundred pounds) in a six weeks’
jaunt to Bath, and returned to town as floor
as a rat. Whenever he and his son were in
vited out into the country, they always went
in two post-chaises and four ; he in one, and
his son Tom following in another. This is
the secret of those who live in a round of
‘extravagance, and are at the same time al
ways in debt and difficulty—they throw away
all the ready money they get upon any new
fangled whim or project that comes m their
way, and never think of paying off’old spores,
which of coarse accumulate to a dreadful
amount. “Such gain the cap of him who
makes them fine, yet keeps his book uncross
ed.” Sheridan once wanted to take Mrs.
Sheridan a very handsome dress down into
the country, and went to Barber & Nunn’s
to order it, saying he must have it bv such a
daw hut promising that they should have
ready money. Mrs. Barber (1 think it was)
made answer that the time was short, but
that ready money was a charming thing, and
that he should have it. Accordingly, at the
time appointed, she brought the dress, which
came to five-and-twenty pounds, and it was
sent in to Mr. Sheridan, who sent out a Mr.
Grimm (one of his jackalls) to say that he
admired it exceedingly, and that he was sure
Mrs. Sheridan would be delighted with it, hut
he was sorry to have nothing under a hun
dred pound hank note in the house. She
said she had come provided for such an ac
cident ; and could give change for a hundred,
two hundred, or a five hundred pound note,
if it were necessary. Grimm then went back
to his principal for further instructions; who
made an excuse that he had no stamped re
ceipt by him. For this Mrs. B. said she was
also provided : she had brought one in her
pocket. At each message, she could hear
them laughing heartily in the next room, at
the idea of having met with their match for
once; and presently after, Sheridan cama
out, in high good humor, and paid her the
amount of her bill in ten, five, and one pound
notes. Once when a creditor brought him a
bill for payment which had often been presen
ted before, and the man complained of its
soiled and tattered state, and said he was
quite ashamed to see it, “I’ll tell you what
I’d advise you to do with it, tny friend,” said
Sheridan ; “take it home and write it upon
parchment /” lie once mounted a horse
which a horse-dealer was showing offNpear
a coffee-house at the bottom of St. James’s
street, rode it to Tattersalls, and sold it, and
walked quietly back to the spot from whch
he had set out. The owner was furious,
swore he w ould be the death of him ; and in
a quarter of an hour afterwards, they were
seen sitting over a bottle of w ine in the cos-
fee-house, the horse-jockey with tears run
ning down his face at Sheridan's jokes and
almost ready to hug him as an honest fellow.
Sheridan’s house and lobby were beset v ith
duns every morning, who were told that Mr*
Sheridan was not yet up, and shown into the
several rooms on each side of the entrance.
As soon as he had breakfasted, he asked, “Are
those doors all shut, John ?” and, being as
sured they were, marched out very deliber
ately between them, to the astonishment of his
self-invited guests, who soon found the bird
was flown. I have heard one ol his old city
friends declare that such was the effect of hi*