Newspaper Page Text
THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
IS PUBLISHED
EVERY THURSDAY MORNING,
BY
T. LOMAX & CO.
TENNENT LOMAX, pkincipal Editor.
Ojfice on Randolph street.
Cilenmj Department.
Conducted by CAROLINE LEE HENTZ.
[written for the SENTINEL.]
Welcome to the Summer Shower.
Thou art welcome, thrice welcome, oh! life-giving j
shower!
Earth opens to greet thee her hundred arms—
She clasps thee, with smiles,to her bosom once more, j
And decks with thy treasures her sun-faded charms. )
The trees of the forest their long banners wave,
And toss their green plumes in thy silvery spray ;
And the zephyr, awaked from its feverish sleep,
Unfurls its light wings and flies murmuring away.
The roses that long have hung pale on their stems,
And pined for the kiss of the slumbering gale,
Now curl their soft leaves, to imprison thy gems,
Ere the sunlieams their vanishing brightness exhale, j
The birds bid thee welcome—oh! solt-falling shower! j
They bathe in thy moisture their quivering wings ;
And oh! the sweet anthems that roll through the
bower—
The chorus that mid the green orchestra rings.
The streams bid thee welcome, oh ! beautiful shower!
They ripple, they leap, at thy joyous return ;
The nymphs of the fountain are weeping no more,
Slut fill from thy bounty the earth’s empty urn.
They hail thee with rapture, oh! crystalir.e drops ! |
The birds and the streamlets, the trees and the
flowers—
And man, in the transport of rain-horn hopes,
Reclines his warm brow on the cool-bosomed hours, i
j
Ye are fading—ye vanish, fair pearls of the sky !
But beauty and fragrance remain in your stead ;
Bo the spirit sends up a sweet incense on high,
When o’er it the dew of repentance is shed.
C. L. 11.
Quincy, July 22.
[ WRITTEN FOE THE SENTINEL. ]
Thoughts.
BY MRS. JULIA C. E. DOUR.
Ye airy children of the mind,
Swiftly ye come and go—
As shadows, when the tall trees wave
Their dark boughs to and fro;
As sparkles on the rivulet—
As white foam on the sea—
And whence ye come we know not,
Or what your quest may be!
But yet, mysterious visitants,
We tremble at your power—
The tearful “web of destiny”
Ye are weaving, hour by hour!
So timid are ye, that a breath
Can frighten ye away—
And yet the haughtiest spirit yields
To your resistless sway!
Chatham Four Corners, N. Y.
fWKITTF.N F.XFRF.SaLY FOR THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL.] j
BELL AND ROSE.
CHAPTER I.
“Oh ! what a pure and sacred thing
Is beauty, curtained from the sight
Os the gross world, illumining
One only mansion with her light!
Unseen by man’s disturbing eye,
The flower that blcoms beneath the sea,
Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie
Ilid in more chaste obscurity.”— Moore.
‘•I am so thirst}’, brother. I must have some
of the water gushing from that spring. Oh •
it looks so cool and inviting.”
Thus exclaimed Bel! Raymond, to her
brother Frank, reining in her horse as she
spoke. They were both on horseback, hav
ing taken a long jaunt into the country, to visit
some friends; and now on their homeward
way, Bell began to be a little weary, and ve
ry thirsty, and very warm. She caught sight
of a silver, singing spring, flashing through a
little thicket of shrubbery, and nothing would
serve but a draught of the sparkling water.
“We have no eup,” said Frank.
“You can make one of oak leaves.”
“I see a nice little cottage, a few yards
ahead, where we can borrow a drinking uten
sil. Who knows but there is some sweet
little country lassie there—a rose in the wil
derness? Shall I go?”
“Yes; but I will accompany you,” said
Bell, springing from her horse, and gathering
tip her riding dress with an impatient ges
ture.
“I do despise these long, sweeping skirts,”
aid she, tossing the folds over her left arm;
“they are so wretchedly in one’s way.”
“But they are so graceful, Bell.”
“W hat is the use of being graceful, with
no one to admire me, but a brother ?” said
she, laughing.
\\ bile they were talking, they were getting j
Dear the cottage, which, though a rough, un- i
painted, low and time-worn building, had still j
.an air of neatness and comfort, and even
ttaste was not wanting—for there were vines
trained to shade the low windows, and flower
pots were placed against the wall.
