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THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
IB rVIikISKBV
EVERY FRIDAY MOIIMIXG,
nr
T. LOMAX & CO.
TEXXENT LOMAX, pniAi kditur.
O'firt on Randolph street.
Citcttinj D qmlmcnt.
Conducted r.y CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. I
[WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.!
ALBU.II LEAVES.
BT ERNEST SOLE.
L I! A F FIRST.
An Album is a garden place,
Filled with venial now ere ;
Plucked from many a wayside brook,
And culled from woodland bowers.
Sweet roses ol affection,
With pearly tears for dew —
Emblems of our former loves,
Os friend-hips false and true—
With sometimes, too, a faded bloom,
In lonely quiet sleeping,
Whose sad and tearful mcm'ry oft
Hath filled our heaits with weeping.
Here lie, whose name brought bludies once,
Mayhap a flow’ret planted ;
To whom our heart? gave, plighted faith,
In bitterness recanted.
And here is one who-e every word,
Fond love delights to cherish.
Whose image in our souls is shrined,
Though all besides it perish.
When wizard Time hath marked full oft,
The circling year depart,
•MayVt ever find still tie -her grown,
These flowers of the beast.
[WRITTEN FOE TtiE SENTINEL.I
Z A DIG.
Free Translation.
In the time of kino Moabdar, there lived tn
Babvlon, a young matt named Zadig, ‘t ho
was, by nature, of a good disposition and
tine intellect, which had been strengthened
by education. Although rich and young, he j
knew how to control ins passions; he gave
himself no airs, and he respected the weak
ness of others. lie had learnt-, in the first
book of Zoroaster, that sell-love is a great
balloon, [>uffed up with wind, that, creates a |
terrible tempest whenever anybody pricks it.
Zadig was generous, lie did not even fear j
to do favors for the ungrateful, following the ;
grand precept of Zoroaster, “W hen thou
eatost, feed your dogs, although they bit 1
you.’’ lie was as wise as he could le—for
he sought to *pend his time with the sages.
Instructed in the sciences o( Chaldea, he was j
not ignorant of the principles of physical na
tme, such its were then known, and he knew ;
of metaphysics all that ever was known,
which is a very little hit. He was firmly per
suaded that in every year there were twelve
months, and also three hundred and sixty
five days and a quarter.
Zadig, with great riches, and, of course,
with many IrietulS, having licnkh, a gom! ,
iPniiv, just and moderate de-fires a sir.ecie
and nohle lieart, thought that, upon iite wh ;
he might be happy. He was about to many
Semite, whose beauty, birth and lortune, j
rendered her the first choice in l.abyluu. On !
the evening before they were to be united,
they walked together towards one of the
gates of Babylon, under the palm trees that
ornament the banks ol the Euphrates —-when
they saw coming to them, some men armed ,
with swords and javelins, ‘t hese were the
gut> kites of young Orcan, the nephew of the
Minister, who had been persuaded by the :
.courtiers, th: t lie was allowed to do any j
thing ho j leased. He had not one of the
graces or the virtues of Z.idig ; but believ
ing that lie was worth a great deal more, lie j
was desperately angrv at not being preferred, j
Jealousy, which only comes from vanity, i
made him think that lie loved Semite. He
wished to carry her oil. Ills satellites seized |
her, and, in the extremity of their violence,
they wounded her, and caused to flow the
blood of a person, the very sight of whom
would have softened the very tigers of Mont
Immaiis. She pierced the heavens with her
complaints. “.My dearest Zadig, she cried,
“they tear me away from thee, whom 1
adore.” S’he was not occupied with her
own danger; she thought only of her dearest
Zadig. lie, in tiie meanwhile, defended het
with all the strength of love and valor. \id
ed only by two servants, lie put his enemies
to flight, and bore off Semite, fainting and
bleeding, to her home, who, on opening her
eyes, saw her liberator.
Tll E E Y F..
The wound of Semi re was light; she got
well very soon. Zadig was more danger
ouslv hurt. A thrust of a javelin received
near the eye, made a very ugly wound. Se
mite prayed to the Gods only for the cure of
her lover. Her eyes were flooded with tears,
<!av and night. She anxiously awaited the
moment when those of Zadig could return
her regards; hut an abscess came on upon
the wounded eye, and the worst was feared
They sent even to Memphis to get the great
Doctor Hermes, wiio came, attended by a
numerous suite. He visited the sick man,
and he declared that he would lose his eye;
be even predicted the day, and ilie hour of
the day, when the catastrophe would occur.
