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volume ii. j a JFamilg : Brliotrtr to ECtfrattire, EjjrtraUurr, JEccftautcs, Education, iTorcCsu ant ©omcatk KntrlH&rner, scc, j number 23.
BY C. R. HANLEITER.
i? ©IE IT Y □
From tho New Mirror.
CHANGE.
Don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt;
Sweet Alice, whose lrnir was so brown,
Who wept w ith delight when you gave her n smile,
And trembled with iear at your frown ?
In the old churchyard in the valley, Ben 8011,
In a corner obscure and alone,
They have lilted a slab of the granite so gray,
And Alice lies under Ihe stone.
Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt,
Which stood at the foot of the hill,
Together we’ve lain in the noonday shade,
And listened to Appleton’s mill.
The mill-wheel lias fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt,
The rafters have tumbled in,
And a quiet crawls round the walls as you gaze,
Has followed toe olden din. •
Do you mind of the cabin of logs. Ben Bolt,
At tho edge of the pathless wood ;
And the button-ball tree, with its motley limbs,
Which over the house-top stood ?
The cabin is carried away,Ben Bolt,
The tree you would seek in vain ;
And where once the lords of the forest have waved,
Grow grass and the golden giain.
And don’t you remember the schooj, Ben Bolt,
With the master so cruel and grim ;
And the little nook in the running brook,
Where the children went to swim ?
Gross grows on the master’s grave, Ben Bolt,
Ths spring of the branch is dry,
And of all the boys that were schoolmates then,
There is only von and 1.
This is change in ihe Icings I loved, Ben Bolt,
They have changed from the old to the new ;
Hot I foe) in the cored my spirit the truth,
That there never was change in you.
Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt,
Since first we were friends, yet I hail
Thy presence a blessing, thy friendship a truth —
Ben Bolt of the salt-sea gale. T- • T
SSLKDTE® TALIEI.
From the German.
TIIE ZOMBI, OR MURILLO’S PUPIL,
Many years ago, on a beautiful summer
morning, several young men, who emerged
Irom different streets, pursued their way to
wards the house of the celebrated painter,
Murillo.
They all arrived at the door at the same
moment, exchanged salutations in a cordial
manner, and called each other by name.—
They hurried up the flight of stairs and
reached the studio. The mapstro had not
yet entered, and each artist approach
ed his easel, to see if the colors were well
dried.
“ By the holy St. James of Cotnpostella !”
exclaimed Isturez, “ which of you remain
ed last in the studio yesterday V’
•• You have not yet recovered from the
effects of your morning nap,” replied at
the same time Fernandez and Cordova,
“or you would surely recollect that we all
went home together.”
*• There is a poiut beyond which forbear
ance ceases to he a virtue,” continued Is
turez, evidently in a had humor. “ Yester
day, before leaving the studio, I consumed
an limy at least in cleaning very carefully
my palette and brushes, and this morning 1
find them dripping with paint.”
“See here! look!” cried Carlos; “there
is another little face, just in the corner of
my picture; and it’s by no means a bad
one either. Carajo! who can it be that thus
amuses himself every morning with paint
ing a figure, first upon thp wall and then
upon my canvass.”
“ Yesterday, Fernandez, there was one
just above your easel.”
“ It must be Inturez ; his palette is proof
positive against him,” said Fernandez.
“ No, by the holy madre! it was not I,”
replied Inturez.
“ Do not swear; such a face you never
could have painted,” said Carlos.
“Be that as it may, Don Carlos, I have
never yet painted any quite so indifferent
as yours.”
“ And my brushes too are all moist!” ex
claimed Gonzales. “By the old patron
aalnt of Spain ! something very mysterious
goes on here at night.”
“ Do you not think with the creole Go
mez, that it is the Zombi who pays these
nocturnal visits to our studio 1” asked Is
iurez.
“ Certainly! I believe it,” returned Men
dez, who had thus long remained silent,
while examining attentively one of those
beautiful sketches which peeped forth, in
greater or lesser number, every morning
from their canynss, ns though called into ex
istence by the magic wand of some super
natural visitant. I wish in roy ‘ Descent
from the Cross’ he had had the kindness to
have sketched the head ol the Holy Virgin;
my conception may be ever so pure and
chaste, but ray pencil obstinately refuses to
obey the impulses of my imagination.
