Newspaper Page Text
VOLUME I. |
BY C. R. HANLEITER.
P© £ ¥ Y
“ Much yet remains unsung
THE AMERICAN BOY.
Father, look up and see that flag,
How gracefully it flies;
Its pretty stripes, they seem to me
A rainbow in the skies.
It is our country’s flag my son,
And proudly drinks her light;
O'er ocean's wave, in foreign clime,
A symbol of our might.
Father, what fearful noise is that,
Like the thundering of the clouds!
Why do the people wave their hats,
And rush along in crowds T
It is the voice of cannonry.
The glad shout cf the free!
It is a day to memory dear,
’Tis freedom’s jubilee!
I wish that I was now a man,
I’d fire my cannon too,
And cheer as loudly as the rest—
But, father, whjs don’t you ?
I’m getting old and weak, but still,
My heart is filled with joy;
I've witness’d many a day like this,
Shout you, aloud, my boy !
Hurrah! for Freedom’s Jubilee !
God bless our native land —
And may 1 live to hold the sword
Os freedom in my hand.
Well done, my boy! grow up and love
The land that gave you birth,
A home where freedom loves to dwell,
Is paradise on earth.
M 0 a © (E <L L A M Y a
From the New Monthly, for August.
TWENTY-THREE MINUTES PAST
TWO!
POUNDED ON A FACT.
Not easily jealous, but, being wrought,
Perplexed in the extreme. —Suakspeare.
“Very well.Mr.Dewdney,” said my wife.
And she quitted the room.
Now, had there been nothing more than
the “very well,” her willing acquiescence
in what had preceded might have been in
ferred from It. But it was the “ Mr. Dewd
ney!” And it may safely be taken as a rule
that when a woman Mr.-Dewdneys her hus
band, or a man Mrs.-Dewdneys his wife,
there is some dissatisfaction in the case—so,
at least, was it in the present. And all about
what ? Why, about so dull a companion—
no: an w/t-companion, as Brumby.
We had been married nearly two years,
and this disagreement, slight as it was, was
the first that had ever occurred between us.
How, indeed, could it have been otherwise ?
My dear Clara’s temper is the sweetest in
the world ; as for mine—but ask Clara.—
She had loft me alone in the parlor (where
we had just finished breakfast,) brooding
over this our first quar—quarrel ?—away
with that hateful word!—misunderstanding?
even that is too strong a term. She had left
me, then, brooding over my little tiff—ay,
that's it!—l had borne it for nearly two min
utes—l was in agonies—l could endure it
no longer. I rang the bell.
“John,” said I, “go to the drawing
room”—
I heard her pacing ihe room above ; and
the state of her mind, poor dear ! was pain
fully indicated by her hasty and irregular
step.
“John,” said I, “ go to the drawing room
and tell your mistress I wish to see her.”
She came, her smiles shining through her
tears—she knew that ’twas for reconciliation
I had summoned her. We rushed into each
other’s arms.
“ Clara!” cried I.
“ Clarkson !” exclaimed she Charles
Clarkson Dewdney is your humble servant,
when styled at full length ; but she always
calls trie Clarkson.
“ Never, never again,” said I, “ let such
a scene occur between us, dearest.”
“ Oh, never, love,” says she.
Such a couple! Adam and Eve before
they partook of that unlucky dessert, per
haps— but since then nothing like us!
Then you won't ask that Mr. Brumby to
dine here to-day,” says my wife.
Observe the significant that. Never is
‘that pronoun so applied, whether to man,
•dog, woman, cat, or child, but it is intended
to convey the idea of dislike. See—
“ Send the dog out of the room.”
There is nothing in that which any dog—
excepting some very thin-skinned dog indeed
—could take as an offensive personality;
•the dog is momentarily in the way—-that’s
all.
But—“ Send that dog out of the room.”
Here the dog is unequivocally marked as
an object of personal dislike—it is pointedly
insulted—and no dog of becoming spirit but
Would quit,not tho room only,but the house;
nor ever return to it though it should see the
whole town placarded with a guinea reward
for its recovery.
% “ that Mr. Brumby,” then, it is clear
®y wife has no extraordinary regard for Mr.