“There she is, bv ail that is charming!”
ly seventeen or eighteen summers, came to
the door, with a very bright blush, and very
sweet smile, and a very low courtesy, and
asked them to walk in. She looked bashful
and embarrassed, hut not awkwardly so, and
though her dress was of plain domestic, it
fitted so perfectly to her lithe and slender
figure, one would hardly wish it exchanged
for silk or muslin. A knot of pink ribbon,
that fastened her hair behind, relieved the
plainness of her attire, and matched the ro
ses of her slightly sun-burned cheek.
Bell, to the surprise of her brother, instead
of asking for a cup, accepted the invitation
to walk in, and followed the young cottager
through a narrow passage, into the plainest,
most primitive-looking apartment she had ev
er entered. Frank, delighted with an adven
ture which opened so auspiciously, followed
her with a number of superfluous bows, in
tended no doubt to make a favorable impres
sion on the young hostess. The furniture
consisted of a half-dozen plain chairs, a table
of stained pine, and an old-fashioned cloek,
with a moon-face, and a startlingly .loud
VOL. 111.
i tick. The chimney was ornamented with
fresh, odorous pine-boughs, and some beauti
ful wild flowers adorned the rnantlepiece.—
But a still greater ornament appeared in the
shape of books, arranged on a shelf, on the
right of the fire-place, and which Frank’s
quick eye detected the moment he entered
the room.
“I fear we intrude,” said Bell, seating her
self at the same time, with a very-much-at
home air; “but we called to beg a cup, to dip
water from your beautiful spring. I have
been riding so’far, and am so very thirsty—
then it is so insufferably warm!”
Untying the ribbons that fastened her
plumed riding-cap, she threw it upon the next
chair, and shook her beautiful hair back from
her moist forehead.
“Really, Bell, you do make yourself very
much at home,” exclaimed her brother. ‘ One
would think you were preparing to stay hours,
instead of moments.”
“I would not care how long I staid,” re
plied she, looking eagerly rout.d her. “This
is such a cool, shady, quiet spot —I am per
fectly in love with it. But please get me
some water—that is, if the young lady will be
kind enough to lend us a cup.”
“I will get you some, with pleasure,” cried
the young girl, turning quickly to the door.
‘ By no means,” exclaimed Frank, spring
ing after her. “I cannot allow you to take
so much trouble. Ia t accustomed to wait
on my sister, who, 1 assure you, is a very ar
bitrary young lady.”
“It is no trouble,” said she, quietly gliding
between him and the door, and stepping
across the threshold.
“Well, let me go and assist you,” he cried,
with persevering gallantry, and was about to
follow her, when Bell called after him :
“Don’t, Frank. You embarrass her. She
does not wish you to go.”
“Embarrass her! Why, she has as much
self-possession as you have, though not half
the impudence. Bless you, Bell, for being
seized with a fit of thirst on this identical
spot, and for discovering the spring, which
entirely escaped inv heedless eye. But let
us peep into those hooks, and perhaps we
can find out the name of our borinie lassie.
Well done! the Lady of the Lake, to begin
with. There is poetry for you—and here’s
her own sweet name, 1 am confident—Rose
Mayfield. Rose, sweet Rose, flower of the
wilderness and blossom of the vale. Was
there ever any thing so appropriate?”
“Brother! how foolishly you run on. But
she really is a nice, prett\ 7 girl, and 1 like her.
To think of finding her here alone—she must
have somebody living with her, surely—and
these books! How in the world came she
by those books? There is Plutarch’s Lives,
and Rollin’s History, and Cowper, and Mil
ton, and Thomson. Bless me, what a clas
sic library!”
“She’s coming,” exclaimed Frank, glancing
from the window, “with all the grace of a
Hebe, and all the lightness of a wood-nymph.
She is a perfect sac-simile of the Lad y of the
Lake:
“What though no rule of courtly grace
Has trained her mood to measured pace,
A step more light, a foot more true,
Ne’er from the heath-flower dashed the dew ;
E’en the light harebell lifts its head,
Elastic from her airy tread.”
Rose—for such was indeed her name—
came in while the last line was upon his lips,
with a waiter, upon which were two tumblers
of the clearest and purest crystal. Bell did
not believe the establishment contained such
luxuries. Never did water taste so cold and
so refreshing. Frank drank it very slowly,
looking at the Hebe through the bottom of
the glass, whose irregular surface multiplied
her into myriad forms.
