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THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
IS PUBLISHED
EVERY FRIDAY MORNING,
HV
T. LOMAX & CO.
TEXXEXT LOMAX, Principal Editor.
Office on Randolph street.
.Citcron) Deportment.
Gotocctep r.v CAROLINE LEE HENTZ.
[WRITTEN FOR TIIE SENTINEL.J
in i: 31 aid or jidea.
Homeward the weary warrior bent
His footsteps,from the bannered tent;
Triumph was his; the sword he wore,
Victory from twenty cities bore.
Yet not lbr fame, with life-blood bought,
Had Gilead’s dauntless champion fought;
In Heaven’s own panoply he braved
Tiie battle, and his country saved.
lie gazed where, reddened by the glow
The oriental mountains throw,
Y hen their high reaching Mows arret
The rosy ti; t- that gild lb- we-t;
He saw those native walls afar,
Where beamed the pure and vestal star,
Whose rays of filial beauty shone
For him, and for her God alone.
He thought how soon her maiden charms
Would fill a conquering father’s amts ;
And as the tide of feeling swept
O’er his full heart, the victor wept.
But hark ! what strain of music eallt
The echoes f’oin their rocky halis?
More near it floats, in triumph swelling,
As if some theme of glory telling.
The parting foliage backward swings,
Light, as if fanned by fairy wings;
And a- the trembling leaves divide,
In the white robes of virgin pride,
‘Phe minstrel maiden meet? hi - glance,
Weaving her country’s grace! M dance,
Y bile, sweeter as she onward floats,
Blie wakes the timbrel’s lofty notes.
Wild blossoms, that her bright locks wreathe.
O’er her pure brow their odors breathe ;
Yet even their fairest tints disclose
No blush, to mutch her cheek's soft rose.
The deepest blue of -tarry skies
Seem : deepeue 1 in her hi idling-eve;.
Whose heavenward radiance now reveals
All that a chieftain's daughter feel?,
Who in her warlike -ire can truce
The avenger of an injured race.
But when h-r arm- of! ve she flings
Around hi? not h, And fondly cling-*
To hi mailed bo.-oin, why with wild
And frenzied -tart, thru-1 back his child ?
Y itli one loud e y of piercing woe,
Turn from the lirilit of that sweet brow,
And writhe, as if the deadly fold
Os poisonous serpent round him rolled ?
The memory of his fatal vow
Flashes like blurting lightning now :
That vow, breathed forth on battle-Held,
By victory’s Moody signet sealed.
As herds the lily, when the wrath
Os northern wind * sweeps o’er its path ;
Just as its fair, unfolding bloom,
The -un’s parental beam? illume;
So torn from nature's dearest stay,
Pale, trembling, at his feet she lay ;
Y bile 100 e. on her reclining head,
Her unshorn ringlet.- o’er them spread.
Jephthah beheld the only flower
Left to adorn his widowed bow* r,
Y hose virgin beauty grew so fair,
It seemed some fostering angel's care
Had to this cherished blossom given
The puritv and bloom of Heaven ;
D coping, as if a sudden blast
O'er her young charms a Might laid cast,
And the dry agony of grief
Through gn. hing fountains sought relief.
“Oh, thus,” the melt -d warrior cried,
“Pure front the stains of earthly pride,
Pure from ail sin, the offering be
O il hearts devote, 0 Lord! to thee,
Mv child and bending down, he prest
The pallid maiden to bis breast.
‘'My blameless child, a featful doom
Hang s trembling o'er thy life's young bloom ;
‘I hough thousand lives l would resign,
Even lor one hour, to ransom thine ;
’I {trough me, my spotless lamb must bleed,
‘Phe altar’.- holy flame to feed
Oh ! when to Israel's God I vowed,
While round me rolled war’s fiery cloud,
l! the Great Spirit of His might
Led me victorious tTough the tight.
What first my glad return would hail,
To native Mizpan’s re cued vale,
A votive sacrifice should raise
The incense of my country's praise.
I little thought that thou, the dear,
‘Phe only treasure ieit me here,
In whom I’ve garnered all mv joys “
O’er-mastering nature checked his voice.
And all the human heart can bear
t >! deep, unutterable despair,
b'poke, m tli2 darkening glance he bent,
l pon the gorgeous firmament,
As il its broad refulgent glow,
Bhone but in mockery of his woe.
And site, the gentle and the yottrg,
it iron nerves were thus un.trung,
Did not her reeling reason fly,
Her fluttering lit!- pule faint and die?