Brumby.
“ Then you wo’nt ask that Mr. Brumby
*o dine here to-day t”
(I had previously said I would ask Mr.
Brumby to dinner; and that it was which
provoked the horrid “ Very well, Mr. Dewd
ney.”)
& jFamUfi ilctospapcv : Zlrtootetr to HUerature, aarCcultture, SWrcftanCco, fStmcatton, JFo vei&n an* Bomrottc KnteUfseticc, tcc.
“ I won’t,” now replied I.
“Very well,” said my wife ; and instead
of quitting the room, she patted my cheek.
Adam and Eve, indeed—!
“ If you must ask him to dine with you,”
continued she, “ take him to the Pangrowl
eon—he is so very disagreeable.”
“ I will, my dear Clara,” said I.
Not the least of the advantages of belong
ing to a club is, that if you happen to have
an acquaintance who is in any way disagree
able or disreputable, and whom, therefore,
you would be unwilling to invite to your
own house, you can take him to your club.
No great harm can come of that.
“ And now, my love,” said I, “ tell me
why it is you so much dislike Brumby ?”
“ The reason is,” replied she, “he is such
a bore!”
I never give up any one so hastily, so I
made as stout a fight for him as it was pos
sible to make.
“ Granted,” said I; “he is a bore—an
intolerable, an insufferable bore; but then,
you must acknowledge that he—he—in short,
my love, he is a very good man.”
“No doubt he is,” said she; “he may
possess every virtue under the sun ; all that
may qualify him for going to Heaven ; but
he is not qualified for pleasant society on
earth.”
“ You must allow,” said I (for I was re
solved not to give him up,) “ you must al
low that he talks a great deal.”
“ Gallon that talking /” exclaimed she.
“ He’s aaull, drowsy proser: his talk is
like the buzzing of a bee in a bottle. And
then, he has but one subject to talk about—
prints, prints, prints, eternally prints! his
collection of prints ! his Marc Antonio!
his Albert Durer! bis Bartolozzi! Paga
nini would play divinely upon one string for
a quartered’ an hour at a time ; but then he
could play upon the other three quite as
well. Now your Mr. Brumby has but one
string to his fiddle, and even upon that he’s
a very bad fiddler. Then, not only can lie
talk of nothing else, but he will.not allow
any other person a choice of subject—he
cuts through them—rudely and impatiently
interrupts them with a something or other
about liis eternal engravings. A little of
that subject would be very well in its way;
but to run it to death, as be does— ! Oh,
the tiresome man ! The best conversers—
and he has met some good ones at our table
—are killed dead by him. One i3 anxious
to listen to them, but, no; no chance for con
versation where Mr. Brumby is.”
“ But, my love,” said I (still resolved not
to give him up,) “ he does not always inter
rupt it. On the contrary —he will often,
when another person is in possession of the
attention of the table, politely pretend to fall
asleep.”
“ It was upon such an occasion,” said my
wife, laughing, “ that poor Hook stopped
short in the midst of one of his liveliest sal
lies, and cried, ‘ Pray, silence, ladies and
gentlemen, for a snore from Mr. Brumby.’ ”
* “ But really, my dear Clara, you must al
low,” said I, (determined not to give him
up,) “ you must allow that he is a perfect
master of that, the only subject he ever opens
his lips upon —that he is a connoisseur of
the first rank—of taste refined, of judgment
unerring.”
“ No, Clarkson,” said she, “ is that really
your opinion ? Come ) speak honestly.
“ Why,” said I, (more and more deter
mined not To give him up,) “ my opinion
upon the subject of engravings is of slight
value, for I don’t pretend to understand
much about them $ but Dora. Colnaghi,
whose opinion is unquestionably first-rate,
assures me that he is little better than an ig
noramus : that he knows little or nothing of
the matter; that he has merely got by rote
the terms of the art and a string of names of
the most eminent artists, from Marc Anto
nio to Charles Heath, which are perpetually
in his mouth ; and that if he should escape
purchasing, on his own judgment, an H. B.
for an Albert Durer, he would be a lucky
fellow. However, my love, 1 must, in jus
tice to him, say that that is not my opiuion
of him—it is only Dom. Colnaghi’s.”