“You are fond of reading, I see,” remark
ed Bell. “You have some choice books here.”
“Yes,” answered Rose, “I do love reading
very much. I can hardly dream of a greater
pleasure.”
“When I ride this way again, I will bring
you some books,” said Frank; “you have
probably read all these.”
“Oh ! many times,” cried she, so earnest
ly that she blushed at her own warmth. “I
believe 1 know the poems all by heart.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Bell, “how I envy
you. I don’t believe I could repeat six
lines to save my existence. I love it.
It is very sweet. But it is like music. It dies
away, and you know not whither it is gone.
It is so much trouble to commit to memory.”
“I never tried to commit it,” said Rose.
“It stays in my memory without my knowing
it, and comes back to me when I am not seek
ing to recall it.”
“Do yon not feel very lonely here ?” asked
Frank, irresistibly curious to learn something
of the inmates of the household.
“Oh, no!” she answered with animation.
“I have not time to be lonely during the day,
and father is always at home in the evening.
Besides, there is an old woman in the kitch
en, who takes away the feeling of loneli
ness.”
“Your father is a—hem—l presume—” cried
Frank, allowing his curiosity to get the ad
vantage of his politeness. “Your father's pro
fession takes him much from home, I sup
pose.”
“My father is a farmer, sir,” she said sim
ply, though a smile perceptibly curled her
lips, “He goes abroad with the rising, and
j returns with the setting sun.”
“I wish I were a fanner,” said Frank era
|
phaticaliy. “I do believe they must be the
happiest men in the world.”
| “I wish I were a farmer’s daughter,” said
®je Southern Sentinel
Bell, with a sigh, “and lived in such a snug
little place as this. It must he so nice. But
come, brother, our mother will wonder what
detains us so long.”
Smoothing back her hair, she drew her
cap towards her by one string, with a jerk
that milled the long, sweeping plumes, and
swinging it round several times, gave it a
toss on her head, at.d in spite of all, it set
there gracefully and becomingly. Then
flirting her riding dress over her arm, she
rose, and leaning out of the window, bcoke
off a green twig from an acacia tree, whose
branches waved against the house.
“What’s the use of all those bewitching
airs, Bell, when there’s no one to admire but
a brother?” asked Frank, laughing.
Without noticing him, she turned to Rose,
and thanked her with smiling grace for her
kindness and hospitality, begged permission
to come and see her again, and left the cot
tage.
“I shall not forget the books,” said Frank,
whose movements were more tardy. “There
are some poets wanting in your collection,
which I shall be most happy to supply.”
“I thank you,” she replied, with a deep
blush, “but 1 do not think I ought to trouble
you. I could not accept so great a favor
from a stranger.”
“Let me lend them to you then. Y r ou are
not too proud to accept so trilling a\i obliga
tion. You call me a stranger, and that re
minds me that we have not introduced our
selves to you—a most unpardonable omis
sion. Your humble servant is ycleped
Frank Raymond—my sister, Bell Raymond—
names, 1 trust, you will not altogether for
get.”
“My name is Rose Mayfield,” she replied
with simplicity, believing him entirely igno
rant of the fact, and aware that politeness
required of her a reciprocal frankness.
“I could have sworn it was no other,”
ejaculated Frank. “It is in vain to say the
Rose by any other name would smell as
sweet.”
“Frank, Frank, yon loiterer, cotne along,”
exclaimed the gay voice of Bell, who had
mounted her horse and rode directly under
the window. As bhe bent her head and
peeped through the acacia leaves, wh'.eh min
gled with her plumes and her light-brown
curls, her blue eves sparkling with mischief
and mirth, a chc’iumg picture, on
which Rose gazed with delighted admiration.
Never had so fair a vision gilded their hum
ble cottage. Seldom does one so fair adorn
the halls of wealth and fashion. Frank
watched the countenance of Rose. No shade
of envy darkened its sunshine. Its expres
sion was even rapturous, and yet that rapture
was inspired by the beauty and elegance of
another, enhanced bj r all the advantages of
dress and embellishment, denied to herself.
Agaiti Beil repeated her summons, and
Frank was compelled to make his parting
bow, and though it was one of lowly defer
ence, there was no mockery in it, as in his
fashionable greeting salutation.
