Newspaper Page Text
THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
IS PUBLISHED
EVERY THURSDAY MORNING,
BY
T. LOMAX &, CO.
TENCENT LOMAX, Pkincifal editor.
Office on Randolph sired.
Citcim'i) Pcpavlmcnt.
Conducted by CAROLINE LEE HENTZ.
1 WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.J
A Unllnd.
Torn thy fooL-teps, weary pilgrim,
To the spot where Mary lies;
Go and s-eek the gentle maiden,
Go and cheer her, ere she dies.
Hers has been a short, sad journey,
Through this darkened vale ol tears ;
She will joy to hear thy counsel,
She will bless the voice that cheers.
She was once as bright and blooming
As the. opening rose of spring ;
Oil! it seemed scarce less than madness,
With one pang that heart to wring.
Large were her dark eyes, and lu-trous
As the starry skies above—
Like the coral ol the ocean,
Were her glowing lips ot love.
Her voice wa3 low and tuned to sweetness,
Like music of the poet’s dream ;
Her heart was pure as dewy morning,
Her life a calm, unrippled stream.
A stranger spied this beauteous blo-som,
Strictly guarded from his gaze—
He longed to feel its gentle fragrance
Breathing o’er his lonely days.
The stranger’s brow was thir and lofty,
Intellect was there enthroned —
His smile had a bewitching sweetness,
His glance a melting softness owned.
He wished to win the first affections
Os a pure and guileless heait.
And truly in our lovely maiden,
Found a being free from ait.
lie sought, and in the simple Mary,
Found the being he could love
With all the heart’s deep adoration,
Kindled from a flame above.
And in the soft and silvery brightness,
Quivering o’er the evening’s shade,
Ah! who can tell the depth aisl fondness
Os the fervent vows he made !
Oh, how short-lived! oh, how transient
Was this golden dneaut of hiiss !
It fled and left a void behind it,
A dark and fathomless abyss.
Ilia home was where t!e world’s wealth gath
ered,
Where g<diE was all that purchased fame—
His sire, a d'otri and haughty tyrant,
Brheoe vA all that bore his name.
A faint and distant rumor told him
Where his noble son had strayed,
And in spite of all his warnings,
Wooed a simple cottage maid.
With rage then shook the frowning father,
He tore apait the loving pair ;
He forced Ins son to quit that Eden,
And leave the broken-hearted there.
Since then, no ray of joy or gladness
Has beamed on Mary’s pallid brow ;
She has felt how drear the sadness
And despair, that shrouds her now.
Then turn thy footsteps, lonely pilgrim,
To the spot where Mary lies ;
Go and seek the drooping maiden,
Go and cheer her, ere she dies.
THERESE.
Quincy, Fla , A’oc. 4, 1352.
t WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.]
NOTICES OF BOOKS.
1. A Neir Exposition and Harmony of the
Four Gospels — by James Strong. A. M.
New York: Methodist Book Concern,
1852.
One of the most favorable indications pre
sented by Evangelical Christian Churches,
is the increased diligence and devotion be
stowed, by their members, upon the study of
the Scriptures. The struggle of to-day—as of
all past time —is iu the battle ground of the
Bible, especially the New Testament.— !
With Romanism on one side, and Rational
ism on the other, Protestant Christians have a
task sufficiently arduous to preserve their
faith from anile credulity, bv the reasonable
exercise of reason, and at the same time, to
keep the spiritual nature fresh and warm,
amid the iutellectualizing thus made necessa
ry. If there ever was a time when “search
the Scriptures” constituted an injunction of
the last importance, that time is the present.
Never did men’s minds need a thorough ac
quaintance with the central figure of Christi
anity, as now. Nothing but this will serve
to terminate the “Eclipse of Faith.” We
therefore hail with sincere pleasure, every
contribution made to Biblical learning, made
by our own countrymen or others, in the
catholic spirit of scholarship and sound piety.
/ t'le work befo-e us, demands the grati
tude of all who study it, in behalf of its au
thor, by the proofs of careful research and
fUnspared pains which it displays.
The author’s object is to furnish a manual
.of the Gospels for the student and general
reader alike; to give a clearer insight of, and
a higher interest in the evangelic record.