Having thus gallantly defended my friend,
I sat driwn and wrote him the following
note:
“ Mornington Crescent, )
Wednesday, &th June. )
“ Dear Brumby,
“ Mrs. Dewdney, I am sorry to say, is not
very well; so, instead of coming here, pray
meet me at the Pangrowleon at seven. It
is open day there for visiters.
“ Yours, faithfully,
“ C. C. Dewdnf.y.”
“ At what time, dearest, do you think you
shall get rid of your lively guest ?” inquired
my wife.
“ Oh, at about nine, or ludf-after,” replied
I; “but I will not remain out later than I
can help it, love.”
“ It was not for that I made the inquiry,
dear,” said she ; “but I—you—”
I did not particularly remark it at the
time; but it afterwaids struck me foicibly,
very forcibly, that she hesitated.
“ Well, Clara; but what ?” inquired I.
“ Why, Clarkson, you are engaged with
my brother Richard, at Hammersmith, to
morrow, to go up the river for a day’s fish
ing. Now, instead of getting up at five in
the morning (as you talked of doing) which
will be so uncomfortable, so very uncomfort
able for you, do get into an omnibus nr a
cab, and go down to-night. Richard, you
know, will give you a bed.”
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 10, 1842.
“ But, sweetest,” said I—
“ Now, dearest,” said she, “ you shall—
you must —I implore—l entreat. You will
oblige me by going. I can’t bear the thought
of your hurrying out at such a barbarous
hour as five. I shall be miserable if you re
fuse me.”
Sweet, considerate soul! Could I refuse
her any thing! and a request, too, whose
object was my own convenience, my own
comfort. Yet she piessed the request with
an earnestness that—
Now I call every star, every planet, nay,
the chaste moon herself, to witness that I
am not jealous. Had my Clara ever given
me cause for jealousy ? Never—not the
slightest. I knew that Little Timberman of
the Grenadier Guards had, within the last
few days, returned to England—What then?
I had twice seen him as he rode past our
house look up at the windows—What then?
My wife knew not of his return : and had
she known it—What then ? ’Tis a long four
years since he paid his addresses to her—
she liked him a litth —Yet what of that?
Did she not reject him—and for me ! Be
sides he is married. No; lam not jealous:
yet was there an earnestness in her entrea
ty that I would not return home that night!
Shame upon me for the unworthy thought!
I promised to go that night to Hammer
smith.
In due time (John having placed my nighl
bag in a cab) I drove down to the club to re
ceive my friend Brumby—first taking an
affectionate leave of my dear little wife.
Our leave-takings, though but for a single
night, were always of a nature to—But
these scenes must not be dwelt upon.
*••••*
It so happened that Brumby and I were
the only persons in the visiters’ room—we
had it entirely to ourselves. What an op
portunity for an easy, unconstrained confa
bulation ! And what a variety of pleasant
topics were open to us ! Parliament and the
income tax; the Opeia. In a word, topics
were endless.
But Brumby bad just purchased a Rem
brandt etching, and—Oh, my stars !
Here, be it observed, that my wife truly
characterized the talk of Brumby when she
compared it to the drowsy, monotonous
buzzing of a bee in a bottle. A word is oc
casionally detected : the rest is one unmiti
gated brum-brum-brum.
“ Brum-brum-brum early impression
brum-brum fine preservation brum-brum—”
“ Brumby, you’ll find that asparagus-soup
very good ; put down your print, and take it
while it's hot.”
“ Brum-brum-brum early state brum
brum—”
“ Now Brumby, do put aside that print,
or neither those flounders nor the stewed
eels will be wortli eating.”
“ Brum-brum my Marc Antonio brum
brum undoubted specimen brum-brum—”
“ Here’s a cutlet and a chicken-salad, and
that’s yourdinner; but, pray, Brumby, pray
have done that print. Here—try this Mo
selle.”
“ Brum-brum-brum Rembrandt brum
brum my collection brum-brum'Duke of
Buckingham’s brum-brum—”
The cloth was removed. And now for a
little talk.