No ! while sustained in that dear fold
Os weeping love, her doom was told—
A light, like morning’s breaking rav,
Began o’er her wan check to play—
Y ith triumph kindling in her look,
Backward the veiling locks rite shook,
Whose waves of amber scented to throw
A glory round he- - lifted brow ;
And with a calm and heavenly smile.
As if the altar’s .-acre-.! pile
Already tor the victim blazed,
Her unpolluted hands she raised :
•“Where sk ejis my father’s manly pride ?”
The death-devoted maiden cried.
‘'Oil! lot not tears so weak and v ain
‘Phe warrior’s noble cheek distain;
Think, what a glorious fate, to be
A covenant ’twist my God and thee;
Deemed worthy in His holy eye.
An offering, on His shrine to lie,
Yriiile virgin innocence and truth
Adorn the blossoms of my youth !
The whitest lamb of Gilead’s flock
Is driven from the mountain rock ;
The lairost flower of Gilead deck
The fleecy victim’s snow-white neck,
When grateful hearts to Heaven would bear
‘I he incense of devotion’s prayer.
Then weep not, father ; to thy vow
A willing sacrifice I bow ;
1 come, with joy’s bright garlands crowned,
To minstrelsy’s exulting sound.
As Israel's daughters wont to grace
The triumphs of their eiiosen race :
Away, this worthless wreath I tear,
The martyr’s deathless palm to wear;
Hushed be the timbrel’s echoing swell,
I go,in music’s courts to dwell.”
Breathless, she paused—a softer mood
Her eyes’ unearthly fire subdued—
And towards her native mountains turning,
Y here the last flumes of day were burning,
The chords of earthly feeling woke
Their last vibration as she spoke :
“Yet oh!” she added, “ere my sire
‘"'hall lead me to the kindling pyre,
Let ine on those green hil Is onee more
1 !*e scenes of early joy explore;
* here, with the virgin train, who lead
YOL. 111.
Their flocks on tendore-t herbs to feed ;
While near the strides arid gu-hiug springs
They tune their wild harp’s sounding strings,
My soul, with penitence and prayer,
Shali lor tiie solemn rife prepare.
And when another spring renews
Its flowery sweets and genial dews,
The daughters of my tribe -hall come
With wreaths symbolic of my bloom.
And mourn me. as a tender iiart,
Pierced by the forest hunter's da; t.
Oh! think not earth’s fond memories cling,
To chain my spirit's mounting wing;
But when in Zion’s fairer land,
I join the seraphs’ white-robed band,
’T sweet to think, where onee I smiled,
They’ll -till rcinemlier Jephthah’s child ;
And as yon twilight’s golden ray
Reflects the vani-hed beams of day,
My memory will a light impart,
To cheer a father’s lonely heart.”
Thus meek and pure, the lamb was led to slaughter,
Thus perished, in her bloom, Judea’s daughter.
C. L. 11.
Quincy, July 20, 1352.
[WRITTEN’ FOR THE SENTINEL.J
It! 1)1 YU IV \ ST AUK.
Creeping through the valley—
Crawling o’er the full—
Splashing through the “branches,”
Rumbling by the mill—
Putting nervous “getninea”
In a tow'ring rage ;
What is so provoking
As—riding in a stage ?
Feet are interlacing—
Heads severely humped—
Friend and foe together,
Get their no.-es thumped ;
Satins act as foot-mato—
Listen to the sage—
“ Life is but a journey
Taken in a stage I”
Spiust -rs “fiir(?) and forty”-
Maid- in youthful charm
Sadd -lily are east in
To tli -ir neighbor’s arm?.
Children fly like squirrels
Darting through a cage—
Isn't it delightful
Riding in a stage ?
Ms i tried men look smiling—
They arc* out of (right,
Thankful that a broom-tick
Is no where in sight!
Young men wish old Harry
W ould, with fiendish rage,
Take them, if again they
Ever take a stage.
Bonne’s crash around us—
Hats look “worse for wear” —
Teeth, at each concussion,
Fly to take the air ;
ShriVclled maiden ladies,
Past a “certain age,”
Groan forlornly—“dreadful!
Riding in a stage!”
Jolted—thumped—distracted—
Racked, and q -rite forlorn ;
“Olt!” writhes one, “what duties
Now are laid on corn!”
Mad—annoyed, and angry—
In a swearing rage—
’ Tis the very D—l
Riding in a stage !
John Smith.
Savannah, May 27th, 1^52.
[written for tiie sentinel.]
GL E AXING S;
FROM THE FIELDS OF FACT AND FICTION. 1
BY F.TANX HYLAND.