“Had it been the right eye,” said this great
man, “I could have cured it, but all the
diseases of the left eye are incurable.”
All Babylon, while pitying the condition
of Zadig, wondered at, admired and extolled
the profundity of the science and skill of
Hermes the Great. Two days afterwards,
the abscess opened of itself, and Zadig was
perfectly cured.
Hermes wrote a book, in which he proved
that Zadig ought not to have got well.
Zadig never read it; but as soon as he
could go out, he prepared to pay a visit to
her who was the hope and happiness of 1 is
life, and for whom alone he wanted to have
any eyes. Sc mire had been in the country
for three days past. He learned upon the
road that this beautiful lady, having haughti-
YOL Ilf.
ly declared her insurmountable disgust for
one eyed men, was going to be mat t ied that
very night to Orcan. At this new*, lie faint
ed; his grief brought him to the hud ”* of the j
tomb; he was sick for a long time; but, in the
end, his reason overcame his s .now, and the*
atrocity of the whole affair served even to
console him
“.Since 1 h ive been subjected to the ca
prices of a fine lady of the court,” said lie,
“l will have nothing to do with any of that
class any more. 1 will marry a citizen’s
j daughter.”
He chose Azora, the wisest young girl in
the city; he married her, and lived a whole
mouth with her, enjoying the sweets of the
lenderest union.
TII E XOS E .
One day, Azora came back from a walk,
in great wrath, and giving utterance to the
most violent objurgations against some
body.
“What ails you, mv dear wife?” said Za- I
• lip to her, * who has pul you so beside your
self ?”
“Alas!” said lie, “you would be as angry
as 1 am, if y< had seen the spectacle, of
which 1 have b n a witness. I have been to
console i:ie young widow Cosrou, who, two
and tys since, raised a tomb to her young bus.
band, on the borders of the brook, that runs
through the plain, Blie vowed to the Gods,
in her gri (j that she would live near that
tomb, so long as the waters of ike brook should
run beside
“indeed!” said Z tdig, “she is an estimable
won.an, wiio truly loved her husband.’’
“Ah!” responded Azora, “if von but know
in.w site was occupied, when 1 vifiled her.”
‘ ilow was that, my beautiful Azora?”
I asked Zadig.
“rfhe was engaged in turning aside the
waters ol the brook,” said Azora, and so tell
i ig her husband, site hurst forth in invectives
so long, and reproaches so violent, against
t ie young widow Cosrou, that Zadig was
by no me as pleased w ith her ostentatious
parade of virtue.
Zadig had a friend named Cador, whom he
took into his confidence, assuring himself of
his fidelity, by making him a handsome pres
ent. Azora, having passed two days, w ith a
friend of tiers, in the country, came home on
the third. The servants, in tears, announced
to her, that her husband had died very sud
denly the night before, that no one had dared
to carrv the sad news to her, and that they
had just gone to Icurv Zadig in the tomb of
his fathers, at the end of the garden.
Site wept, she tore out great handfuls of
ur; .air, and swore she v-ould die.
So L. evening, Cador begged permission
to speak to is v, and they wept together. I
The next day ’ ny didn’t weep quite so much,
and dined tog. : or. Azora spoke the praises .
of the defunct, nit sai l that he had faults
from which Cat? r was exempt.
Just in the mid -t of the repast, Cador was
taken ve-y sick with a disease- * r ’ f! ie spleen;
, tiie lady, very uneasy and anxious, sent for i
till the essences, with which she was wont to ;
| perfume her beautiful person, and tried them,
to see if anv one might be .good for the dis
■ ease of the spleen. She regretted very much
I tli.it the world-renowned Hermes was not,
i still in Babylon.
“Are you subject to this cruel disease ?”
-aid she, with much compassion.
“It very often brings me to the brink of the
grave,” responded Cador in great pain, “and
there is but one remedy that can relieve me,
and that is to apply to my side the nose of a
ma t who has been dead a day or two —oh!’’
“W hat a strange remedy!” said Azora. or
the great merit of the young man, determin<
| her.
i “Alter all,” said she, “when my poor dear
defunct Zadig has passed from this world,
and is on his journ y to the next, upon the
bridge Tehi iarar, Lae angel Asrael will not
refuse him a pa-sage, because his nose hap
pens to be at. inch or so shorter in his second
life than it v sin his first. I never heard
i that anybody was to be judged according to
1 the length of his nose, and Cador is very
sick, and Cador is very handsome,
She took a sharp razor, she went to the
tomb of her spouse, she watered it with her
tears, ands! e a.>] reached to cut off the nose
of Zadig, whom she found extended in his
j open grave.