Bell was in high spirits. Rested from her
fatigue, refreshed by the pure draughts from
the fountain, and delighted with her new ac
quaintance, she rallied Frank without mercy
on the evident impression which the young
cottager had made on his imagination, if not
his heart. But when, after their return home,
and in the presence of their high-bred and
aristocratic mother, she continued her rail- j
leries, lie did not bear them with so good a !
grace. Mrs. Raymond never moved beyond
the charmed circle of wealth and fashion,
and the idea of her children being interested
in anything out of their own peculiar sphere,
was preposterous and degrading. Frank,
knowing so well her views of society, had
warned Bell, pieviousto their arrival, not to
shock her prejudices and opinions, but the
wilful girl disregarded his injunctions and
amused herself by alarming her mother’s
pride—
“ You have no idea how much Frank ad
mired her, mother,” continued Bell. “He
lingered on the threshold long after I was
mounted for flight, making the prettiest
speeches imaginable ”
“Frank Raymond making fine speeches to
a coarse, vulgar, country girl must have been
a novel spectacle,” exclaimed Mrs. Raymond,
in a tone of derision.
“Very coarse and vulgar, indeed, mother,”
repeated Frank, quietly.
“Why, Frank, it is no such thing,” inter
rupted Bell; “on the contrary, she is quite
refined and lady-like, and knows more poet
ry by heart than I have ever read. Her
hands are as small as mine and almost as
white.”
Bell held out a pair of the fairest hands in
the world, all sparkling with rings.
“She had probably been rubbing them with
flour,” said Frank, gravely. “Were they
not as hard as boards ?”
“Oh, no—quite soft and v’ielding. You
know she said there was an old woman in
the kitchen who does all the work for the
family—l suppose, while she reads poetry
and cultivates flowers. I wish I could change
places with her a little while. She looked
so nice and happy.”
“Isabel—Bell,” cried Mrs. Raymond, re
proachfully, “how ungrateful in you to
breathe such a wish, when you never knew a
desire that was not gratified ; when you have
been the most indulged, caressed and petted
of human beings!”
“That is the very reason, my own dear,
indulgent mother, that I am dissatisfied. If
j you would only deny me something that I
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 23, 1852.
want, throw some obstacles in the way of
mv wishes, excite me by opposition, it seems
to me I should be a great deal happier. Eve
rything is so smooth and monotonous, it is
impossible to keep off the demon of ennui.”
“Well, Bell, I will try to gratify you in
one respect —by forbidding you ever to visit
that cottage again, or to renew your familiar
ity with one so much beneath you.”
“But I told her I would call again,” said
Bell, with animation; “and Frank promised
to lend her some books.”
“Frank will do no such thing,” cried his
mother, haughtily. “If he forgets himself so
far as to think of cultivating an intimacy so
degrading, I shall exercise my maternal au
thority, and treat him as a boy in years, as
he seems to be in action.”
“But I am not a boy, mother,” cried Frank,
gayly, but decidedly, “and I think it hard if a
young man of three and-twenty cannot be
civil to a discreet, well-spoken damsel, with
out being scolded, and threatened with the
rod of correction.”
“You need not always be telling your age,
Frank,” said the still young-looking and
handsome Mrs. Raymond.
“Please don’t call me a boy then, mother.”
Bell was roused to full energy by her
mother’s unexpected prohibition.
“You treat me like a child five years old,”
said she, pettishly. “I suppose if lam riding
and literally dying of thirst, I must not stop
to quench it, and I must repay hospitality
with rudeness, and politeness with ill-breed
ing”
“Y r ou know my meaning, Bell; why do
you pervert it so ?”
“1 do not like to be treated like a baby-”
“Did not you ask me to deny you some
thing ?”
“Y’es,” answered Bell, laughing at her
own waywardness; “but I did not expect
to meet with compliance.”
Bell retired to her chamber, to prepare for
an evening party, which she had engaged to
attend. She said she did not wish to go;
that she would not go; yet she bid her wait
ing maid open her wardrobe and takeout one
by one, her beautiful fancy dresses, for in
spection.
“Not that pink gauze. I have been riding
in the sun and look too red for that.”
“Oh! you have such a lovely complexion
to-night,” said Anna, the young waiting
maid.
“Let me see the blue, trimmed with silver.”
“This makes you look so fair,” cried the
girl, holding up the glittering tissue in the
glancing light.