I The Orphan Maiden’s Trial, j
A .Story ol Mobile, Ala.
“Do not urge me, dear mother. I cannot
i disobey you if you command me to it; and
yet l feel that it would be sinful, in the sight of
God, f. r me to follow your wishes. The
vows l would be compelled to breathe j
with inv lips would receive no sanction from
my heart, and, what would be equally wrong,
| they would meet with but an outward fullil-
I meat in my life. So do not insist on my doing
i what is so repugnant to every instinct of my
nature.”
“My child, what are we to do? What will
become of us? My own health is gone. You
are too feeble to work. Here is this bill of
Dr. Winston’s, sent this morning for collec
| tion. Our account at the drug store has been
: in the house for a week, and I am now snf
! feting for want of the medicine prescribed by :
the Doctor but which I dare not send for until
our druggist bill is paid. To crown all, he
called as 1 told you, while you were at mar
ket last evening, and said, that since you had
rejected his—his—love; do not smile, Carrie,
for that was the word tie used; he said that
since you had rejected his love, and persisted
| in defering an answer to his proposal, he
must have the rent for the last two quarters
| paid; and that unless settled against the end
j of the week, or a favorable reply be given
to bis proposition of marriage, we must seek
another home.”
“And so lie threatened us! the unfeeling,
wretch! lie may do his worst; but sooner
| than marry him, mother, I will go into the
! streets and beg our bread from door to door,
i Mother, 1 disliked him before; now, I abhor
| him. He talks ol love! He is incapable of
i loving. His course, as you know, has evinc
ed nothing but the basest passion. Finding
that all liis criminal overtures were unsuccess
ful, he made oiler o( marriage, and after vain- ;
■ ly seeking to win my regards, by his hollow
! and loathed attentions, he crowns his despi
: cable character, by threatening to make us
homeless unless I become his wife. Oh, my
| mother, can you advise me to it ? Aou whom
I remember as the model of all that was no
| ble in integrity and stern in principle? Can
| you ?”
There was a pause, and from two full
! hearts welled up deep and broken sobs. The
; mother was the first to speak.
“You have recalled my former self, mv
darling child. Forgive me, that I should have
suffered affliction, and poverty, and obscuri
ty, to drive me so far into wrong. I only
thought of my helplessness, Carrie, and of
you, pale, sick, and it may soon be, dying,
“■
| and of the wealth and position that tills mar
riage would secure. It was a dream—a dark
one—and i. gone. God has not forsaken us
vet, and if we trust in him, he wiiJ never leave
us alone.”
“Bless you, mother, for your encouraging
words. God will not abandon us. Has he
not, within the past fortnight, sent us, strange
ly enough, two gentlemen, as lodgers, and
; thereby given ns the means of sharing in com
-1 . °
forts, so necessary to you in your an mate
health ?”
“W e will distrust him no more, my child,
for he is good.”
e*, dear mother, ‘lie 2i> good, and his
mercy enduretb forever.’ ”
Mrs. Anderson was a widow, and Caro
line, her only child, was fatherless. Mr. An
derson had been a village merchant of quite
handsome property in Tennessee. When
the estate was settled up, after his death, it
was found that owing to carelessness in the
management of his affairs, and subsequent ad
vantage having been taken of that negli
gence by his partner, there was but little left
for his surviving wife and child. With this
little, .Mrs. Anderson proceeded to an up-coun
try neighborhood in Alabama, where a sister
was residing, determining to spend the resi
due of her days near that sister. .Shu arrived
only to find her sister dead; and at the sug
gestion of others, she went. to Mobile, with
the intention of gaining a subsistence for her
self and daughter by their needles.
Mrs. Anderson was a proud a woman ; too
proud to return to a community, where she
had been a leader in the fashionable world,
ami there submit to the drudgery of needle
work, as a means, and the only one too, of
support. It was a false pride, truly; never
theless, she was a victim to it. Apart from
this weakness, Mrs. Anderson was a woman
of sterling worth; and vet, because of this,
she was doomed to broken health and much
mental disquietude.
The summer after their arrival in the city—
tiie summer of -16—the yellow fever laid both
mother and daughter upon beds, which had
well nigh proven beds of death. They were
spared; however; the mother to he bed rid
den and the daughter frail, and with every
appearance of being doomed to an early rest
among the pale-faced sleepers.