Zadig popped up. holding oil to his nose
with one hand, and putting back the razor
with the other.
“.Madam,” said lie, “hereafter, don’t cry
out so loud against the widow Cosrou. Your
project of cutting off m v nose, will do very
well as a set-olf against her turning aside the
| brook.”
lI’CK.
Zadig experienced that, the first month of
wedlock, as it is written in the book of Zend,
is the honey month, and that the second is the
month of wormwood. He was, after a very
little while, obliged to separate from Azora,
who got to lie a regular shrew, and he went
to seek for happiness in the study of nature.
“No one is happier,” said he, “than the phil
osopher who reads the great book that God
has opened before our eyes. The truths he
there discovers are his own; they nouri.-h,
thev elevate his soul; he lives tranquilly; he
fears nothing from men, and his tender spouse
doest *: come to rut his nose of.”
full of such idea*, he retired to a country
hous:. on the banks of the great river—the
Euphrates. There he did not occupy himself
j with calculating how many inches of water
ran every second, under the arches of the
bridge ; nor how many more cubic inches of
water fell in the month of Venison, than in
the month of Mutton ; neither did he bother
hansel f about fine fabrics of linen, and cloth
of gold, nor beautiful porcelinn ware, nor any
such matters; but especially studied the pro
perties and uses of animals and plants, and
he soon acquired a sagacity, that enabled him
to discover a thousand differences in each
one, that would pass unnoticed by other
men.
As lie w -Iked one day near a small wood,
he perceived running towards him, one of the
pages of the Queen followed hv many other
officers of the household, who all seemed to
be in the . -t distraction, and who were
lookn.g oMi.i, like men who had lost some
y precious thing.
“ i oung man,’’ said the page, “have you
seen the Queen’s and >g
“Is it a very little Spaniel?” said Zadig
very modestly.
“\es, it’s a very little Spaniel,” said the
page.
“Is it lame of the right fore-foot and has it
very long ears?” asked Z tdig.
“You have seen him then ?” said the page,
almost out of breath.
“No,” responded Zadig, “I have not seen
him, and 1 Hid not know that the Queen had
such a dog.”
Precisely at the same time, and by one of
fortune’s tricks, the finest horse in the King’s
stable, escaped from the hands of his g com,
and got loose in the plains of Babylon. The
grand huntsman, and all the other officers, ran
after him, i:i as great a hurry as the page af
ter the Queen’s dog. The grand huntsman,
addressing him-elf to Zauig, demanded to
knovf of him whether he had seen the King’s
horse.
“It’s a horse that gallops well,” said Zadig;
“he’s five feet high ; he lias very small feet:
Lis tail is three feet and a half long ; the studs
of Ids hit are of gold and his shoes of
silver. ’
“What road did he take? AY here is he?”
demanded the grand huntsman.
“i have not seen him,” said Za iig. “and I
have never heard anybody speak of him.”
The grand huntsman and the page, made
no dm’’-., but. that Zadig Ixul stolen, both the
King’s horse, and the Queen’s dog. and they
accordingly carried him before the assembly
of the Grand Dusterham, which condemned
him to pass the rest of his days in exile.
Scarcely had the judgment been pronounced,
when both the horse and the dog were found
bv_soj:j.e |_sc*Qjjhy, and brought back. The
judges were under the dolorous necessity of
ret*aliin<r their decree, but thyv condemned
e -
Zadig to pay four hundred pieces of gold, for
having said that he did not see, that which
he did see. fie was compelled to pay the
money ; after which, he was allowed to plead
his cause, before the Council of the Grand
Dusterham. lie spoke thus :
“Stars of justice, abysses of science, mir
rors of truth, who have the heaviness of lead,
the hardness of iron, the brilliancy of dia
monds and a very great affinity with gold,
since it is permitted me to speak before this
august assembly, Ido assure you that i have
neither seen the respectable dog of the Queen,
nor the venerable horse of his serene Majes
ty, the King.
“Hear what did happen. As I walked in
the wood, i encountered this very illustrious
page, and this very honorable grand hunts
man. I had see in the sand the tracks of
an animal, anti 1 easily judged them to be
th of a dog. The traces, which appeared
to have nareiy brushed the ground, by the
side of the fore-feet, showed me that it had
very long ears, and as 1 remarked, that the
sand was less deeply impressed by one foot
than by the other three, I comprehended
that tiie dog of our august Queen was a lit
tle lame; if I might dare to say so.