“Put it away ; it is too gaudy; only fit for
an actress. I wish 1 had but one plain, do
mestic dress, and I would know what to wear.
I do think this dressing is the most tedious,
annoying business in the world. Bring me
that white gossamer over satin—l will wear
nothing but white to-night—no jewels. Cos
into the green-house and gather some white
rose buds and geranium leaves. I will wear
no other ornaments.”
Bell had a sudden fit of simplicity, and
tried to look like a simple cottage maid, in her
white robes and natural flowers; and she did
look surpassingly lovely ; she was told so at
least a hundred times in the course of the
evening; but praises of her beauty were so
common, she heeded them not. Her interest
was excited by the appearance of a stranger,
who, unlike most strangers, did not seek an
immediate introduction to herself, the reign
ing belle of the season. He stood aloof from
the crowd which surrounded her, a man of
noble person and dark and striking coun
tenance.
When she first saw him, he was standing
by a table looking at some engravings, which
he appeared to be explaining to a lady, who
listened with delighted attention. He did
not look very young, yet no one would think
of calling him old. He was certainly the
most elegant-looking gentleman in the room,
and as time glided on, and he did not ap
proach her to pay her the customary tribute
of homage and admiration, she felt mortified
and disappointed—she was sure he was a
distinguished personage. He had such an
air of dignity and high breeding, and every
one paid him so much deference and seemed
so much flattered by his notice. She would
not ask his name, for she did not like to have
it supposed she was ignorant of it, hut when
her brother came near, she eluded her admi
rers for a few moments, and begged of him to
satisfy her curiosity.
“Why, that is Mr. Urvin, just returned
from a five years’ sojourn in Europe, Asia, and
Africa, for what 1 know. They call him the
distinguished traveller, and he really is a fine
looking man, with very elegant and dignified
manners.”
“I do not see why he should assume such
airs, if he has travelled,” said Bell, in a tone
of pique.
“Ah! I see how it is,” said Frank laughing;
“he has not paid tribute to her royal Majes
ty, the queen of the evening. Do not be an
gry, but I overheard our hostess offer to in
troduce him to you. ‘Thank you, madam,’
said he, with a sarcastic smile, ‘but I always
shun a belle.’ ”
“Arrogant!’’ exclaimed Bell, her cheek
flushing brightly as she spoke. “I am sure I
do not ask or wish his notice. He shall rue
the day he ever made that speech,’’ she added
to herself.
“Our little Rose would suit him,” whisper
ed Frank. “She certainly is prettier than
any of the damsels here, making the usual
exceptions—and then she has so much heart
and soul in her lace.”
Bell scarcely heard what he said of Rose ;
her mind was dwelling on the remark of the
elegant traveller, w hose avoidance had made
the attentions of all others irksome and dis
tasteful. Taking the arm of her brother, she
w’alked to the opposite side of the room, too
much excited to remain in one position.
“There he comes,” said Frank, in a low
voice; “but, pray, don’t look so scornful. Let
him see how sweet and amiable a belle can
appear.”
But it was too late. The scornful lip had
not time to smooth itself into a smile before
they passed him, and Bell could not help giving
her ringlets a toss that discomposed her white
rose-buds and brought them down, in a fra
grant #hower, at his feet. Stooping down, he
gathered them up and presented them to her
with a respectful bow. He did not retain so
much as a geranium leaf, but handed them to
her with as little sentiment as if it w r ere a
bonnet she had dropped, instead of flowers.
As Bell look them from his hand, she looked
up and met his eyes. Never had she seen
anything so dark, so piercing, so brilliant, yet
so awe-inspiring, as that single glance. With
a deeper blush than had ever before dyed her
cheek, she slightly bowed and passed on.
She had prepared a look of great indiffer
ence, bordering on contempt —but she forgot
to put it on, and it was well that she did, for
it certainly would not have increased Mr.
Urvin’s admiration of belles.
[ TO BF. CONTINUED. ]
[WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.]
TWO SCENES FROM A COMEDY
OF THE
BLOOMERS.
BY JONNY SANDS.
DRAMATIS PERSONzE.
Maks Lumkin, Mrs. Lumkin,
Augustus Jenkins, Mrs. Jenkins,
Helen Lumrin,
A Servant.
ACT THE FIRST.