At these words Mendez approached his
easel. An exclamation of astonishment
burst from his lips, and he stood petrified at
the spectacle presented to his view. A
beautiful Madonna’s head, merely sketched,
but of wonderful expression, stood out clear
from the canvas*, graceful and pleasing, a
mid the other figures of the picture, like
an unearthly apparition.
How now 1 What’s the matter with
you *111” demanded a stern, gruff voice,
which roused the youth from his meditations,
who bowed respectfully before the spesker.
“ Examine for yourself, Sefior Murillo,”
answered all the young men simultaneously,
pointing to the easel of Mendez.
“Whoso work is this? Who painted
that head V’ asked Murillo, with eagerness.
“ Why do you not answer I Whoever
sketched that Madonna will some day or
other be the muster of us all. Does no*one
speak 1 I should be proud to acknowledge
it ns the production of my own pencil. By
the soul of my father! what tenderness !
what sweetness! what delicacy ! Mendez,
my dear pupil, speak, is it yours 1”
“ No, maestro,” replied Mendez, evi
dently grieved.
“ Was it you, Inturez 1 or you, Fernan
dez 1 or you, Cordova*'!”.
“ No, maestro,” replied they simultane
ously.
“But,” said Murillo, impatiently, “it
could not have made its appearance here
itself. Someone must have done it.”
“ This is not the first nor the only myste
rious and inexplicable affair which has trans
pired in your slndio,” replied Cordavo, the
youngest of the pupils. “ Believe me,
maestro, this place abounds in spirits, who
regularly assemble here every night, and
play off’their pranks till the dawn of day.”
“ I am by no meaus so supetstitious as
Cordova,” said Fcrnendez ; “ hut true it is
thfit events occur within these walls which
surpass belief.”
“ And what are they ?” demanded Mu
rillo,sternly, whose gaze was still riveted on
the head of the beautiful Madonna.
“ In obedience to your orders, seQor, we
never leave the studio without putting eve
rything in the most petfect order, cleaning
our palettes, washing our brushes and ar
ranging our easels ; but every morning we
find all things in the greatest confusion, our
palettes loaded with paint, and on all sides
behold the most exquisite sketches, and are
astonished at their incomputable beauty ! In
one place the head of an angel: in anothei
that of a demon, or the profile of a lovely
female, or the head or cn old man; but all
wonderfully beautiful and admirable in their
composition, setting imitation at defiance.
We rejoice that this day you have had an
opportunity of witnessing these remarka
ble phenomena yourself; and it tha indi
vidual who thus amuses himself here in the
dead hour of the night be not yourself, sc
fior, then I must agree with Cordova that it
is, beyond all doubt, the devil!”
“ 1 would to heaven it were! Willingly
would 1 avow myself the delineator of those
refined and delicate features—of that bold
and majestic outline ! There are, doubt
less, in the picture some few variations from
the rules of art ; but those few are lost a
mid its transcendent beauties. Sebastian !
Sebastian!” he cried,inteirupting himself,
“ we will soon ferret tint the mystei ions ar
tist. Sebastian,” lie continued, addressing
himself to n little creole,vahout fourteen
years of age, who hurried at the call of bis
master, “have 1 not ordered you to sleep
in this place every night ?”
“Yes, seiinr,” replied the timid and ter
rified Ixiy.”
” Well, and do you sleep here 1”
“ Yes, seiior.”
“ Well, then, speak ! Who was it that
either last night or this morning entered
this room before tho arrival of these gentle
men 1 Speak, or I’ll soon find means to
compel you!” exclaimed Murillo to the
hoy, who continued revolving his feathered
cap upon his thumb without replying ; “un
ravel this mystery.”
“ Nobody, senor, that I know of,” replied
Sebastian, tremblingly.
“ Slave 1”
“No one but myself lias entered this
apartment, upon my word, senor,” repeat
ed Sebastian, kneeling and raising his hands
imploringly to his master.
“ Selnstian,” replied Murillo firmly. “ lis
ten to me. I ntn determined to find out
who painted this Madonna’s head, and the
others which these young gentleman have
observed here for several mornings past. —
This night you shall keen watch, instead of
sleeping ; and to-morrow, if you have not
detected the guilty individual, you shall re
ceive twenty-five lashes. Dost thou hear !
Go and grind your colors; ind you,gentle
men, go to your woik.”
The young men applied themselves with
enthusiasm to theiroccuputinn, hut no soon
er had Murillo left the studio than the mys
terious artist again became the subject of
conversation. Mendez spoke first.