“In regard to the King’s horse, you must
know, that as I walked along a certain path
in the woods, 1 perceived the tracks of a
horse’s shoes—they 7 were at equal distances.
Here, said I, has been along a horse, that
gallops well. The dust upon the bushes in a
narrow road, that was only seven feet wide,
was brushed off a little to the right and left,
at about three feet and a half from the mid
die of the road. This horse, said 1, has a tail
three feet and a half long, that has switched
off this dust.
“I had seen under the limbs of the trees,
which formed a bower five feet in heigiit, the
leaves and small branches newly broken, and
from that, I knew that the horse had touched
them, and that he was five feet high. As to
his bit, it must have been of gold, for I saw
where he struck the bosses of it against a cer
tain rock, that I knew to be a touch-stone,
because I had previously tried it. Finally,
I judged by the marks his shoes had left upon
some flint rocks, that he was shod with silver.
This, Oh! most wise, merciful, and just judg
es of the grand Dusterham, was what hap
pened, and how I came to know aught about
either the Queen’s dog, or the King’s horse.”
All the judges wondered at the profound
and subtle discernment of Zadig. The news
reached even to the King and Queen. Ev
ery body was speaking about Z.idig—in the
ante-chaml>ers, in the bureaus of office, and
i.i the cabinet—and though the wise men
opined, that he ought to be burnt as a sorce
rer, the King thought otherwise, by good
lack, and lie ordered that the judges should
pay him back his four hundred pieces of
gold.
Accordingly, the Clerk, the bailiffs and
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA. FRIDAY MORNING, AUGUST 13, 1*52.
procurers went to his house, in great state, to
carry him his four hundred ounces. They
. only retained three hundred and eighty-eight
for the expenses of justice, and out of the
balance the porters and jailor had to be
‘ paid.
Zadig saw bow dangerous it was to be too
wise sometimes, and lie promised himself,
that the next time, he wouldn’t say a word*
The occasion soon happened. A prisoner of
: state escaped—he passed under the windows
of Zadig’s house. They interrogated Zadig.
He answered nothing. But it was proved
that he must have seen the prisoner from his
window. He was condemned for tin’s of
fence, to pay five hundred ounces of gold,
and thanked his judges for not chopping
off his head, according to the custom of
j Babylon.
“Alas !’’ said lie, “how much are they to
he pitied who walk in the wood where the
Queen’s dog. and the King’s steed, have ta
ken an airing! How dangerous is it to look
out of a window! Ilow difficult it is to be
1 happy in this life.”
[WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL-]
THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.
“My dear child, I am glad to see you as
sert, at last, tiie proper dignity of your sex
and station. Men rarely appreciate affection
given unasked and unsought. Harry will find
that, although you may have wept and de
plored his estrangement for three months,
you can resent his unfeeling conduct. lam
his mother; but believe me, 1 would not see
your eyes thus dimmed and lustreless to en
rich him with the mines of the East.”
“1 fear me, it is despair rather than a prop
er assumption of dignity, my dear mother,
that has at last nerved mo into apparent in
difference. Having given up all hope of his
! affection, I am content to pass through life
with as much calmness as possible; happi
ness 1 no longer expect. How do you like
; my dress?”
“it is chaste and beautiful; tiie camellia
I contrasts well with the raven bands of your
hair. Did you not know, my child, that Har
ry always preferred bands to curls ? and yet
you have always worn yours in curls,”
“I was not aware of it; but he will hard
ly observe the change.”
“1 think it will be impossible,” said the
mother, u ith a smile, “to overlook you to
night, though Charleston should gather ‘all
her beauty and her chivalry ’”
“He does not expect me to go, I believe,”
said the daughter—smoothing, with her hand,
as she spoke, the glossv bands of luxuriant
I ■ °
i hub, which, fastened at the back by a jeweled
j comb, and adorned with a snowy camellia,
; displayed the perfect contour of her face and
head to admiration. As she stood before the
lull length mirror, she acknowledged to her
self. the probable truth of her mother’s as
j sertion, without an emotion of vanity. What
mattered her matchless beauty and perfect
toilette, if the only eyes, in which she cared
to read admiration, were averted in anger or
dislike? Her dress of tulle, over white silk,
looped at one side with a bunch of white
roses, heightened te transparent beauty of
; her complexion; tiie low corsage displayed
her dimpled shoulders, while the short sleeve
j concealed but little of the well shaped arm,
adorned by a single pearl bracelet of value,
matching the necklace and pin. Her dark,
| dreamy eyes were half closed by the languor
of recent suffering, the transparent skin show
ing but a faint rose tint beneath its snowy
surface. She looked like an angel of light,
j saddened by the suffering of humanity. “He
does not expect me to go,’’ repeated the
daughter, forcing back the tears that were
| rising unbidden to her eyes,
i “No, l believe not, Eva; you have so con
stantly refused to accompany him, of late, it
: is rather strange he should continue the form
! of asking.”
j t °
“You shall not have cause to reproach me
thus again, mother,” replied Eva, sadly.