“ Brumby, fill your glass. A curious cir
cumstance occurred at the Opera last night:
at the very moment that—”
“ Brum-brum left leg a lectle out of draw
ing brum-brum—”
“ Now, for Heaven’s sake, my dear fel
low ! Well; at the very moment—”
“Brum-brum wonderful depth brum
brum expression brum-brum free burin
brum-brum—”
“ It was an interesting little episode, I as
sure you. At the very moment that Her
Majesty—Brumby ! Brumby! open your
eyes; don’t go to sleep. Come, fair play ;
you had the talk all your own way at dinner;
let us now divide it, and change the subject,
for, upon my life, I can’t stand much more
of your Rembrandt etching.”
“ Brum-brum my Albert Durer brum
brum this etching brum-brum, powerful ef
fect brum-brum perspective brum-brum
Rembrandt brum-brum sharp touches brum
brum-brum-brum-brum-brum ”
I awoke. How long he had been
brum-brum brumming, I know not, for he
was gone. I was alone in the room. Hook
ed at my watch. Twenty-three minute* juist
two ! !
Magnetism ? Mesmerism ? For a provo
cative of sleep try a tete-a-tete with a Brum
by.
Twenty-three minutes past two ! I rush
ed out of the house ; a cab was passing at
the moment; I jumped into it. It was too
late to think of going to Hammersmith, so
I ordered the driver to take me home. By
the time I should arrive there it would be
three o’clock! I must disturb the servants,
but there was no help for it. As for poor,
dear Clara, who has necn in bed these three
hours, who sleeps lightly and is disturbed by
the slightest noise—l But John sleeps in
a small room near the kitcheu, so I will ring
the kitchen-bell. The brum-brum-brum
was still in my ears, and I fell asleep ; nor
did I awake till the driver stopped on this
side of the turnpike, as I had desired him
to do. My house was hardly twenty paces
beyond it, and the toll saved would pay for
a couple of letters. Cheap postage has
(aught us the use and value of odd pence.
I walked towards my own door, when—
oh, horror! My hair stood ou end—my I
throat became parched—my knees bent be
neath me—perspiration fell in large drops
from my brow ! Now was the hesitation ex
plained ; now was the anxiety to _be rid of
me for the night accounted for !
The canvass blind of the large, single,
parlor-window was drawn down, and the
lamp burning on the table (at that hour of
the morning!) was so placed as to throw up
on it, with awful distinctness, the shadows
of two persons: one was—yes, it was that
cockatrice, my wife; the other, ay, a little
man—it was no other, it could be no other
—for twice had I seen him look up at the
window's as he passed—than little Timber
man, of the Grenadier Guards! There they
sat, one on each side of the table. I could
see their every movement in the same mari
ner as the action of tlie figures is shown in
the Ombres Clunoises. I could hear their
laugh, too —yes, they were laughing—oh,
torture! laughing no doubt at me! How
admirably well she had contrived it! “You
must goto Hammersmith to-night—you shall
—1 implore— l entreat —you will oblige me
by going.” And all this was repeated to
him! d—nation ! it was at this, perhaps,
they were at that very moment laughing ! I
saw him raise a goblet to bis lips—my wife
pushed a bottle towards him—(regaling him
with my choice whiskey, perhaps—he shook
his head in sign of refusal (prudent, at least,
at that time of the morning)—he rose— she
rose—they approached each other—he—he
yes, by my wrongs! he kissed her! He put
on his hat, she resumed her seat and took up
a book ; yes, the artful and evidently har
dened creature took up a book. He quitted
the room and now I have the villain !
No sooner had he opened the street-door
than I rushed upon him, and, seizing him
by the throat, dragged him into the parlor.
My wife started from her seat.
Half choked, as well as blinded, by rage,
I cried,
“ So, madam, was it for this, you —”
“ Oh, Clarkson, dear Clarkson 1” cried
she, “ what is the matter with you ? But I
sec how it is: be has been dining at the
Pangrowleon with that Mr. Brumby, and is
tipsy.”
Here, of course, ’ she burst into tears!
But the absurdity of the notion of getting
tipsy in such company as Brumby’s! How
ever, I was in anything but a laughing mood.