In company with an invalid friend, Charles
Brandon, l had gone to Mobile in tiie winter
of ‘4O, to spend a few weeks in the recovery
ol’-my strength, which had been heavily tax
ed by mental labor during the preceding spring
and summer. We were anxious to obtain a
boarding place, in a quiet family, p-ivateand
near the bay. The little cottage of .Mrs. An
derson, with its quarto of rooms, and sweet)v
embosomed in evergreen, which, in our ram
ble the first evening after our anival, we had
seen, seemed to us just the place. The next
day we were duly installed in our new abode,
with its intelligent landlady and her most in
teresting daughter.
The only relic the family retained of tlieir
former luxury, was Carrie’s guitar. In their
affliction, during the long summer months,
all else had been sacrificed. This Carrie
could not part with. It had been her com
panion in happier days. The ears of him,
whose death made her an orphan, had .many
times drank in the music that tremb! and from
its strings, and his heart been made light
er, amid heavy cares, by its sounds. .She
could not give up that instrument. She
would eat less—dress plain- “ —stitch later at
night, if she could only hold on to her “light
guitar.” It was a beautiful devotion to art,
and went not without its reward. She sang
sweetly and played w ith ail expression of
; rare power. The quivering strings became
instinct with life under the touch of her wan
lingers, and cadences, sometimes wild as the
voice of the sea-mew’s, then plaintive as the
last sob of a breaking heart, floated on the
air at her bidding. !t is no marvel that we
were drawn towards that cottage, that twi
light hour, as we were sauntering along in
sight of the broad bay, with its hushed wa
ters and shadowy shipping; and none the
less marvel is it, that my friend, who had the
j soul of an artist, but whose heavy planting
interests in the interior of the State had pre
vented his cultivating and developing that
soul to the extent of which it was suscepti
ble, had made the broken balcony, loading
out from the parlor, a musical trystiug place,
lor the fortnight we had been there, at the
same evening hour in which we had first
heard the co'.tage maiden sing.
We were both convalescing. A profound
; respect for our landlady had been won from
us, while, for Carrie, we entertained a feel
ing of not love—(that is, 1 did not for rav
thoughts were elsewhere) —hut a feeling
“akin to love.”
On the morning of the interview between
the mother and daughter, already recorded,
they supposed Charles and myself absent.—
We were not, however. Every word had
been heard by us, and as may be supposed,
deepened our interest in the persons con
cerned. . We said nothing; for each was bu
sy, perhaps, with his own thoughts and plans.
An hour after, Charles and i were driving
down to the Pavilion, and were deeply into
the subject of assisting our landlady, and
thereby defeating the scheme of their oppres
sor. The point of difficulty was, rendering
aid, with becoming delicacy, and keeping our
names concealed.
“I have it, Frank,” said Charles, with an
energy that was in proof of the deep inteiest
he took in tho matter. “I have it, to a frac-
CGLOBUS. GEORGIA. FRIDAY MORNING, AUGUST 6, 1852.
tion. The Rev. .Mr. G , whose ac
quaintance we made coming down from
Montgomery, is .Mrs. Anderson’s pastor. Let
us seek him—enjoin secrecy, and entrust the
affair to his management.”
To this 1 consented. The next day, we
called at"tho study of the reverend gentleman,
and made known our enterprise. He entered
at once into a hearty co-operation w ith us—
giving us, meantime, a sketch of Mrs. An
derson’s former history, and expressing his
great satisfaction, at the interest we were ta
king in one, so necessitous, and so worthy.
The hill—one sufficiently large to pay all
her debts, and to secure the cottage for the
remainder of the year—was inclosed to Mrs*
Anderson, and placed in the hands of her ex
cellent pastor for her, with tho injunction of
entire secrecy, as to who was the donor.—
What seemed a little singular to me, was the
obstinacy with which Brandon persisted in
claiming the privilege of being the sole con
tiibutor of the amount sent her.
“1 have means equal to yours, Frank,” he
would say, “and no mother, or sister, to
share with me, as you have. Do not deny
me, then, the happiness of serving Mrs. An
derson arid her daughter, as though they
were my mother and sister.”
Charles was wealthy. 1 was comparative
ly poor, and was not without dependencies
on me, of a nature not to he set aside, with
out outraging the feelings of common human
ity ; yet 1 did desire, out of my limited re
sources, to draw something for the bettering
of the lots of those with whom 1 was so
journing. Charles would not listen to it. He
had the exact change: they had been more
troubled by him than by me: there was no
kindred to divide his fortune with; and so I
must not cheat him out of so much .satisfac
tion. as the giving of that money would as
suredly bring him.
These and the like entreaties, secured my
neutrality in the matter, so that my fiend’s
iiand it was, that was stretched out willingly
to the widow’ and the orphan.