[ Mark Lumkin is scaled beside the fire,
darning a pair of boy's pant-si]
Lumkin. “Now is the winter of my
discontent” made more intolerable by this
cruel despotism, this reign of women over
the once mighty lords of creation ! Now, the
victorious wreath that once bound the brow
of the male warrior, is, I suppose, to he a fe
male trophy, without any dispute as to their
tight or title. And now, instead of “mounting
barbed steeds,” with the bright sword glittering
by our sides, we must content ourselves with
an humble seat beside the fire, and the exer
cise of a small stiletto, called, ah, me ! a darn
ing needle! But all this I could have borne
meekly, quietly, if she had only Left me rny
breeches; for she who “steals my parse,
steals trash,” but she who steals m3 7 breeches
robs tne of the last vestige of manhood. But
hark! she comes —my sovereign queen ! she
whom I have sworn to love, honor, and
obey. (Tad with the work still in his hands,
runs to the cradle, and rocking it with his
foot, sings:)
By O’baby bunking,
Mama’s gone a hunting,
.. V To get a little rabbit skin
‘■■W To wrap* tha baby up in.
[ Enter Mrs. Lumkin.
Mrs. L. Well, Mark, have you completed
your task ? I suppose you know that Willy
has no pants to wear to school to-morrow,
unless you have them ready ? I knew that it
would be late before the Convention adjourn
ed to-night, as we had business of importance
to transact, so it would have been impossible
for me to have darned them after my return.
If you are not done, sit down and finish, while
I make a cigar. ( She takes a seat with a ci
gar in her mouth.) Mark, did you carry
those pants to the tailor to-day ?
Lumkin. Y’es, my dear; but I was too
much hurried to have them cut out.
Mrs. Lumkin. Oh, very well, then, for I
have concluded to have them made up for
myself, so } 7 ou need not trouble any more
about them. Perhaps I may find you anoth
er pair some day.
Lumkin. But, my dear, you know
Mrs. Lumkin. Oh! don’t say any thing
more about it. I am determined to have
them, and you must wait until I can get you
another pair. However, Mark, you are not
needing them at present ; for a little skillful
darning, and a few small patches, would real
ly make your old black ones look quite
genteel, and by wearing a long-tail coat, and
keeping very quiet, you might do very well,
even for a party. xYnd I must insist, Mark,
on a retrenchment of your expenses this year ;
there is no necessity for your spending so
much, and you know I must furnish Helen
with an elegant “trousseau” when she mar
ries Augustus Jenkins. I know that you ap
prove of the plan, and will adopt it, for unless
a husband should agree with his wife, there
can be none of that peace and quiet in do
mestic life, which I admire so much.
Lumkin. I am well convinced of that,
my dear.
Mrs. Lumkin. Well, if you have finish
ed, go and see if rny room is prepared, and
be sure to put the pants where Willy can find
them to-morrow.
[Exit Lumkin.
Mrs. Lumkin, (alone.) Oh! this is a glo
rious era in the life of woman ! thanks to our
patron Saint, the great, the incomparable
Mrs. Bloomer! as the immortal Washington
delivered his country from the yoke of British
tyranny and servitude, so that noble and
courageous woman has thrown off’ the cruel
yoke that bound us as household drudges, to
the will and caprice of a lord and master.
But now, the cares and trials of our domestic
life are in “the deep bosom of the ocean bu
ried,’’ and the once despised and degraded
women will now shine as bright and perpet
ual stars in the galaxy of fame. (She sings:)
The lords of creation, men they call,
And they think they rule the whole;
But they’re much mistaken, after all,
For they're under women’s control —
As ever since the world began,
It has always been the way;
f’or did not Adam, the very first man,
The very first woman obey, obey, obey,
Tho vory first woman obey ?
Now, ladies, since I've made it plain
That the thing is really so,
We’ll never let them hold the rein,
Or show us the way to go—
’ Just keep it up as we’ve began,
And their power shall vanish away;
And we’ll manage it so that the very last man
Shall the very last woman obey, &c.
[Curtain falls.
ACT SECOND.
[An apartment in A[rs. Jenkins’ house. Au
gustus is reclining oil a sofa u-ith a book in
his hand. After reading some time, looks
at his watch.']