“I hope not, child ; he is unworthy the tears
and sighs he has cost you. And could I, in
my distant home, have been aware of his neg-
I lect, you should not have been left alone so
j long, isolated in your sorrow; for I weep
| also with you, my child, so young, so beau
| tiful, so deserted.”
“Nay, dear mother,” said Eva, tenderly
kissing her hand, “you blame him unjustly ;
since you have explained to me the cause of
his conduct. I no longer wonder at his treat
meat. Loving, as deeply as he must have
done, the beautiful Italian, he naturally re
gards with aversion, the cause of their sep
aration—the wife forced on him bv re
lations, and who, poor fool, was so blind as
not to perceive bis aversion. lie doubtless
thinks me indelicate or mercenary, for he is
not aware of my total ignorance of his first
attachment, and would hardly believe me
now, were 1 to tell him ”
“Which, I hope, you will not do, Eva. l’ou
must not lower yourself farther by explain
ing. He had no right to presume on your
knowledge, and without explanation, allow
the whole weight of his anger and disappoint
ment to fall on you. He is doubtless well
pleased to see you suffer; prove to him that
he has no longer the power of torturing you.’’
“I can but assume indifference,” said Eva;
“alas! 1 am far from feeling it; who could
feel it and know him ?”
“Do not let him see or suspect it, child.
You are a woman, sensitive and affectionate,
it is true, but also, l hope, properly resentful
of wrong and insult. Do not degrade your
sex in your person, bv further submission;
you will but reap the reward of pearls east j
iiefore swine.”
“Do not fear, mother; yon shall see that f
bear myself bravely, so that even vou shall
scarce detect the acting.” These words
were uttered while enveloping her tall mid
graceful form in a satin cloak, with hood to
protect the head. Her wrapping was scarce
completed, before the entrance ot a tall, fine
looking man, dressed in an elegant but sim
ple toilette, prevented farther conversation.,
llis face possessed more of character than of
regular beauty. The eyes were large, full,
with a calm, saddened expression. It was
not till lightened by the tenderness that filled
them, on addressing his mother, that one be
came conscious of their glorious beauty. The
arched brow and high forehead, gave indica
tion of superior intellect, while the chiselled
and compressed lips spoke of haughtiness
and pride; the smile, however, was full of
tenderness and beauty. His mother replied
to his salutation with gravity.
In the meantime, Eva, who had merely
noticed his entrance by a slight bow, contin
ued arranging her bouquet in the jewelled
cornucopia, fastened by a chain to her wrist.
Alter a few moments spent in conversation
witli his mother, he arose, and glancing at the
carved mantle clock, announced the necessi
ty of his departure for the evening. “Eva
will accompany you,” said ilia mother, glanc
ing to w here she stood, looking out on the
night. He bowed, and without expressing
either pleasure or surprise, offered l.is hand
to conduct her to the carriage. The mother
watched their retreating forms, and sighed
painfully at their evident estrangement, “So
worthy,” she murmured, “so worthy of each
other.” After getting rid of her cloak, Eva,
accompanied by her husband, and sheltered
by a crowd of ladies from particular obser
vation, proceeded to the drawing room, which
she found, on her entrance, full of animated
speakers, scattered in groups through the
spacious rooms. After speaking with the
hostess, she took t'ae arm of an acquaintance
and proceeded to join a group at no great
distance from the entrance. “Voila la trn
ante!” exclaimed a pretty woman, dressed in
blue silk, with mirabouts in her hair, on her
approach. She was one of the many who
interlard their conversation with scraps of
Trench or Italian, thereby rendering it more
piquant or expressive, they imagine. “So,
ma belie, you have at last finished your vow
[ of seclusion, as if winning our Cavalier, par
excellence, was a cause of mourning and hu
miliation. What else can have caused vour
thus burying yourself?”
“Ah! madam,” exclaimed a handsome
man in the uniform of a major, “let us rest
| content with the effect, without enquiring too
deeply into the cause, which would doubtless
be wounding to our self-love; from Mrs.Or
mond’s continued absence, we can easily di
vine the estimation in which she holds us.”