“ Madam,” cried I, “ I desire you will
quit my house: instantly quit my house, and
go to your father’s. As for you, Captain
Timberman ”
These words I uttered in a tone which
must have sounded in his ears like the whiz
zing of a brace of bullets. At the same
time I sliook him violently.
“He is tipsy,” continued my wife. “Oh,
Frederick, dear Frederick—”
I was not aware that his name was Frc-
but to “ dear” him to my very face!
I had wellnigh strangled him.
“ Frederick,” she continued, “ I thought
(as I said in my note to request you would
come to me this evening) I thought that he
would have been at Hammersmith by this
time; but—”
“ Oh, infamy !” exclaimed I, “ by your in
vitation, was it! But quit my house, vile
woman, instantly quit my bouse, and never
more let me behold you. And now, Cap
tain Timberman—”
“ Oh, Frederick,” said my wife, “ I’ll ring
for John, who shall assist you to carry him
up to bed.”
“ Desist, base woman,” said I, as she took
hold of the bell-rope; “ desist! the servants
shall not be disturbed at this late hour, nor
shall they be admitted to witness your vile
conduct.”
“ Oh, gracious powers!” cried she, “he
is mad / Late, dearest! Why, it is not yet
eleven. For Heaven’s sake, Clarkson, re
lease your brother-in-law, release him, I im
plore you.”
These words restored me to my senses.
I looked the villain full in the face, and
calmly, it was, indeed , my own true, dear,
ever dear, Clara’s brother, Freddy !
The clock on the mantelpiece pointed at
seven minutes to eleven ! 1 looked at my
watch; it was unwound; Iliad omitted to
wind it up on the preceding night; it was
still standing at twenty-tiiree minutes
past two !
THE PHANTOM.
A TRUE STORY.
When I was a young boy, I bad delicate
health, and was somewhat of a pensive and
contemplative turn of mind : it was my de
light, in the long, summer evenings, to slip
away from my noisy and more robust com
panions, that I might walk in the shade of
a venerable wood, my favorite liaunj, and
listen to the cawing of the old rooks, who
seemed as fond of this retreat as I was.
One evening I sat later than usual, though
the distant sound of the cathedral clock had
more than once warned mo to my home.—
There was a stillness in all nature that I was
unwilling to disturb by the least motion.
From this reverie 1 was suddenly startled
by the sight of a tall, slender female, who
was standing by me, looking sorrowfully and
steadily in my face. She was dressed in
white, from head to foot, in a fashion that I
had never seen before; her garments were
unusually long and flowing, and rustled as
she glided through the low shrubs near me,
as if they were made of the richest silk.
My heart beat as if I was dying, and I knew
not that I could have stirred from the sjiot:
but she seemed so very mild and beautiful,
I did not attempt it. Her pale, brown bail - ,
was braided round her bead, but there were
some locks that strayed upon her neck ; and,
altogether, she looked like a lovely picture,
but not like a lovely woman. I closed my
eyes forcibly with my bands, and, when I
looked again, she had vanished.
I cannot exactly say why 1 did not, on my
return, speak of this beautiful appearance:
nor why, with a strange mixture of hope and
fear, I went again and again to the same
spot, that I might see her. She always came;
and often in the storm and plashing rain,
that never seemed to touch or to annoy her,
and looked sweetly on me, and silently pass
ed on : and though she was so near to me,
that once the wind lifted those light, straying
locks, and I felt them against my cheek, yet
I never could move or speak to her. I fell
ill; and when I recovered, my mother close
ly questioned me of the tall lady, of whom,
in the height of my fever, I had so often
spoken.
I cannot tell you what a weight was taken
from my boyish spirits, when I learned that
this was no apparition, but a most lovely
woman—not young, though she had kept
her young looks; for the grief which had
broken her heart seemed to have spared her
beauty.
When the rebel troops were retreating
after their total defeat, in that very wood I
was so fond of, a young officer, unable any
longer to endure the anguish of his wounds,
sunk from his horse, anil laid himself down
to die. He was found there by tlie daughter
of Sir Henry R—■ ■, and conveyed, by a
trusty domestic, to her father’s mansion.