“ Look out for scourging to-morrow,
boy, it you do not detect the intruder to
night. Give me some yellow.”
“ You do not need any, Seiior Mendez.
There is already too much yellow mi your
picture. As to the intruder, it’s my opin
ion its Zombi.”
“ Cease your stupidity about Zombi,”
said Gonzales, impatiently.
“ You may believe in the Zombi or not,
Senor Gonzales, but that does not disprove
his existence, not that he is sometimes a
good spirit and sometimes a malicious one ;
for it was he undoubtedly, who so pulled
the arm of your‘John in the Wilderness’
out of shape; for, 1 ’ continued Sebastian,
jeeringly, “if the other was equally long,
he might unloose the latches of his shoes
without bending his body.”
The attention of all was directed to Gon
zales’ picture, and they cast a look of as
tonishment first a: Gonzcales and then at
Sebastian.
“ Do you not all see that there i* truth in
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 16, 1843.
Sebastian’s criticism 1” said Isturez, exam
ining more closely the unnatural limb, w bit'll
had hitherto escaped their observation.
Gonzales colored, looked angrily ai Is
turez, and pettishly reminded Sebastien of
ihe twenty-five lashes he whs to receive on
the following day.
In ibis manner they jeered and rallied
each olher until the hours devoted to study
had expired, then arranging the studio they
exchanged salutations, and parted until the
following day.
It was night, and the studio of Murillo,
the celebrated painter of Seville, which du
ring the day presented each a scene of inirih
and activity, had become silent and solitaiy
as the grave. A single lamp burnt dimly
upon (lie marble table in the centre, and
npar it stood a boy, whose pale complexion
accorded well with the gloomy daikness in
which he was enveloped, and whose large
black eyes sparkled in the obscurity like
lustrous brilliants. He was leaning up
on an ensal, in a graceful posture, still and
immoveable, and plunged in the profound*
est reflection. Without his obseiving it,
the door opened gently, and a man, jvlmse
features it was impossible to distinguish in
the gloom which pervaded the apartment,
entered, advanced towards him, and called
him by name. Sebastian was too much oc
cupied to reply. He was seized by the
arm.
Sabastian raised Ins eyes—a tall, fine
looking creole stood before him.
“ What brings you here, father V’ asked
the boy, with.evident concern.
“ Only to keep you company, tny child.”
“ That is unnecessary, father ; return to
your bed. 1 will keep watch alone.”
“ But if the Zombi should appear 1”
Sebastian smiled and replied :
“ But if he should take you from me,
my child ?”
The hoy raised his eyes towards the large
skylight in the vaulted ceiling, through
which the twinkling stars were glimmering
with peerless ray*.
“ Place your trust there, father, and re
tain again to your bed. 1 will lay myself
down upon the carpet, and seek forgetful
ness in sleep.”
“But ate yon not cfiidthe Zombi nil
come. Sebastian ?”
“No, father; the belief in the Zombi is
only superstition of the country ; and Fa
ther Eugenio has told you as well he me
that there are no such things as supernatur
al beings.”
“ Why did you tell the young gentlemen
of the studio, then, that it was the Zombi
who sketched those mysterious figures V’
“ For my own amusement, father. I en
joyed their astonishment.”
“ Well, good night, my deal hoy,” said
Gomez, as he left the room.
Sebastian no sooner found himself alone
i then he leaped about the room for joy.
“ And now to my work,” he cried ; hut,
stopping suddenly, lie paused and reflected
on l lie morrow. “Twenty-five lashes if 1
do not tell wlifi sketched these figures ; and
double that number, perhaps, if 1 confess
myself the guilty one: What shall Ido 1”
i Sebastian kneeled upon the carpet, which
’ served him at night for a lied ; hut an irre
sistible drowsiness crept, over bis senses in
the middle of bis prayer, and leaning a
gainst the marble wall of the studio, ho fell
i into a profound slumlier.
A faint dusky ray of the morning light
stole through one of the large oval win
[ dows of the apartment, and fell softly upon
the easel of Mendez. The sonorous clock
of tlte old cathedral of Seville tolled the
hour of three, mid aroused Sebastian from
his slumbers. Any other child‘would have
yielded to the control of weariness and
slept; but Sebastian, who had only three
hours for himself—three hours of liberty,
leaped from his restitig-plaee and advanced
toward a half- open window, to inhale the
fresh air of the morning.