Eva replied to these and numerous other
gallant speeches with agayety so well assum
ed, that none doubted its genuineness. Her
hand was eagerly solicited by the most dis
tinguished gentlemen in the room ; and it was
soon evident, from the admiration that her
grace and beauty elicited, as well as from the
crowd of admirers surrounding her during
the interval of the dances, that her claim to
the title of “belle of the evening,” w ould have
been undisputed. No one seemed more to
feel her captivating manner than the gay of
ficer, who, after being her partner in both
waltz and quadrille, had the envied honor of
attending her to the supper room. 11 is re
fined manners and cultivated mind, placed
him far above the usual gay flatterers in the
glare of a ball room. Though rarely com
plimenting Eva on her beauty or attainments,
it was quite evident from his manner, that he
did both full justice.
Eva was so absorbed in listening to his
amusing account of” his travels in the East,
from whence he had just returned, that the
night “as far advanced ere she bethought
herself of looking around in search of her
husband. She soon discovered him at the
opposite end of the room, and was startled
by the glance of almost anger with which he
regarded her. On meeting her eye he turned
and addressed a lady familial ly leaning on his
arm, whose petite figure and fair complexion
gave her an appearance of extreme youth.
Her face might possibly have been consider
ed beautiful but for a glance or expression of
the eye, which gave her an air of malicious
ness not belied by the scornful curl of her
lip. She laughed lightly at his observation,
and excited Eva’s astonishment still farther
by the glance of commingled hatred and tri
umph with which she regarded her. Who
could it he, so intimate with her husband as
to make her the subject of a conversation,
not complimentary, it was evident, from the
gravity of his face as well as maliciousness
of her own ? Sending her companion for a
glass of .vater, she proceeded to join a group
of her acquaintances, standing at a little dis
tance from Mr. Ormond and his companion.
They were discoursing the beauty of the new’
comer.
“There is dear Eva!” exclaimed .Mrs. Clin
ton, the lady before mentioned. “Eva, if I
were you, I would certainly not allow so
glaring a flirtation under my eyes. M v dear
child, you carry the reins too loosely!”
“O, not at all,” smiled Eva.
“You don’t say so! Well, you are certain
ly either very indifferent or very secure. I
assure you, I shall be far from allowing my
liege lord—when I get one—to pay such do-
voted attention under my very eyes, to an
; other.”
“And that other so beautiful,” chimed in a
young girl of seventeen.
“She is certainly very pretty,” said Eva,
tranquilly.
“Very pretty! Ye Gods, hear her! Ne’
I savez vouz pas monnnge! That is the cele
brated Rosa De Berni. Very pretty indeed !
It is well for you, arnica mea, that the nia
_ licious Rosa heard you not, or, gare la
loup.”
“Rosa De Berni!” murmured Eva, with
difficulty concealing her emotion. “Thank
you,” she added, as Major Kafton joined her 1
with the water. She drank, ami regained |
sufficient composure to join in the eonversa- j
tion, which the presence of Major Rafton had j
changed. Her hand was soon claimed for :
the last waltz. No one who watched her j
graceful figure and joyous smile, would have
imagined the weight of misery concealed by
: those drooping lids.
“So you do not think her beautiful, Har
ry ? iou have no eyes, my friend.”
j “I have never observed her particularly,”
was the indifferent answer.
“ And she appears equally cool with regard
to you, my friend; for, during the whole
time I have observed her, she has given tto
sign of being conscious of your existence.”
Mr. Ormond colored, but replied, “She
does well to guard her heart; she knows I
have but little to bestow.”
“She may guard it from you, but whether
she will be equally successful w ith regard to
the handsome Major, is another question. I
know him of old.”
“Am 1 to understand that you speak from
experience? ’ said Mr. Ormond, quickly,
j “No, Harry,” she replied, dropping her
eyes, and affectedly tearing a rose she held,
scattering its leaves on the floor. “No; mv
heart was too well protected at the time, to
■ suffer from his attractions. It is of Ins rep-’
i u tat ion among the Donnas and Vions l
speak ;” she sighed as she concluded her ex
planation, leaving Mr. Ormond to make the
i inference. “Did you say it was two? 1
must go. It is long since I have so enjoyed
an evening from home. Not,” she added,
“since we left Italy. Do you recollect the
Conterre C ? But I shall expect you to
morrow, and then we can talk of old times;
; l have a world to tell.” As Mr. Ormond
stood waiting her return from the cloak
| room, he glanced more than once from the
door where he stood, towards the dancers.