The week wore on. Saturday had come.
The day was declining. We s;nv Carrie ift
market, and had added very muteiiallj’ to the
deposits in her market basket; so much so, in
deed, that diaries declared it too burden
some for Miss Anderson, and would dispatch
it home, by a porter, lie had a good heart—
that Charles Brandon. So thought Mrs.
Greene, from whose stall Charles had made
most liberal purchases; and so thought many
a poor needle girl, who had come to pre
pare edibles for the Sabbath—only a bit par
tial, was the very natural suggestion made
to themselves, as they saw that his. good
heartedness expended itself wholly on Carrie
Anderson. After a while we were at home.
The tea table was set aside, and Carrie was
invited to the broken balcony to play.—
There had been a cloud on her brow during
tea. She had done her utmost to dispel it;
yet stay it would. That evening was evident
ly a crisis with her, and she was struggling
to conceal her agony. She supposed us ig
norant of all ; yet we knew all—her despair
and the quickomiug hope; for her minister
was to cal! precisely at nine o’clock, at w hich
time we were to make it convenient to bo
absent.
“Come, Miss Anderson, we are waiting ba
you. One song before we go out. Will vou
not ?”
“I hardly know how to say no, Mr. Bran
don, you have been so kind to us in our—our
—situation: but I feel as though it. would
break my heart to sing to-night. You will
excuse me, won’t }’ou ? Another time— any
other time, than to-night. Do say you will
let me off, and that you will not think me
foolish !”
“\ou are never foolish in my estimation,
Carrie,’’ replied Charles, in a voice low as
the tones of the night wind, and as tremu
lous. Then, as if thinking he had expressed
too much familiarity, he continued :
“I will certainly excuse you, Miss Ander
son. You are unhappy. I see that. Go, then,
and commune with your own pure thoughts,
and if any thing will bring you peace, thev
will. Your mother calls you ! ’
Carrie was gone. Charles gazed on the
open door, through which she had just gli
ded, as though his last hope had vanished.
“Come, Brandon, we will be late!”
He started, as if frightened. We walked
on i:i silence. 1 saw that there was a spell
on my fiend. lie loved Carrie. It was ten
o’clock when we returned. We entered the
little parlor without noise. Mrs. Anderson
was reclining on a faded lounge. Carrie was
kneeling before her, and between sobs of joy
and laughter, was pouring out to God a
prayer of thanksgiving, it was a beautiful
scene, that thankful mother and child, blend
ing their praise to Him, who had proven
himself good, and who had not forsaken
them, in their time of trouble! The minis
ter had brought them relief, as we afterward
learned, just in time to meet their principa
debtor, who had come to claim his “monies,”
or the daughter’s hand in marriage, lie had
foiled him, and left the inmates of that hum
ble home happy, and now they were thank
ing God for His remembrance of them. We
could not resist the influence of the scene
We wept. They were tears of joyful sym
pathy—the sweetest, I venture, that Charles
had ever shed. During our evening visit,
he had poured out his soul to me. His love
for Carrie—high, honorable, and exalting—
was confessed; and with it, his determina
tion to declare it, and to wed her, if she
would consent, had been made known to rne.
We waited until the prayer of the maiden
was ended. We then entered, and for once
in our lives, at least, fulfilled the scriptures,
by “weeping with those that wept;” yet they
were the dewy gladness of happy souls.
“Rejoice wills us, Mr. Rviand, and yon too,
Mr. Brandon, for God h <s been good to us,’
begun Mrs. Anderson, as soon as she saw
us; and from that, she related, what we al
ready well knew, and not as much either, as
we did know.
“'And now,” said she, “there is but one tiling
wanting, to complete the pleasure of this mo
ment; and that is a knowledge of our bene
factor's name. He little knows all that he
has saved us from ; for so unbelieving was
my poor heart, that had no relief been sent
us, I should have gone on my knees to that
dear child, in supplication to her, to marry
one, who, 1 know would have embittered her
life, and broken her heart.”
1 could not see her fading like an untimely
flower before my eyes, and all because of her
unwearied toil for bread ; I would have plead
with her, to have done that, which l would
not now see her do, for worlds; and such is
her devotion, I believe she would have
yielded.
“I love you, mother, more than life, but
not more than honor ; and my honor, in the
sight of heaven, would have been stained by
the false vows that marriage would have
forced from me.”
“And Mr. Gillespie could tell you nothing
of the source of your timely aid?” I en
quired.
“Yes, lie could,” answered Carrie ; “but he
would not at present, he said.”