** Up, up, Sebastian,” said lie to himself;
“ yon have only three hours of your own,
improve them; and the remainder belongs
to your master.”
By this time be hod completely banished
his drowsiness.
Terrified by ihe sensation which his pic
tures had created the day preceding, his
first impulse on awakening was to efface
every line his pencil had traced; and, dip
ping his brush in oil, he advanced towards
the Madonna, who, through the gloom of
the vast and sombre apartment, looked more
beautiful and lovely than ever.
“ Blot out those enchanting features—ob
literate those heavenly-beaming eye* ! No,
never ! Bather will 1 endure the threaten
ed punishment, rather will I undergo any
torture, than thus annihilate this most beau
tiful conception of my imagination. Tho
young artists themselves had not the heart
to educe them, and shall Idoit ? No, ne
ver ! That lip lives, breathes and speaks.
If I should erase (hat celestial countenance,
I should feel as though I had caused the
life-blood of the ever-blessed Mudonna to
flow. No, rather will I prosecute the glori
ous task and complete it, let the punishment
be what it may.”
No sooner had this thought entered hi*
mind than Sebastian seized the palette of
Mendez, prepared tho various colors, ad
vanced towards the easel and resumed his
fascinating undertaking. The sun rose
higher and higher, and Sebastian’ continu
ed to paint, occupied alone with his charm
ing Madonna, who began to receive addi
tional life and animation from his magic
pencil.
“ One touch more here—and there a more
delicate shade—then this mouth; oh hea
vens! it opens—these eyes gaze on me with
a celestial expression—this forehead, what
polity ! O adorable virgin !”
Sebastian, lost irihis rapturous nndhound
lesji enthusiasm, forgot the hours that were
gliding swiftly away, and his threatened
punishment. The youthful artist, before
hits picture, sow nothing besides the angelic
face of the blessed Maty, who seemed to
smile upon him with a mingled look of ap
probation and love.
Suddenly lie awoke ftotn his revery.—
He heard a slight noire as of persons ad
vancing behind him, and, turning quickly
round, Ireheld all the pupils and iris master,
at their head. He did not dream for a mo
ment of attempting to justify himself.—
With the palette in one liaml and a brush
in the other, he diopped his head upon his
bicast, and awaited the punishment which
lie was convinced he had so rashly provo
ked.
For several minutes the most profound
silence pervaded the company ; for, if Se
bastian stood petrified with fear ltefore them
because he was taken i;t the very act, so
were also the maestro Murillo and his pupils
equally petrified with astonishment at what
they beheld. Murillo beckoned to tho
young men, who could scarcely testrain
the outbursts of their admiration, to he si
lent, advanced towards Sebastian, conceal
ing his emotions beneath a stern, cold gaze,
cast his eyes first upon his trembling slave
and then upon the lieautiful head of tho Ma-
asked him
“ Who is your master, Sebastian V’
“ You, tenor,” replied the boy, in an al
most inaudible tone.
“ Yonr master of painting, I mean, Se
bastian 1”
“ None other than yourself, senor,” said
the terrified boy.
“ I have never given you any instruction,”
said Murillo, amazed.
“ You have instructed others in my pre
sence, senor, and I could not avoid learn
ing.” replied the Imy, who Viegan to take
courage at the kind and gentle voice of his
master.
“ And you not only heard my instruc
tions. l)y Saint James of Compostella ! hut
you have profited l>y them,” rejoined the
great painter, whose admiration betrayed
itself againsthisinclination. “Gentlemen,”
said lie, addtessing himself to his pupils,
“ what shall be done with this boy ; does he
merit punishment 1”
At the word punishment, Sebastian al
most lost bis consciousness; be raised bis
eyes timidly and imploringly towards his
master.
“No punishment, senor,” exclaimed the
young men simultaneously, “but a reward.”
“ How shall he bo tewarded I” demand
ed Murillo.
Sebastian began once more to breathe.
“With at least ten ducats,” said Men
dez.
“Oh! fifteen would not be too much,”
said Fcrnendez,
“ Give him anew suit for the file nf the
blessed Virgin,” said Gonzales.