His first effort, therefore, is to furnish a
Harmony of the four narratives, combining
the advantages, and free as may be from the
defects of the two plans, illustrated, respect
ively, bv Newcome and Townsend. This,
we think, he has done, by a method ingeni
ous as novel, presenting, throughout, the lan
guage of the authorized version, and adhering
mainly to the chronological ground plan of
Robinson.
The second feature of the work, is an
exposition of the text, by anew translation
in modern style, illustrating obscurities, by
phrases familiar to our ears. Here our au
thor has had to deal with difficulties almost,
if not quite insuperable; not so much inhe
ring in the nature of the task, but in the pre
dilections with which we environ the notable
language of King James’ translators. Mr.
Strong has performed this part of his task
as well as could have been expected. We
have then as foot notes, such matter as was
essential, and yet could not be conveniently
interwoven with the Exposition proper.
There are then three Appendixes, one
VOL. HI.
Chronological, one Topographical, and tIA
third an Analytical Index. The first dis
cusses with much perspicuity and learning,
the exact period of our Saviour’s birth, and
the questions thereto related. The second
sets forth, in an extended manner, the topog
raphy of Jerusalem, including a very accu
rate delineation of the temple. This has par
ticularly interested us. The third furnishes
the student with a miniature commentary on
the Gospels, rich in its yield to careful exam
ination.
The whole work is handsomely illustrated
by a series of engravings and maps, designed
to sbed liglit upon the localities of the Evan
gelists’ story.
The work is beautifully gotten up, and re-
Hects great-credit upon those who were con
cerned iu it.
In conclusion, wo have to say, we know
of no book, produced of late iu our country,
more calculated to reward the diligent
reader, with a large amount of valuable in
formation, and well considered thought,
than this. If it fail to realize all the scholar’s
desire, let it be borne in mind that “Rome
was not built iu a daythat Mr. Strong
is yet a young man.
Holm's Libraries.
It has been our purpose for some time, to
call the attention ot our readers to these re
markable publications. Henry G. Bohn, of
Covent Garden, London, is certainly among
the most surprising men of the time. Those
who are at all acquainted with his publishing
enterprise, will feel the force of this remark.
Not the least demonstration of his power is
to Le found iu the series of cheap books now
in course of publication by him. First, we
have the Standard Library, now comprising
about fifty-six volumes; among them such
books as these: lloscoe’s Leo X. and Lorenzo
do Medici, Scblegel’s Lectures on the Phil
osophy of History, on Dramatic Literature,
and on Philosophy ol Life and Language;
five volumes of Schiller, to lie followed bv
others, till a complete translation of his
works is made; three of Goethe; Memoirs
of Benvenuto Cellini; Lauzi’s History of
Painting; Ranke’s History of the Popes;
Ochley’s History of the Saracens; Sheridan’s
Dramatic Works and Life; Milton’s Prose
Works; and Menzel s Germany; Vasari’s
Lives of the Painters, and Neander’s Church
History. As extra volumes to this series,
there are the Works of Rabeheis, and the
Me noirs of Grammont, each iu its way illus
trating a:i important historical epoch.
Second comes the Scientific Library, now
containing eight volumes, of which are the
following, viz.: Lectures on Painting, by the
Royal Academicians; Humboldt’s Cosmos,
and Views of Nature; and Cersted’s Soul
in Nature.
Next is the Antiquarian Library, compri
sing Bede’s Ecclesiastical History, and An
glo-Saxon Chronicle; Mullet’s Northern
Antiquities; and the Works of Sir Thomas
Browne.
Fourth. ‘l’he Classical Library, in which it
is proposed to furnish new translations, by
the most eminent scholars, of the principal
Classics. There are now out, volumes of
Herodotus, Thucydides, Plato, Aristotle,
Homer, Sophocles, ADschylus, Euripides,
among the Creeks ; and Livy, Caesar, Cicero,
Virgil, Horace and Ovid, among the Latins.
Fifth is the Illustrated Library, with
Lodge’s Portraits, Pickering’s Races of Man,
Kitto’s Scripture Lands and Biblical Atlas,
White’s Natural History of Selborne, Rich
ardson’s Paleontology, and the Bridgewater
Treatises.
In the whole list there are only three or
four works which are not of general interest
and high value. We know of no better nu
cleus lor a young man’s Library, nor finer
addition to one already established by the fa
ther of a family, than these books. They are
sold so cheap by Messrs. Bangs, Brothers,
Park Row, New York, the importers, that
our publishers cannot republish them. We
shall keep our readers advised of the future
issues of Bohn’s Libraries.