“Have you no guess?” I ventured to ask,
with as much indifference as 1 could as
sume.
“None in tho world,” said Mrs. Anderson.
Carrie was silent.
“And you, .Miss Anderson, have you
none?”
She hesitated, colored, changed position;
but at last replied, in a Sinn voice,
“1 have, Mr. Hyland.”
“Will my unaffected interest in vonr hap
piness, and that of your mother, be a suffi
cient apology for my asking upon whom
your suspicions have fallen ?”
Site colored still more deeply—attempted
to excuse herself—faltered in voice—looked
confusedly toward Charles Brandon, and at
last burst into tears, exclaiming,
“I know he did it.”
“What, Mr. Brandon?” ejaculated Mrs.
Anderson.
“Yes, Carrie, it was Charles,’’ I replied,
“and there can be no better moment, for him
to make vou farther confession, and to lay all
iiis guilt before you, than the present. Come,
Brandon, you must forgive my want of se
cresy this one time, and endorse what I have
said, as to your being Mrs. Anderson’s and
Ca rrie’s bene fa c tor.”
“I benefactor, Frank ? you ought not to—to
have
“To have told the truth, eh ? Come, Charles,
this is a solemn moment—an eventful one, in
your life. Yon love Carrie. If lam not mis
taken, she has no particular dislike for you.
Collect yourself—tel! her all, and be happy.”
fie did tell her all, and they were happy.
**:£*# * *
More than three years have elapsed since
Carrie and Charles were wedded in that
humble cottage; and although it has been
exchanged for a home of splendor, the stream
of their wedded love, has only been chan
neled the deeper, as time has flown on.
[written expressly tor tiie southern sentinel.]
BOOK NOTICES.
The Religion of Geology and its Connected
Sciences —by'Ed ward Hitchcock, 1).]).,
LL. D. Boston: Phillips & Sampson.
Dr. Pye Smith, in liis “Scripture and Geol
ogy,” was among the first Theologians speak
ing our tongue, to take this “hull—of natu
ral science—by the horns.” And notwith
standing the abuse vented upon his temerity,
and what were esteemed his unwarrantable
concessions, by the pettifoggers of the day,
all sound thinking divines now acknowledge
his course to have been a proper one, and his
work—while if admitted the ascertained data
of geology—to have been an able vindication
of the Word of God, from ihe aspersions
cast upon it by mere babblers. Since that
time, there have not been wanting other “de
fenders of the Faith,” who, fortunately, have
little in common with “bluff Harry,’’ except
the energy with which they pursue their ob
ject. The not undeserved reproach, that the
advocates of Christianity have entrenched
themselves behind bulwarks of mere asser
tion and popular ignorance, using as weapons,
the missiles of denunciation and anathema, is
being fast wiped away, as one after another,
valiant and stalwart knights, armed cap a pie,
appear upon the field to do battle in the cause
of “pure religion and undefiled.” To this
little band our own country has contributed
its quota.
They mistake who imagine that Christian
apology stands upon the basis it did at
the beginning of this century. The ground
of attack has changed entirely. Metaphy
sics was once the scene of struggle. Now,
most of our adversaries have changed their
operations to the side of natural science.
There must our theologians meet them in fair
fight, with arms taken from botany, zoology,
anatomy, physiology and geology, as well as
from hermeneutics, ecclesiastical history and
dogmatics. To these branches Gf-enquiry
lot the Christian minister betake himself with
all diligence, and find something worth know
ing in the canons of nature as well as in the
rubrics of the fathers.
Another valuable aid in this direction is
given in the work before us. A thoroughly
scientific man, Dr. Hitchcock is not the less
a Christian. Gathering up the richest ac
quisitions of geology, he shows how the har
mony between them and the religion of Je
sus may be maintained. Ample and lucid in
statement, frankly admitting the latest results
of scientific research, his logically wrought
argument makes these the friends, not foes,
of spiritual life. No one can rise from a
careful perusal of this volume without being
a wiser and a better man ; while its candor
in refusing to avoid what ought to be ex
amined, his catholic courage, in believing
that Christianity stands upon a wider and
deeper foundation than ignorant sectarian
bigotry would put it, his wide learning and
unaffected humility, united with manly firm
ness, are worthy all praise.
This volume should find its way to the li
brary of every clergyman, and all others who
are interested in the discussion of one of the
most vitall y important questions of the day.
Life and Works of Robert Burns —Edited
by Robert Chambers—volume second.
New York: Harpers.