Sir Henry was a loyalist: but the officer’s
desperate condition excited his compassion,
and his many wounds spoke a language a
brave man could not misunderstand. Sir
Henry’s daughter, with many tears, pleaded
for him, and promised that he should be care
fully and secretly attended. And well she
kept that promise: for she waited upon him
(her mother being long dead) for many
weeks, and anxiously watched for the open
ing of eyes, that, languid as he was, looked
bright and gratefully upon his young nuise.
You may fancy, better than I can tell you,
as he slowly recovered, all the moments that
were spent in reading, and low-voiced sing
ing, and gentle playing on the lute; and
how many fresh flowers were brought to
one, whose wounded limbs would not bear
him to gather them for himself; and how
calmly the days glided on in the blessedness
of returning health, and in that sweelsilence
so carefully enjoined him. I will pass by
this, to speak of one day, which, brighter
and pleasanter than others, did not seem
more bright or more lovely than the looks
of the young maiden,asshc gnily spoke of “a
little festival, which (though it must bear an
unvvoi .hier name) she meant really to give
in honor of her guest’s recovery.” “And
it is time, lady,” said he, “ for that guest, so
tended and so honored, to tell you his whole
story, and speak to you of one who will
help him to thank you : may I ask you, fair
lady, to write a little billet for me, which,
even in these times of danger, I may find
some means to forward. ’ To his mother,
no doubt, she thought, as, with light steps
and a lighter heart, she seated herself by his
couch, and smilingly bade him dictate : but,
when he said, “My dear wife,” and lifted
up his eyes to be asked for more, he saw
before him a pale statue, that gave him one
look of utter despair, and fell, for he had
no power to help her, heavily at his feet.
Those eyes never truly reflected the pure
soul again, or answered, by answering looks,
the fond inquiries of her poor old father.
She lived to be as I saw her, sweet and gen
tle, and delicate always; but reason return
ed no more. She visited, till the day of her
death, the spot where she first saw that young
soldier, and dressed herself in the very
clothes that he said so well became her.
Female Heroism. — There are many in
stances mentioned of noble heroism and dar
ing valor, by the fairer and better portion of
creation. In classic history, distinguished
services of this character have been render
ed their country by Roman and Grecian la
dies. France, the land of chivalry, gallant
ry and refinement, has given a wonderful in
stance, of an obscure peasant girl, inspired
with a holy and exalted patriotism, rescuing
her country from a foreign foe, and restoring
her sovereign to the crown and people tit
his ancestors. An English Queen, in the
early history of that kingdom, has been
known to lead out her armies in proper per
son, to oppose the invading legiohs of Rome.
In the United States, we have an instance
on record of a female uttiring herself in men’s
apparel, and serving as a volunteer in sev
eral campaigns during the Revolution.
Among these and many other signal in
stances of female valor and patriotism, the
following example is worthy of being pre
served in the history of our country. Altho’
it is not to be compared to those above men
tioned in importance, it is nevertheless equal
in spirit to any of them.
Colonel John Thomas, Sen., is well known
in Spartanburgh,ns the commander of u reg
iment at the commencement of the Revolu
tionary war. He did considerable service
in that capacity, as many of the revolution
ary pensioners now living can testify. He
afterwards resigned his command of the reg-,
iment, and his son, John Thomas, Jun., was
appointed to succeed him. Under the com
mand of tlijp young officer, the regiment
served in the battle of the’Cowpens, and was
| NUMBER 24.
W. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR.
actively engaged throughout the remainder
of the war. The wife of Col. John Thomas,
Senior, and the mother of the young Colon
el, was a woman remarkable for her bold
ness, spirit and determination. She evinced,
on many occasions,her devotion to her coun
try, in actions as well as words, as the follow
ing remarkable instance will prove. There
had been deposited at Colonel Thomas’,.a
parcel of arms and some ammunition, for the
use of his regiment. This fact became
known to a small scouting party of Tories,
which was passing through the neighboi hood
and whose object was to murder the promi
nent Whigs, and plunder their houses.—
This Tory band, consisting of seven or eight
persons, made their appearance before the
bouse of Colonel Thomas. The Colonel
was absent, and Mrs. Thomas, and a lad by
the name of Josiah Culverson, were the on
ly persons at home. They saw the Tories
approaching the house, and knew their ob
ject. The doors were hastily closed, and
well barricaded. The house was a substan
tial log building, with many “ port-hole*”
in the upper story, A number of the gups
were already loaded—others were taken
down and put in readiness for action. Mrs.