The Personal Adventures of “Qur Gum Cor
respondent” in Italy —showing bow an ac
tive Campaigner can find good Quarters
when other men lie in the Fields; good
Dinners, w h le many are half starved ; and
good Wme, though the King’s Staff be re
duced to half Rations—by Michael Burke
Honan. New York : Harpers.
A sharp chap is “our own” of the London
Times, and right entertaining book he makes
of lus scrapes upon the Continent, in the no
table fighting times of 1848! We have had
works without end, upon the Revolutions of
Europe in that year; so many, indeed, that
we had become sated with the subject, almost
resolving to read no more about it. But
here comes “our own,” a merry, rovsteriug
Irishman, with impudence enough to stock
his nation, and good nature ample enough to
counterbalance, seeing all this is to be seen,
and telling it with such a mixture of drollery
and shrewdness, that we have been compell
ed to fight over the Sardinian campaign
again.
Mr. Honon was basking one warm after
noon in January, ’4B, in the Peninsular sun
shine, and bright eyes of a lovely Georgia
lady, upon the balcony of the Motel Bragan
za, Lisbon, when the charm of ihe scene van
ished, as a packet from Printing House
Square, London, was put into his hands, or
dering him to be off in a “jiffy” to Italy. To
shed a few tears at parting from the beautiful
American, and arrange his valise, was the
1
I i 4 g ♦ <4
vtljc xJcmtrjm* Hwwtiitd.
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 11, 1852.
work of a few minutes, and here he is upon
his way, with
A PLEASANT COMPANION.
“We had a brilliant run of four days to
Gibraltar, the sea being as calm as an inland
lake, the weather mild, the company varied
: and social, the Captain, the prince of good
fellows, the table well supplied, and “Our j
Own,” who makes it a point to be pleased, ;
save when he has the gout, or is sea sick, was j
as merry as a lark, and induced others to j
follow ids example.
“Indeed, it was not difficult to do so, as I
had a stout ally in a jolly priest, who was ac
companying an Irish family in the combined
capacity of chaplain and tutor, to Malaga,
where the rest of the winter was to be pass
ed, and being the first to sit down at dinner,
j and the last to leave the table, we kept the
wine moving, and all the world alive.
“Father Morrogh was a good specimen of
what the Hibernian Roman Catholic Priests
were in m v young days, before they mixed in
political agitation, and, in the opinion of ma
ny, sacrificed their true influence in the coun
try. He was profoundly versed not only in
divinity, but in classical and elegant learning,
i and such a logician, that 1 soon discovered l
| could not last five minutes before him oil any
question, where the interest of tlie Church and
Quid Ireland were concerned. He was
wit, a man—simplicity, a child,” and though j
most uncompromising iu all his clerical du- I
ties, was full of lun and frolic at the proper
season.
“He never refused any thing at table that
was proposed, and he had a way ol accept
ing the proffered service in a way that kept
us in a roar. He could not say “yes,” but
to which he always tacked “my dear,” j
; changing his voice to the pitch ot the person
by whom he was addressed, and running
from bass to treble, and from treble to bass,
with a facility quite surprising. If the head
of the family said, “Father Morrogh, a glass
of Port l” “Ish, my dear,” was the answer, as !
if a trombone spoke, and if a squeaking bart
ling added, “Take sherry, Father Pat V’ “Ish, j
my dear, 5 came forth, as il a penny trumpet
was at [day. “Father Morrogh, another cut |
of beef?” roared the Captain. “Ish, my dear,” 1
roared the saintly Boreas; while the fair
dame, who called the Waterford merchant,
husband, suggesting a wing of a fowl, and a
’ slice of ham, in a dove-like voice, “Ish, my
dear,” was heard as if a zephyr were breath
ing on a summer eve.
“At Gibraltar, “Our Own” stops a few days,
awaiting the Marseilles steamer, and has aii
manner of fun, messing with the sons of
Mars, who, for want of something better to
do, amuse themselves by throwing tumblers
at the heads of servants. Whithersoever lie
turns, Mr. Honan is a welcome guest, ma
king himself entirely at home. Au fait up
on fields of battle, he is equally “asy” ‘with
the dames he encounters; friendly with all,
he never condescends to fall in love with any
under the position of prima donna, notwith
: standing he sometimes betrays a weakness
i ° J
for a prima dauseuse. Did our space permit,
we would gladly enliven our columns with
| copious extracts from this most readable
; book. With a hearty commendation to the
reader, we leave Mr. Michael Burke Honan,
! hoping that his present work has met such
! an encouragement from a “discerning pub
lic,” that he will be tempted to furnish us,
ore long, with the second of those hundred
. 1
: volumes he says he is prepared to write.