We had occasion, a few weeks since, to
call the attention of our readers to this work,
destined to become the hand-book of the lov
ers of the Scotch Bard.
This volume gives an account of his six
teen months’ residence at Edinburgh—his
laureation there—the tapering off to the little
end of an appointment in the excise; his re
moval to Ellisland; marriage and entrance
upon farm and excise life. The romantic
episode of Sylvander and Clarinda, is fully
and authentically brought out in this volume.
As they say in the west, Burns was ‘’death
on courting.” One cannot but be glad, how
ever, that the injured Jean became hissnonsc,
instead of .Mrs. M’Lehose, (Clarinda.)
As before stated, this edition weaves the
productions of the poet into the life of the man,
so that he appears before us “as he really was
This plan deepens our interest in his life
and heightens the effect of his poems.
Moreover, Mr. Chambers, sympathizing with
his nation’s greatest poet, as every Scotsman
should, is unawed bv a perverse public
opinion, which has so long insisted upon
doing injustice to the man. ll is is, there
fore, the fairest life, whilst the amplitude
of his materials has enabled him to make
it the fullest, extant. It will, undoubtedly,
take the place of all the other issues of the
“Life and Works of Burns.”
On a sultry morning, we sat down to look
through the wanderer’s adventures; thinking,
the while, it was more than any book could
do to engross one into forgetfulness of his
disagreeable circumstances; but ere we were
aware, “the shades of night were falling fast,”
and we had been dreaming the day long, with
the llowadji, in the desert, beneath the soft
eyes oi Khadra, the gazelle orbed Armenian
girl, and upon the plains of Palestine, with
Artoosh, the Bedoweon, upon his white mare,
before us. The scenes are as warmly trans
ferred to our memory as though we had re
cently returned from Holy Land. For our
author has the eye, and heart, and hand
of a poet; and as he chaants his roundelay
of the early sacred days of these old scenes,
the coming of the crusaders, and the doings
of Mohammad Alee and his wild son, Ibra
him, Judea is before-you, with its associations,
as in its naked, soul sickening grandeur.
‘ibis book lias delighted us more than any
book of travels we have read for years.
Combining the investiture of the bard with
tiie accuracy of a close observer—conveying
impressions, rather than dry details—he throws
over all he beholds, the rich, soft coloring of
a soul in sympathy with the East. We did not
read Mr. Curtis’s first book, the “Nile Notes,”
because we thought it was the same old story.
But now we shall get it forthwith, and sail up
die sacred River, looking through the How
adji’s eyes.
Cosmos; .4 Sketch of a Physical Description
of the Universe —by Alexander Von Hum
boldt —volume djli- New York: Harpers.
To praise the crowning work of Hum
boldt’s life were superfluous. Only this let
us say—it is difficult which most to admire,
the comprehensive view, united with a min
utely exact statement, or the artistic work
ing up of these almost unwieldy materials.
This omnium gatherum of physical science
will be as invaluable to the general reader as
to the student of natural philosophy.
This fourth volume is occupied by a con
tinuation of the Uranological portion of the
work, and commences, under the head of As
trognosv, with the nebulous spots; then
proceeding to the Solar Region, including
the sun, planets, comets, zodiacal lights and
shooting stars, with which, after a conclu
sion, the volume closes. Appended to it, is
a well digested index.
Those of our readers who are interested
in this most beautiful and profitable branch
of study, would do well to obtain this great
work as early as possible.
Varied Phases of Life —by Airs. Caroline
11. Butler. Boston : Phillips <sc Sampson.
This volume consists of a series of sketch
es. published originally, we suppose, in the
annuals and magazines. They are pleasant,
and leaving a better impression than tales of
this description usually do. We cannot say
much for their naturalness and inventive
genius. as just said, we think
TERMS OF PUBLICATION.
One Copy, per annum, if paid in advance,...s2 OO
“ “ “ “ “ in six months, 2 50
“ “ “ “ “ at end of year, 300
RATES OF ADVERTISING.
One square, first insertion, - - - - - SI 00
“ “ each subsequent insertion, - 50
A liberal deduction made in favor of those wh®
advertise largely.
NO. 32.
them decidedly superior to the average of
magazine matter.
Papers from the Quarterly Review. New
York: Apptetons.
The avidity with which the “Papers from
the London Times” were snatched up, has
encouraged the Appleton's to publish selec
tions from the Quarterly. Although we are
not partial to its religion and politics, we ac
cept, and recommend with heaitiness, its con
tributions to literature, arts and philosophy,
its versatility is not surpassed by any other,
in the Printer’s Devil, Gastronomy and Gas
tronomers, the Honey Bee, Music, and the
Art of Dress, the reader will find a rich feast.