Thomas and her “ Lieutenant-General”
were in readiness, and perfectly self-possess
ed, when the Tories approached the house.
They gave them a salute of two guns, which
produced considerable consternation in their
ranks, as well as some execution. This sa
lute the Tories returned with a volley of
musketry, which the logs of the house re
ceived without injury. The small garrison
within quickly renewed their fire, and kept
up such a quick succession of shots, that the
lories were induced to believe that there
must he a considerable number of soldiers
in the house. In the meantime, four or five
of their number were badly wounded, and
they commenced a retreat, exposed, how
ever, for some distance, to the fire of ‘the
garrison. Being apprehensive of a sally
from the fortress, the Tories made the best
of their way out of the neighborhood. The
services of young Culverson on this occasion
were, soon afterwards, rewarded by the
hand of one of Mrs. Thomas’ daughters.—
In after life he proved, by a succession of
daring exploits, that the mother could not
have committed her daughter to the protec
tion of one more valiant in the defence of
his country. — Magnolia.
A Polish Heroine. —The young countess
Plater was imbued with that devoted love
of freedom which inspires noble actions.
She could not, woman as she was, remain
an inglorious and unresisting victim of
wrongs inflicted upon her count! v. High
born, accomplished and beloved, her hand
was sought by a Russian General. We.ex
tract this incident in her life :
“ Mademoiselle, I come to offer you mv
hand.” 3
“ Sir, I refuse it,” dryly answered Emily.
He was far from expecting such an answer
and felt somewhat abashed. He did not,
however, give up, but returning to the sub
ject continued :
“ But think of my rank, Countess, and
the favor which I enjoy with the Emperor’”
“ lam fully aware of the honor you con
descend to bestow upon vour choice, but—”
“ Well—but-—”
“ The thing is impossible.”
“ Impossible 1” muttered the disappoint
ed General. “Am I so unfortunate as to
have incurred your aversion 1”
“ I do not hate you personally.”
“ Is the disproportion of our ages an ob
jection 1’ *
“Thehusband should always be older
than the wife.”
“It is exactly what I think myself. Per
haps your heart-—”
“ It is perfectly free.”
“ You can tiever find a better choice.”
” I do not deny it.”
•* Then nothing is in the way—”
“ I am a daughter of Poland.”
Before the revolution broke out, the Coun
tess traveled much for the purpose of fan
ning the etnhers of patriotism and kindling
the fire of liberty. When the shock of
war came, raising a troop of her kinsmen
aud tenants, she repaired to the frontier and
was soon gallantly engaged with the hpsts
of Russia. Overborne by numbers at one
point, she sought other fields of danger;
and finally, when all was lost, after passih”
through many perils and during every priva
tion, Emily Piaierdied inthe26thyeur of her
age, at the cottage of a peasant, where she
was secretly protected from the vengeance
of Russiai-^— Albany Journal.
The Waif to build up and Pepubfir.—Qhjo,
though not half a century old, has more
collegiate institutions than any State in the
Union. Miami University at Oxford,found
ed in 1809, is the parent institution, and for
twelve years the only one in the State; next
came the University of Ohio, at Athens, Jii
1821, then followed Franklin College at
New Athens, Western Reserve College tt
Hudson,Kenyon College at Gambier, Gran
ville College at Granville, Marietta College
at Marietta, Oberlin Institute at Obprlin,
Cincinnati College, and Woodward College
at Cincinnati, and still another is about to
l>e established at Delaware, 23 miles north
of Columbus. This is within one of asrha*
ny as there arc in all New England. Nor
lias this State bepn attentive to establish >g
those higher Scrrnrjiric* merely.
There arc about Bt> AVadamtos and Gram-