I THE FAIRY WIFE—AN APOLOGUE.
[And a very pretty one, we think.— Eds.
j Home Journal .]
A merchant married a fairy. He was so
\ manly, so earnest, so energetic, and so lov
ing, that her heart was constrained towards
him, and she gave up her heritage in Fairy
land to accept the lot of woman.
They were married; they were happy;
and the early months glided away like the
; vanishing pageantry of a dream.
Before the year was over he had returned j
to his affairs; they were important and pres- |
i sing, and occupied more and more of his I
time. But every evening, as he hastened j
back to her side, she felt the weariness of ab- j
senee more than repaid by the delight of bis j
presence. She sat at his feet and sang to |
him, and prattled away the remnant of care
that lingered in his mind.
But his cares multiplied. The happiness
of many families depended on him. His af
fairs were vast and complicated, and they
kept him longer away from her. All the day,
while lie was amidst his bales of merchandise,
she roamed along the banks of a sequestered
stream, weaving bright fancy pageantries, or
devising airy gayeties, with which to charm j
his troubled spirit. A bright and sunny be
ing, she comprehended nothing of care. Life
was abounding in her. She knew’ not the
disease of reflection ; she felt not the perplex
ities of life. To sing and to laugh—to leap
the stream and beckon him to leap after her, J
as he used in the old lover days, when she
would conceal herself from him in the folds
of a water lily—to tantalize and enchant him
with a thousand capricious coquetries—this
was her idea of how they should live; and
when he gently refused to join her in these
’ childlike gambols, and told her of the serious
work that awaited him, she raised her soft
! blue eyes to him in baby wonderment, not
! comprehending what he meant, but acquies
cing with a sigh, because lie said it.
She acquiesced, but a soft sadness fell up
on her. Life to her and nothing
more. A soft sadness also fell upon him.—
Life to him was love, and something more;
and he saw with regret that she did not com
prehend it. The wall of care, raised by bu
sy bauds, was gradually shutting him out
from her. If she visited him during the day,
she found herself a hindrance, and retired.
When he came to her at sunset, he came
preoccupied. She sat at his feet, loving his
anxious face. He raised tenderly the golden
ripple of loveliness that fell in ringlets on her
neck, and kissed her soft, beseeching eyes ;
but there was a something in his eyes, a re
mote look, as if his soul were afar, busy with
other things, which made her little heart al
most burst with uncomprehended jealousy.
She would steal up to him at times when
lie was absorbed in calculations, and, throw
ing her arms around his neck, woo him from
his thought. A smile, revealing love in its
very depths, would brighten his anxious face,
as for a moment he pushed aside the world
and concentrated all his being in one happy
feeling.
She could win moments from him—she
could not win his life—she could charm—she
could not occupy him! The painful truth
came slowly over her, as the deepening shad
ows fall upon a sunny day, until at last it is
night: night with her stars of infinite beauty,
but without the lustre and warmth of day.
She drooped ; and on her couch of sick
ness, her keen-sighted love perceived, through
all his ineffable tenderness that same remote
ness in bis eyes, which proved that, even as
he sat there grieving, and apparently absorb
ed in her, there still came dim remembrances
of care to vex and occupy bis soul.
“It were better I were dead,” she thought;
“I am not <jood enough for him.” Poor
child! Not good enough, because her sim
ple nature knew’ not the manifold perplexi
ties, the hindrances of incomplete life! Not
good enough, because her whole life was
scattered!
And so she breathed herself away, and left
her husband to all his gloom of care, made
tenfold darker by the absence of those gleams
of tenderness which before had fitfully irradi
ated life. The night was starless, and ho
alone. Vivian.
HAYIAU, THE INFAMOUS.