“ Speak, Sebastian,” said Murillo, look
ing at bis slave, whose countenance mani
fested no signs nf joy at the proposed te
wards, “ speak, tny good boy; do none of
these things accord with your tastes I lam
so delighted with these proofs of your gen
ius, these hold outlines, this exquisite eo
.loritig, in fine, with your l>eutiful Madon
na, that l will grant you whatever you may
desire—anything. Sjwak—make known
your wishes. I swear it, in the presence of
these gentlemen. By the ghost of my de
parted father, whatsoever you ask of me, in
tny power to bestow, that shall you re
ceive.”
“Ah, my master, if I only dared—”
Sebastian fell upon both knees before his
master, seized his hands, and one might
have seen hy his half opened lips, might
have read in his large dark eves, beaming
with expression, one consuming thought,
which his timidity alone prevented him
from disclosing.
“ Why do you not ask for gold 1” whis
pered Mendez. .
“ Ask for a suit of fine clothes,” sugges
ted another.
” Beg to he admitted among the number
of his pupils,” added n third.
A gleam of joy brightened the eye of the
trembling hoy at these words, but lie shook
his head and looked mournfully at the floor.
“ Come, come, Sebastian,” said Murillo,
while he smiled at what he supposed to be
the indecision of the youth; “make up
your mind—decide upon something.”
At these words qn exclamation of joy
burst from the lips of Sebastian ; he raised
his eyes, suffused with tears, imploringly
towurds his master, and said, with a falter
ing voice—
“ Forgive me, senor; but oh ! grant me
the freedom of my father t”
” Your own freedom and hU also, my
good boy,” cried Murillo, who could no lon
ger restrain bis deep emotion, but caught
Sebastian in his arms and embraced him.
“ From this day forward you sIibII be my
pupil. Happy m*si that lam ! I have ac
complished more than the making of pic
tures. I hate created a painter !”
Murillo kept his word, and Sebastian Go
mez, more generally known under the name
of “ Murillo’s rreole,” soon rose to emi
nence in his profession, and subsequently
became ime of the greatest painters that
Spain ever produced. Tlte cathedrals of
Seville, at the pirsent day, contain several
of the chiefs <V centres of his genius among
which the most celebrated ate “ The Holy
Virgin with the infant Christ in her arms,”
a most beautiful “ Anna,” a “Joseph,” and
above ull, a “ Crucifixion of Christ,” at
whose feet stands the apostle Peter.
\v. a. s.
uu’jL.iry jaaa. jt.ijtw iwaiMp—i .
MU'®6 EiiAHY.
From the N. Y. Evening Post.
Letters from New York, hy L. Maria
Child. —These letters originally appeared
in a weekly paper, where we temetnber to
have read lltem with great pleasure. Mrs.*
Child is one of our most graceful and ac
complished female writers—full of thought
and full of sympathy.
lu the following is a description of a fa
mous female preacher among the negroes :
Julia’s quiet, dignified, and even lady like
deportrfient it: the priT'or, did not seem st
all in keeping with what I ftttd been told of
her in the pulpit, with a voice like a sailor
at mast head, and muscular action like Gar
rick in mnd Tom. On the Sunday follow
ing, I went to hear her for myself; and in
good truth, I consider the event as an era
in my life never to be forgotten. Such an
odd jumbling together of all sorts of things
in Scripture, such wild fancies, beautiful,
sublime, or grotesque, such vehemence nf
gesture, such di amatic attitudes, I never be
fore heard and witnessed. I verily thought
she would have leaped over the pulpit; and
if she had, I wai almost prepared to have
seen her poise hcrselfon unseen wings, over
the wondering congregating.
I know not whether her dress was of ler
own choosing ; bpt it was tastefully appro
priate. A black silk gown, with plain w hite
cuffs : a white muslin kerchief, neatly fold
ed over the breast, and crossed hy a broad
black scarf, like that which bishops wear
over the surplice.
She began with great moderation, gradu
ally rising in her tones, until she arrived at
the shouting pitch,common with Methodists.
This she sustained for an incredible time,
without taking breath, and with a buskinrss
of effort, that produced a painful sympathy
in my own lungs. Imagine the following,
thus utteied ; that is, spoken without punc
tuation : “ Silebce in heaven! The Lord
said to Gabriel, bid all the angels keep si
lence. Go up into the third heavens, and
tell the archangi lsto hush their golden harps.
Let the mountains be filled with silence.—
Let the sea stop its roaring, and the earth
be still. What’s the matter now ? Why,
man has binned, and who shall save him ?