In the hot summer days, when the mind, like
the body, is little inclined to active and con
tinued employment. Review reading is tho
most profitable and attractive. It comes to us
in beautiful type and durable binding.
We think t-1 it* interest of purchasers would
he much enhanced ii the name ot the author
wercr attached.
THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.
This beautiful ami popular song or ballad
is said to have had its origin under the follow -
ing circumstances, which give it additional
interest:
•Some years ago, when Woodworth, the
I printer, ami several other “Old New York
ers,” were brother typos in a printing otiieo
which was situated at the corner ot Chat
| ham street and Chambers, there o ere very few
i places in the city of New Y ork where one.
j could enjoy the luxury of a really “good
| drink.” Among the few places most, worthy
| of patronage,'was an establishment kept by
Mallory, on Franklin street, on or about the
soot where St. John’s Hull recently stood.
Wood worth, in company with several partic
ular friends, had “dropped in” at this place
one alternoon for the purpose ot taking some
“brandy and water,” which Mallory was fa
mous for keeping.
The liquor was super-excellent, and Wood
worth seemed inspired by it; for, after taking
a draught, lie laid his glass upon the table,
(remember, reader, if you please, that in
those “rare old times,” a mao rarely met a
friend without inviting him to imbibe,) and
smacking his lips, declared that Mallory’s
scau dc vie. was superior to any he ever tas
ted. “No,” said M., “you are quite mistaken ;
there was one thing, which in both of our es
timations, far surpasses this, in the way of
dunking.” “What was that ?” asked Wood
worth, dubiously. “'The draught of pure
fresh spring water that we used to drink
from the old oaken bucket that hung in the
well, after our return from the labors of the
field on a sultry day in summer.”
The tear-drop glistened for a moment in
Woodworth's eye. “True! trim!” he replied,
and soon after quitted the place. He re
turned to the office, grasped the pen, and in
half an hour, “The Old Oaken Bucket,” one
of the most delightful compositions in our
language, was ready, in manuscript, to be
embalmed in the memories of succeeding
generations.
Tire Old Oaken Racket.
flow dear to this heart aio the scenes of ray child
hood,
When fond recollection presents them to view l
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild- ,
wood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew ;
Tiie wide spreading pond, and the mill that stood a
by it,
The bridge and tiie rock where the cataract fell;
The cot <.f my father and the dairy-house nigh it,
And e’en the rude bucket that hung in the well!
The old oaken bucket, tiie iron-bound bucket,
Tiie moss-covered bucket, that hung in the well.
The nios covered vessel I hail ns a treasure;
For often at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an c-xquisite pleasure, .
The purest and sweetest that Nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glow
ing,
And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness it rose from the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips ! P’-xi
Not a full gushing goblet couid tempt me to leave it,
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from the loved
Tiie tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father’s plantation,
And sighs for the bucket which bangs in the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in the well.
“dem’s ’em.”
A pious old negro, while saying grace at
the table, not only us’d to ask a blessing on
till he had upon his board, but would also pe
tition to have some deficient dish supplied.—
One day it was known that Cato was out of
potatoes, and suspecting that he would pray
for the same at dinner, a wag provided him
self with a small measure of the vegetables
andstole under the window near which stood
the table of our colored Christian. Soon Ca
todrew up a chair and commenced:
“Oh, rnassa Lord ! wiltdow in dy provident
kindness condescend to bress ebery ting be
fore us; and be pleased to ’stow upon its
just a few’taters, and all de praise—” (Here
the potatoes were dashed upon the table, up
setting the mustard pot.) “Denis ‘em, rnassa
Lord !” said Cato, looking up with surprise.
“Only just luff’em down leellc easier next
time /” - |j
The Infallible Cube.— Wise — “Oh,
Doctor, if you could cure my poor dear Au
gustus, l should be so thankful! Two or
three times a week he was attacked with ;
these horrible vertigoes, accompanied by j
weakness, and a slight wandering of the 1
mind, indicated bv his calling his poor dear
papa—(who is a deacon, you know)— a jolly j
old brick.”
Patient —“ Don’t suppose, old Ipecac, that
I’m drunk; a little bricky,that’s all.”
Doctor —‘‘These peculiar cases of vertigo
are very prevalent, ma’am, and very obstinate,
and a change of climate is the only remedy.
I often recommend, therefore, a removal to
the State of Maine, where the salubrity of
the atmosphere will at once eradicate the
disease.”