‘l’he following challenge of the eminent
Hungarian refugee, Count Ladislas Teleky,
to Marshal Haynau, has appeared in The
Army and Navy Dispatch. It remains with
out answer:
General: T consider you as one of the
murdereis of the thirteen Hungarian Gene
rals executed at Arad, of Count Louis Bat
thyany, of Barons Sigismond Perenyi and
John de Jeszenak, of Csnny i and Emetic
Szacsvay, executed by your orders at Pesth,
besides a great number of other victims whose
blood calls for vengeance. The thirteen
Generals whom you had assassinated were
the heroes of our War of Independence, and
the upholders of the good rights of Hungary.
1 was intimately acquainted with my relation
the Baron de Jeszenak, and also with Baron
Sigismond Perenyi and Ladislas Csanyi, who
were justly counted among the most distin
guished and most respected men of my coun
try. Count Louis Batthyany—that great
soul of immortal memory—one of the glo
ries of Hungary, was my best friend. You
can doubtless guess, General, the satisfaction
which you owe to me. It is now nearly a
ye; ir that 1 h ave borne death in iny heart ;
nevertheless, I have had patience up to the
present hour. Think, then, what I must
have suffered ! Yet, for the satisfaction
which you owe me, 1 thought that I ought to
wait to ask it until you had again entered a
private station in life. That satisfaction, 1
am sure, you will not refuse me, for you can
not account for it upon any pretext, and you
cannot wish to add to the many epithets
which you have already earne 1, the title of a
coward. Fix the place and the time for our
meeting ; the place least distant from Paris :
and also, I pray you, fix a country where l
may be permitted to go. It were superfluous
to tell you that I could not go into Germany.
I shall be accompanied by two seconds.
Count Ladislas Teleky.
Montmorency, Sept. 11, 1850.
‘] he letter has remained without a reply,
although you received it. I determined to
have patience until now, because you quitted
Aix-la-Chapelle to return to Austria and to
Hungary, and have remained there since
that time. Now that I know that you are
at Ostende I hasten to assure you that my
opinions and sentiments concerning you have
not changed—and I reiterate my demand.—
M ill you retuse ? \\ ill you persist in silence ?
I cannot believe in so great infamy—in so
much cowardice ! In that case, I shall only
have to declare to you that you inspire me
with equal contempt as horror, and that you
are in my eves quite as vile and abject and
quite as cowardly as you are perfidious and
bloodthirsty.
1 l*e chastisement which you will force me
to give you, it you do not reply to me prompt
ly—in two days hence at the latest—this
chastisement, which I shall give to you in the
face of the world, will be the publication of
this letter.
In consideration of the difference of our
ages, and of the great motives which lead me
to address you thus, lean choose n other
arms than pistols. Please to direct your an
swer to London, to the care of Col. Nicholas
de Vriss, 22 Pickering Terrace, Paddington.
Count Ladislas Teeeky.
August li, 185*2. .
[From the New York Commercial.]
DANIEL WEBSTER.
We have been favored with the perusal of a
letter written by Mr. Webster to an intimate
friend in this city, dated Franklin, May 3,
1846, from which we make the extracts be
low, and which we are sure will be read at
this time with unusual interest:
“I have made satisfactory arrangements
respecting my house here, the best of which
is that I can leave it where it is, and yet be
comfortable, notwithstanding the railroad.
This house faces due North. Its front win
dows look towards the river Merrimack. But
then the river soon turns to the South, so
that the Eastern windows look toward the
river also. But the river has so deepened
its ebahnel in tlie stretch of it, in the last fifty
years, that we cannot see its waters, without
approaching it, or going back to the higher
lands behind us. The history of this change
is of considerable importance in the philoso
phy of streams. 1 have observed it practical
ly, and know something of the theory ot the
phenomenon ; but I doubt whether the world
: will ever be benefited, either by my learn
ing, or my observation, in this respect.
“Looking out at the east windows at this
moment, (2 P. M.,) with a beautiful sun just
breaking out, my e3’e sweeps a rich and level
field of 100 acres. At the end of it, a third
of a mile off, I see plain marble grave stones,
designating the places where repose my fa
ther, mv mother, my brother Joseph, and
my sisters, Mehitable, Abigail and Sarah;
good Scripture names, inherited from their
Puritan ancestors.
