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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 TERMS OF PUBLICATION. One Copy, per annum, if paid in advance,...s2 00 “ “ “ “ “ in six moctrs, 250 “ “ “ “ “ at end of year, 300 RATES OF ADVERTISING. One square, first insertion, $1 00 “ “ each subsequent insertion, - 50 A liberal deduction made in favor of those who advertise largely. 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