“She is certainly very beautiful,” ho could
; not help muttering; “and what right, have I
to be angry at her amusing herself? I ought
not to be, indeed. I am delighted that she
has given over her sad looks and moping
manners, which were far from pleasant, how
ever j l.asant the change ;” he sighed as he
spoke. While watching her movements with
: an emotion of jealousy, not acknowledged to
himself, lie was accosted bv a gentleman of
j handsome exterior, whose accent bespoke
the foreigner. After apologizing for address
ing him. he requested to know’ the name of
the beautiful woman with a camellia in her
hair, dancing with Major Rafton?
| “Mrs. Ormond,” replied her husband, with
out betraving his identity.
“.She is very beautiful,” continued the gen
j “ C ’
tleman ; “what dignity! what grace! her
husband is a happy fellow, much to be en
i vied.”
“Votis en pensez, Monsieur?” replied
Madame de Berni, who returned at the mo
j ment. “Go to Mrs. W. and claim an intro
j duction. Mrs. Ormond, I doubt not, will be
delighted to class among her admirers ‘one
j of the lions of Paris.’ ”
“1 will follow your advice, Mama me,” said
the gentleman ; “and can imagine with such
i an attraction, even Amerique would be bear
! able.”
j “Treason ! treason 1” laughed the widow,
as, led by Mr. Ormond, she disappeared
| through the door. Mr. Ormond handed her
iin silence to the carriage, without noticing
the gentle pressure, which, a few moments
! before, would have been returned with ardor,
lie re-entered the house, dissatisfied with
himself and all around. What possessed his
wife, usually so indifferent to admiration, to
j remain so late at the detested ball ? He had
lat least thought her above flirting. Eva, who
read his dissatisfaction in his face, in passing,
announced her readiness to return. She was
! handed to the carriage by the Frenchman,
; who, on making his bow, first observed Mr.
j Ormond.
“All! Test. Monsieur, who is the happy
| man !” he observed, without embarrassment
Mr. Ormond replied coldly, and entered the
j carriage, which conveyed them, in silence,
I to their residence.
[to be continued.]
The history of words is the history of
trade and commerce. Your very apparel is
j a dictionary.
They tell us that the ‘bayonet’ was first
| made at Bayonne—‘cambrics,’ that they came
• from Cambray—‘damask’ from Damascus—‘ar
ras'froma citv of the same name—'‘cordwine’
or ‘cordova’ from Cordova —‘currants’ from
Coiinth—the ‘guinea/ that it was originally
coined of gold brought from the African
; coast so called —‘camlet/ that it was woven,
jat least in part, of camel’s hair. Such has
1 been the manufacturing progress that we
: now’ and then send calicoes and muslins to
India and the East; yet the words give stand
ing witness that we once imported them
j hence, for ‘calico’ is from Caleut, and ‘mus- j
’ lin’ from Messy!, a city in Asiatic Turkey.
terms of publication
Oue Copy, per annum, if paid in advance,... $2 00
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RATES OF ADVERTISING.
One square, first insertion, ----- $1 00
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A liberal deduction made in favor of those who
j advertise largely.
NO. 33.
ANECDOTES OF DANIEL WEBSTER,
‘The New York Mirror gives its some an
ecdotes of Mr. Webster, culled from the “Per
sonal Movements” of his private Secretary,
Mr. Lauman, from which we quote :
The house in which Mr. Webster was
horn is not now standing. Mr. Webster's
father raised his log cabin, for his first dwel
ling, and there the elder children were horn.
Hie house which succeeded was a one-story
frame house, with chimney in the middle, hav
ing soar rooms on the ground floor, and an
addition in the rear for a kitchen. The farm
still belongs to the Webster family.
‘fhe church in which Mr. Webster was
baptized is still standing. The Tenuous even
of the old log house are still seen, and Mr.
Webster has said of them, “I make to it mv
annual visits. I carry my children to it, to
teach them the hardships endured by the
generations which have gone before them.”
The “Elms Farm” is about three mites
from the original home of the family. Hero
Mr. Webster spent his youth. It contains
one thousand acres —lies in the bend of the
Merrimack, and is one ol the finest farms in
New Hampshire.
The Marsh field farm—Mr. Webster’s homo
—contains about two thousand acres of un
dulating and marshy land, and slopes down
to the ocean. It has belonged to its present
owner about twenty-five years. The farm
ers in the vicinity acknowledge that they have
learned much of improte 1 agriculture from the
great statesman. The raising of fine cattle
is a passion with Mr. Webster.
The flower garden covers nearly one acre,
and contains an immense variety of flowers.