“My father, Ebenezer Webster, born at
Kingston, in the lower part of the State, in
1739, was the handsomest man I ever saw, ex
cept my brother Ezekiel, who appeared to
me, and so does he now seem to me, the ve
ry finest human form that ever I laid my eyes
; on. 1 saw him in his coffin—a white fore
head—a tinged cheek—a complexion as clear
as heavenly liglit! But where am I straying ?
| The grave has closed upon him, as it has up
on all mv brothers and sisters. We shall
soon be all together. But this is melam hoi}’
—and 1 leave it. Dear, dear, kindred blood,
\ how I 1 live you all !
“This fair field is before me—l could see
a lamb on any part of it. I have ploughed
it, and raked it, and hoed it, but I never mow
ied it. Somehow, 1 could never learn to hang
! a scythe! I had not wit enough. My broth
er Joe used to say that my father sent me to
College iu order to make me equal to die rest
of the children !
“Os a hot day in July—it must have been
one of the last years of Washington’s admin
istration —I was making hay, wiih mV father,
just where I now see a remaining dm tree,
about the middle of the afternoon. The Hon.
| Abiel Foster, M C., who lived in Canterbu
ry, six miles off, called at the house, and
came into the field to see ntv father. He was
a worthy man, college learned, and had been
a minister, but was not a person of any eon
; siderahle natural powers. My father was
i his friend and supporter. He talked awhile
in the field, and went on his way. When he
was gone, my father called me to him, and
we sat down beneath the elm on a hay cock.
He said, “My son, that is a worthy man—he
is a member of Congress—be goes to Phila
delphia, and gets six dollars a day, while 1
: toil here. It is because lie had an education,
which I never had. If 1 had had his early
education, I should have been in Philadelphia
in his place. I came near it, as it was. But
I missed it, and now 1 must work here.”
j “My dear father,” said I, “you shall not
work. Brother and I will work for you, and
wear olir hands out, and you shall rest”—and
1 remember to have cried—and I cry now, at
the recollection. “My child,” said he, “it is
of no importance to me—l now live but for
my children. I could not give your elder
brother the advantages of knowledge, but I
! can do something lor you. Exert yourself
— improve your opportunities— learn—learn
) —and when I am gone, you will not need to
go through the hardships which 1 have under
gone, and which have made me an old man
I before my time.”
“The next May he took me to Exeter, to
: the Phillips Exeter Academy—placed me un
der the tuition of its excellent preceptor, Dr.
j Benjamin Abbott, still living.
“My father died in April, 1836. I neither
left him, nor forsook him. Mv opening an
office at Boscowan'was that I might be near
him. 1 closed his eyes in this very house.
He died at sixty-seven years of age—after
; a life of exertion, toil and exposure—a private
i soldier, an officer, a Legislator, a judge—eve
ry thing that a man could be, to whom learn
: iug never had disclosed her “ample page.”
i My first speech at the bar was made when
he was on the bench—he never heard rue a
second time.
“He had in him what I recollect to have
been the character of some of the old Puri
tans. Ho was deeply religious, but not sour
— on the contrary, good humored, facetious
—show ing even in bis age, with a contagious
laugh, teeth all as white as alabaster—gentle,
soft, playful—and yet having a heart iu him,
that he seemed to have borrowed from a lion
He could frown ; a frown it was, but cheer
fulness, good humor, and smiles, composed
his most usual aspect.
Ever truly, your friend,
Daniel Websteb.”
Before you quit your house or shop,
i know what you are going to do; and at your
■ return, examine what vea baye done.
[Correspondence of the Mercury. ]
DEATH-BED OF MR. WEBSTER.
Washington, Oct. 28, 1852.
The death-bed scenes of Daniel Webster,
and the last struggling utterances of that
mighty, if erring and wayward spirit, still at
tract much of the public attention and dis
tract it from the living men who are compe
ting for the prize which slipped from his grasp.
Such interest ever must centre around last
thoughts and savings of such a man, espe
cially when passin down to the dark valley
in the full possession of his mental faculties.
It is a strange, and almost unprecedented
thing, that the three greatest brain-workers
of our day, who had for halfa century, each,
tasked to the straining point, body and brain,
and lived in tho incessant fret and fever of
public life, should have retained all their sen
ses and faculties unclouded up to the moment
of dissolution. The spirit in each seemed
rather to abandon a worn-out tenement than
to have gone out of one tit for further occu
pancy—the physical not the intellectual broke
down, and caused that divoice of body and
soul which we miscall death, the vista open
ing to a higher and an eternal life, where
the war of matter and spirit ceases.
