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About Southern miscellany. (Madison, Ga.) 1842-1849 | View Entire Issue (Sept. 10, 1842)
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-