The variety of forest trees on the farm is
great ; many of them have sprung from seeds
planted by Mr. Webster’s own hands.
Mr. Webster has prepared a family burial
place, at a cost of about 61000, ou the sum
mit of a hill in one of his fields overlooking
the ocean.
Directly in front of the mansion are two
small elms which were planted by the father
in memory of Ins children, Julia and Edwaiu.
He planted the trees without any assistance,
and then handing the shovel to i ieteber, who
stood by, said—'“My son, protect these trees
after lam gone. Let them ever remind you
of Julia and Edward.”
Ciioosk Wisely the Wife or Thy
Bosom. —Go, my son, said the eastern sage
to the young Talmor, go forth into the
world; be wise in the pursuit ot knowledge—
be wise in the accumulation of riches—be
wis*, jo the choice of friends; yet little \* id
all this avail thee, if thou ehoosest not wisely
the wife of thy bosom.
When the rules of the people echo thy
savings, and the trumpet of fame sounds thy
name abroad among the nations, more beauti
ful will die sun of glory set, if one bright
cloud reflects its brightness, and sniffed for
ever will bs the splendor of its rays, if, like a.
dark spot, she crosses its surface.
Consider this then, my son, and look well
to her ways whom thou wouldst love, for
little will all else avail thee if thou ehoosest
not wisely the companion of thy bosom.
| See vender the maidens ot J.inge! they
[ deck themselves with the gems of Golconda
i and the rose ; of Kashmire—themselves more
| brilliant and beautiful; but ah! take not them
i to thy bosom; for the gem will grow dim
j and the rose wither, and nought remain to
i thee of all thou didst woo and win.
! Neither turn thyself to the proud one who
vaunts herself of having scanned the pages of
Vedas, and fathomed the mysteries of the
holy temple. Woman was not born to wield
the” sceptre, or direct the council; to reveal
the mandates of Banna, or expound tho.
sacred verses of Menu. Rather be it hersMo
support thee in grief and soothe thee in sick
ness; to rejoice in thy prosperity and cling
to thee in adversity. Reflect tlieu, my sort,A
I ore thou ehoosest, and look well to her ways
whom thou wouldst make tho wife of thy <
bosom.
A wife! what a sacred name, what a re
sponsible office ! She must be the unspotted
sanctuary to which wearied men flee fVomJ/
the crimes of the world and feel that no sin
dare enter there. A wife ! she must be as
pure as spirits around the Everlasting Throne,
that man may kneel to her, even in adoration,
j and feel no abasement. A wife !
i be the go uflian angel of his footsteps* on
! earth, and guide them to Heaven ; so firm in
virtue, that should he for a moment waver,
she can yield him support and repine! him
upon its firm foundation; so happy in con
scious innocence, that when from the per
plexities of the world he turns to his home,
he may never find a frown where he sought
a smile. Such, my son, thou seekest in a
wife; and reflect, well ere thou choose*.
Open not thy bosom to the trifler ; repose
not thy head on the breast which nurseth
envy and folly and vanity ; hope riot for
obedience where the passions are untamed ;
and expect not honor from her who honor
eth not her God who made her. N ‘U
Though thy place be next to the throne of .
princes, and the countenance of royalty beatti
upon thee—though thy riches be as the pearl*
of Omar, and thy name-be honored from the
east to the west—little will it avail thee, if
darkness and disappointment arid strife be in
thine own habitation. There must be passed
thine hours of solitude and sickness—and
there must thou die. Reflect, then, ray son
ere thou ehoosest, and look well to her ways
whom thou wouldst love ; for though thou
he wise in other tilings, little will it avail
thee, if thou ehoosest not wisely the wife of
thy bosom.
0/7” Overpuaykd Himself.— During the
prevalence of the epidemic in Virginia, in
1849, the negroes on the different plantations
became dreadfully alarmed, and thought they
would certainly die with it. Among others,
in one of the upper counties, was a negro
boy, who, having heard his father say that
the cholera would soon be along their wav,
left liis work one day, and betook himself to
the woods. Here he was found by his over
seer, soon after, fast asleep. Being taken to
task by him for leaving his work, he excused
himself on the ground that, not being “pre
pared in inirui to die,” he, had gone to tho k
woods to “meditate.” “But,” said the
seer, “how was it that you went asleep?”
“Well, I don’t know zactly,” responded’ MB
negro, “but I speck I must have overprayl
myself.”
0/7” Why is a rhinoceros, after swallowing
a tigercat, like a Roman swordsman ? Be
cause ho is glad-he-qfc-hrr.