Many as are the commentaries made
on the dying utterances of Daniel Webster,
and his thoughts as gathered from tiio bro
ken words that fell from his lips so soon to be
sealed forever, they yet do not convey the
same impressions which those fragmentary
utterances have produced on the writer of
this. To his mind, the last struggling words
of the old Statesman showed a desire to
wrestle with death—a reluctance to aban
don life, and a dim dread of the dark un
known, so soon to be opened to him. Though
exhibiting no craven fear, no unworthy
weakness, and nerving himself to face the
inevitable, Daniel Webster evidently dreaded
death, and looked to the future more with
fear than with hope. It would be needless
to repeat these last savings and wo>ds of
his, familiar to every mind that takes an in
terest in topics beyond the trivialties of the
hour. The citation of two or three of these
remarks will suffice to show the justice of
this comment, and the reasons which have
wrought that conclusion on one mind at
least.
As his hold upon the things of this woild
loosened, Iris thoughts evidently drifted on
ward to the shores of that silent sea; where
ever his journey lay, and the religiosity of ‘
his nature assented itself, at the same time !
Iso felt himself destitute of that sustaining :
faith, for which he cried aloud in his troubled j
spirit. When his physician told him the rem- j
edy used would give him relief, “It is not j
that, Doctor, that l want—l want restora
tion !”said the dying man.
Memorable words these—used by one,
who of all men understood the use of words.
And this is but one of many similar utter
ances, even when lie felt all hope had tied.
Similar was the feeling that prompted the NS*
quest that his friends should “be with him to
the last—should not leave him—that no one
should leave Marshfield until all was over !’’
He even desired the numerous friends pres
ent to be near ; he shrunk from that solitude
on which he was so soon to enter, and clung
to human companionship in those last hours
which serener and more hopeful spirits de
vote to silent and solitary communion with
the Creator, oho is summoning them to his
presence. This desire of sustaining sympa
thy he manifested to the last. Most signifi
cant too was his request to his son to read
him Cray’s Elegy. That sad summing up of
the nothingness of human effort, the variety
of human piide, suited well with the repining
and bitter spirit which .the Great Publicist
bore with him to his home from this scene
of his many triumphs and last sore discom
fiture, from which he never rallied, rankling
sore at his heart, and shortening his span of
life. Yet words of human utterance would
not suffice him, nor ease the pain of that sore- j
saddened heart and tioubled spirit, and lie
turned for consolation to that higher point
in the revealed word of God ; and (if human
judgment may presume to scan mysteries
such as this) not to find it “stumbling down,”
as Carlyle says of Mirabeau, “like a mighty
Heathen and Titan to bis rest.”
For bis kind physician, who seems to have
felt and appreciated the spiritual as well as
physical wants of his patient, solemnly re
peated to the dying man the soothing prom
ises of the Great Physician of souls, as set
forth in these words: “Thy rod and thy
staff they comfort me.” “Yes,” said Mr.
Webster, “that is what I want—thy rod—thy
staff.” He was no hypocrite, and would not
pretend, with all his remorseful strivings, that
“that peace that passeth all understanding’’
had possession of his soul, though he poured
forth his soul in prayer. But even after this
he wrestled with death a3 a strong man with
a bodily foe ; for his death wrestle is thus
described in a letter written from Marshfield
just after the event.
“From 7 1-2 to 10 o’clock the great man
failed rapidly. Arousing from a lethargy at
10 o’clock, bis countenance became anima
ted, and his eye flashed with its usual brillian
cy. He exclaimed—“l still live!” and imme
diately sunk into a state of tranquil uncon
sciousness. His breathing now became
fainter, and his strength seemed entirely pros
trate. He lingered in this condition until
twenty-two minutes to three o’clock, when
the spirit returned to its God.”
“I still live P* and so saying be died ! That
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NO. 46.
was his parting word. But he does live, and
will live in another sense from that in which
lie spoke. Os him, as of his great rivals, may
well be chanted the thrilling requiem of
j that solemn strain,
“Their bodies slumber in the dust,
But their name liveth forever more.’’’