Augustus. A few minutes more, and Hel
en Lumkin will he here. “O! cease, my
heart—thy throbbing hide,” that I may be
prepared to reply calmly to the important
propositions 1 know she will make. How
long and devotedly have I loved that strong
minded woman ! Asa hollyhock, or sun
flower, she towers above her sex, and causes
them to hang their blushing heads with mor
tified vanity, at their own insignificance. As
the vine clings to the oak, so will I cling
with conscious weakness, to the stout heart
of my noble Helen, and then defy the rage
of every tempest that may threaten me. It’s
strange that I cannot still this wild throb
bing of my heart! I hope I won’t faint when
the dear girl proposes. Yet I fear I shall be
completely overcome, at a certainty of the
happiness I have so long sighed for. A few
drops of camphire perhaps may quiet my
I nerves, and “screw my courage to the stiek-
I ing place.” I will try it, (liepours it into
a glass and drinks.) Ah ! I feel better now.
(He returns to the sofa and reads.)
I[A servant announces “Miss Lumkin.” Miss
Lumkin enters.]
Miss Lumkin. Good morning, Mr. Jen
kins.
Augustus. Good morning, Miss Helen;
take a seat. I am delighted to have your
company to-day.
Aliss Lumkin. You flatter me, Mr. Jen
kins; but I am happy to be with you. I
hope you sutler no inconvenience from hav
j ing attended the opera, last evening?
Augustus. Only a great shock of the
| nerves, caused by my being compelled to lis
! ten to Signor Furiesso’s terrible voice; like
the harsh filing of a rasp, it occasionally gra
ted over my too sensitive nerves, and caused
me to feel as if I could have turned three
back summersets out of the door, and dashed
my brains out against the pavement.
Miss Lumkin. My dear Augustus, then
I must really insist on your remaining away,
for should such a terrible disaster occur,
what could I possibly do to fill the vacuum
your loss would create in this devoted heart
of mine ? No, dear Augustus, you will not
he guilty of such rashness. On my bended
| knee, (she falls on her knee,) let me implore
| you not to break the heart of your poor Hel
en, and grant me permission from
ment, to be your guardian and protector
through life; let that delightful duty be mine
to guard your sensitive nature from the jars
and discords of this rough and unfeeling world.
Say !oh ! say, dearest! wilt thou be mine ?
(She takes his hand.) , • ,
Augustus. You must really ask mama.
(He replies feebly, as if quite overcome, and
falls back upon the sofa in a swoon.)
Miss Lumkin. Bless you, my dearest, hut
don’t, oh! don’t faint! Oh! what shall I do!
(She runs to the table, takes up a bottle, and
saturating her handkerchief with the liquid,
bathes his face. She suddenly stops and ga
zes in his face, which is perfectly black.)
Gracious! what can it be? What have I
done? Bathed his face in ink, mistaking it
for cologne! Well, really, lam more incli
ned to laugh, than to call in assistance; hut
the poor fellow must have his face washed,
for if he sees it in this plight, he will be more
inclined to commit suicide than when listen
ing to Signor Furiesso last night.
[Exit.
[Enter Airs. Jenkins and Servant.]
Airs. Jenkins. Helen Lumkin frightened
me out of my wits by saying my son had
fainted; but what possessed the saucy girl
to call that great black scamp my son ? My
son, indeed ! I’ll teach this fine Othello how
to take his siestas on my sofa. Come, get
up here! get up, I say! (jerking him. by the
hand.) Don’t you know better than to come
into my parlor, you drunken vagabond?
Take him out! (The servant takes his other
hand—they pull him up.) Go out, I say!
(She beats him in the back.)
Augustus. (Opens his eyes and looks wild
ly around.) Helen! my dear Helen! (They
carry him out.)
[Enter Helen, convulsed with laughter.]
Aliss Lumkin. Oh, it served him right
for fainting. I hope it will cure him of this
foolish habit; but I must go after them and
explain the matter, for she has beaten him
quite enough for the present.
[Exit. Curtain falls.
TERMS OF PUBLICATION.
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NO. 39.
fWRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.]
PAPER —ITS ORIGIN, ETC.