Mr Webster, as before remarked, had a
great deal of religiosity in his nature, but ho
i was not what is Commonly termed a religious
j man —and the distinction is a broad and an
j important one. No man possessing his high
intelligence and great gilts could be devoid
of reverence, that faculty which elevates
while it humiliates, which turns the aspira
tions upwards, because of the very elevation
of the character, above the things which make
up the staple of the existence and tho
thoughts of meaner men and narrower intel
ligence. No truly great man ever was de
void of this uplooking impulse—this revereu
i tial belief in things higher and holier than
! even the best and highest things in the life of
: this lower world. And Daniel Webster,
| throughout a long life, which certainly nei
ther in practice nor in form was modelled
after religious precepts* felt this, and manifes
ted it in modes and utterances, simple yet sub
lime, as was the stamp of his nature.
Yet, in the common meaning of the term,
be was not a religious man—nor did it influ
ence bis life or common conversation. With
him it was rather a sentiment than a convic
tion—something poetical or ideal, rather than
practical anil vital. lie was a member of no
religious denomination—he made no preten
sions to piety during life—nor would his
practice have squared with such pretensions.
Far from being a plo ts, lie could not without
1 falsehood have been termed even a good
i man. Os his death-bed penitenee it may not
| be decorous to speak. But this is certain, that
! even in Ecclesiastes no more impressive
preacher can Ire found than in these death
bed utterances of Daniel Webster, when iis
| toned to and dwelt upon in a reflective and
! earnest spirit befitting the occasion, and tiie
! solemnity and importance of the theme
which every man born of woman must feel,
comes home to bis own consciousness and
bis own heart.
! Mr. Webster was a great admirer and con
i slant reader of the Bihle, of which he was
wont to speak in language of unusual fervor
and eloquence —but he was accustomed to
dwell upon its beauties and its grand bursts of
poetry, in Job and Isaiah, as he would onj
those of Milton. At least such was the judgv .
ment of a most gifted and truly religious
daughter of your own State, who had enjoy
ed rare opportunities of studying his complex
character years ago, when her husband, a
peer in intel ect with Webster, occupied a po
sition which brought them into constant and
familiar intercourse in this city. She often
spoke of him and of this characteristic trait
—stylinghim “a great but Godless man.” If
charity is to be the veil to cover a multitude
of sius in the dead as well as in the living,
yet when charity shall lift that veil to swear
that they were virtues, truth must be heard,
that examples which should serve as beacons
only to warn against shipwreck, should bo
converted by misjudging eulogy or hypocri
sy into shilling lights for guidance. One word
more which this theme suggests. limavhavo
struck few persons—but it yet is passing
strange to reflect on this curious
The predominating characteristic of Web
; ster was imagination : he was “of imaging
; tion all compact.” It tinged and colored his
! whole mind, character and career. It clad
i with its rainbow lines the most sterile scenes
| over which bis pathway lay ; and he turned
| to the contemplation of that grand poetry .of
1 die Old Hebrew Bible, because it awakened
j echoes in bis own poetic soul. Take his later
; as well as his earlier speeches—take even his
grave constitutional, or even legal arguments
—even there imagination riots and revels by
giving poetic shapes and aspects to common
things. Even in his life, and to descend low
er, in his costume, the same innate love of the
poetic and picturesque displayed itself break
ing out like a gleam of sunshine unexpected
ly in dark places. Y~ou will search in vain
i among professional rhymers, by courtesy call
j ed “The Poets of America,” for a tithe of the
; ideality and poetic utterance, which the most
j careless skimmer may extract from the Jo
i rensic and parliamentary speeches of Daniel
Webster.
And herein was one of the secrets of the
I man’s greatness, and his hold on the popu
| lar mind. He soared above on the strong
! wings of an imagination which spurned, but
j did not abandon the earth, which took the
| realm of the actual and of the practical partly
i as its own, while even planning for a higher
flight. One of the most memorable instances
of this was afforded by Lis parting words to
the crowd who were destined never to see or
bear him again—when on the night of the nom
ination of his rival, they disturbed the slum
bers or at least the retirement of the Statesman*
by their call upon him to rejoice with them at
the prostration of his life long hopes. Rising
superior to the crowd, and to the occasion,
the poet soul sought consolation in its
| high and secret indulgences, while scornfully,
j looking down on the little struggles of little
men. “I wiil sleep sound this night,” said he
I —“and if I wake I will know the hour by
the constellations—for this is a glorious
| night.”
Was ever rebuke more loftily conceived*
or conveyed ? Did ever a seaman take refuge
i more absolutely in the bosom of nature and
’ tbs purifying and calming influences of the