Col. Lomax :
This most useful substance, which has pro
cured for us an incalculable advantage over
the ancients, in the of diffusing an 4
perpetuating knowledge, was first used by
the ancient Egyptians—or at least they are
the first people of whom we have any ac
count of using any material to write upon—
and that substance was papyrus, and hence
the modern word, paper. The papyrus wa
a plant from which the fibrous membranes
were stripped, and formed rude sheets. The
Chinese are said to have understood the art
of making paper from rags, about the com
mencement of tho Christian era, and was
thence brought to Mecca, along with the ar
ticle itself, about the beginning of the Bth
century. From thence the Arabs carried it
in their rapid career of conquest and coloni
zation, to the coasts of Barbary, and into
Spain, about the end of the oth and begin
ning of the 10th century. Whether the Eu
ropean mode of making paper was derived
from that quarter, is not clearly known. The
art was introduced into Europe amid the ob
scurities of the middle ages, and most likely
through the ingenuity of the Arabians.
It was not till the beginning of the 14th
century, that paper was made from linen, in
Europe, by the establishment of a paper mill
in 1390, at Nurernburg, in Germany. The
first paper mill in England was erected at
Dartford, by a German jeweller, in the ser
vice of Queen Elizabeth, about the year
1588, hut the business did not prove success
ful ; consequently, for a long period of years
—indeed, till within the last 100 years—Eng
land was supplied with its fine writing paper
from Holland and France.
Little progress was made in the manufac
ture of paper in this country, till within tho
last 70 years. The first paper mill in New
England—if not the first in the country—was
erected in 1729. An act to encourage the
manufacture of paper in New England was
passed by the General Court of Massachu
setts on the 13th September, 1728, and a pa
tent was granted to a company of individu
als, for the sole manufacture of paper for ten
years, on the following conditions: In the
first fifteen months, to make 110 reams of
brown or wrapping paper, and sixty reams
of printing paper. The second year to make
fifty reams writing paper, in addition to tho
above, the third year; and afterwards yearly,
to make 25 reams of a superior quality of
writing paper in addition to the former men
tioned, and that the total amount produced of
the various qualities, not to he less than 500
reams, (about as much as we can make at
Hock Island mill in one week.) In compli
ance with the above act, the aboveupaentioned
company erected a small mill at Milton, a
few miles from Boston. At that time, it was
#
very difficult to procure workmen enough to
keep the mill in operation, and in fact it was
stopped for several years for the want of
workmen, and it was not till 1760, that it
was again put in operation, and then only by
the procuring of a paper maker from a British
regiment then stationed in Boston, who obtain
ed a furlough long enough to set the mill to
woik; hut on the regiment to which he be
longed being ordered to Quebec, the Com
mander-in-chief would not permit him to re
main behind ; consequently the mill was again
stopped for a short time, hut was put in op
eration again by an Englishman and his son,
who were said to be good workmen, and car
ried on the business successfully.
Such is tho origin of the first paper mill in
New England, if not the first in America,
and such was the commencement of that now
incalculable and extensive branch of produc
tive industry, on which so many thousands
depend for support. There are bat few
things which place in a more striking light,
the vast improvements which have been made
in the mechanic arts in this country, than the
construction of paper mills now, compared
with what they were then.
And now, dear sir, having given you a short
history of the origin of paper making, and its
introduction into this country, (for which
facts I am indebted to various Encyclope
dia!,) I will close this communication, with
the promise of giving you in my next (should
you wish to hear from me again) some ac
count of the progress of the business in this
country, and the amount of paper manufac
tured at the present time, &c. &c.
Till then I remain, respectfully, youre,
G. B. CURTIS.
Rock Island Factory, 1852.
C 27™ Wit is Capital. —“ There’s our Ger
shom,” said Mr. Shelton, “he must go off to
the city, to get his living by his \drts.” “Well,
how did he make out ?” asked a friend. “Ah!”
said the old man with a sigh, tapping his
forehead significantly, “he failed for want of
capital.”
(Hr Miss Gilmore was courted by a man
named Haddock. “I only want, love,” said
he, “one gill more to make me a perfect fish.”
OO” A Remedy. —A young gentleman of
Detroit, who has of late been much afflicted
by palpitation of the heart, says he found con
siderable relief bv pressing another palpita
ting heart to his bosom. Queer, isn’t it ?
03“ The latest Life of the Democratic
Candidate for President declares that his
manners are very Frank ar.d his eyes quite
Pierce- ing.
O” A negro was brought before a magis
trate and convicted of pilfering. The latter
begins to remonstrate—“Do you know how
to read ?” “Yes, massa, little.” “Well, don’t
you never make use of the bible ?” “Yea,
massa, I strap my razor on it sometimes,”