Let there be silence, while God makes
search for a Messiah. Go down to the earth ;
make haste, Gabriel, and inquire if any
there are wot thy; and Gabriel returned and
said, no, not one. Go search among the
angels, Gabriel, and inquire if any there are
worthy ; make haste, Gabriel; and Gabri
el returned arid said, no. not one. But don’t
be discouraged. Don’t be discouraged, fel
low sinners. God tttose in his majesty, and
lie pointed to his own right hand, and said
to Gabriel, behold the Lin of the tribe of
Judah; lie alone is worthy. He shall re
deem my people.”
You will observe it was purely her own
idea, that silence reigned on earth and in
Heaven, while search was made for a Mes
siah. It was a beautifully poetic concep
tion, not unworthy of Milton.
Her description of the resurrection and
the day of judgment, must have been ter
rific to most of her audience, and w as high
ly exciting even to me, W'hose religions sym
pathies could never lie roused by fear. Her
figure looked strangely fantastic, and even
supernatural, as she loomed up above the
pulpit, to tepresent the spirits rising from
their graves. So powerful was her rude
eloquence, that it continually impressed me
wit it grandeur, and once only excited a
smile ; that was when she described a saint
striving to rise, “buried perhaps twenty
feet deep, with three or four sinners a top
of him.”
This reminded me of a verse iu Dr. Xet
iletou’s Village Hymns:
“ C U how die resurrection light,
Will clarify believers’ eifilit,
How joyful will the saints arise.
And rub th* dust from off their oyer”
With a power of imagination singularly i
strong and vivid, she described the resttr- |
rection of a vour.g girl, who had died a sin- I
ner. Ilei body came from the grave, and !
her soul front tlte pit, where it bad been tor- I
monted for many years. “ The guilty spir
it came up with the flames all around it— I
rolling—rolling—rolling.” She suited the j
action to the wind, ns Siddons herself, might
have done. Then she described the body j
wailing and ahieking, “ O Lord! must I
take that ghost ngttin I Must Ibe torment
ed with the burning ghost forever ?”
Luckily for the excited feelings of her j
audirnce.she changcdthe scene, and brought j
before us the gospel ship, laden with saints,
and hound for the heavenly shore. The
majestic motion of n vessel on the heaving
sea. and the fluttering of Its pennon in the
breeze, was imitated with wild gracefulness
by the motion of her hands. “It touched
WM. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR.
ilte strand.*. Oh! it was a pretty morning!
81 the first tap of Heaven’s hell, the angels
came crowding round, to bid them welcome.
There you and I shall meet my freloved fel
low-travellers. Farewell—farewell—l have
it in my temporal feelings that 1 shall never
set loot in this New York again. Farewell
on earth, hut I shall meet you there,” point
ing reverently upward, “May we all be
aboard that blessed ship.” Shouts through
out the audience, “We will! we will!”
Stirred up by such responses, Julia broke
out with redoubled fervor, “Farewell—
farewell. Let the world say what they will
of me, 1 shall surely meet you in Heaven’s
brood bay. Ifell clutched me, but it hadn’t
energy enough to bold me. Farewell on
earth. 1 shall meet you in the morning/’
Again and again she tossed her arms abroad,
and uttered her wild “ farewellrespond
ed to by the loud farewell of a whole con
gregation, like the shouts of an excited pop.
ulace. Her last words were in poet to
phrase, “ I shall meet you in the morning.’’
Her audience were wrought up to the
highest pitch of enthusiasm I ever witness,
ed. “ That’s God's truth!’’ “Glory!”—.
“ Amen I” “ Hallelujah !” resounded
throughout the crowded house. Emotion
vented itself in murmuring,stamping, shout
ing, singing, and waiting. It was like the
uproar of a sea lashed by the winds.
Mrs. Gilmour.— Our readers all know
something of Christiana Gilmour, the Scotch
women who killed her husband, and escap
ed to this country. She was recently given
up by our government, and taken back to
Scotland, where she will be tried for her life.
The following sketch of her history will be
found highly interesting, and may be relied
on as strictly true.
“ The history of this unfortunate young
woman should operate us a warning to pa
rents. and teach them to beware of unrelent
ing opposition to an honorable attachment
formed by a daughter, or even a son, mere
ly because the ol ject favored by such is not
of equal wealth or rank in life with them
selves. It were better—far letter—to raise
one than to prostrate and destroy the other.
Mr. Cochran, the father of this young wo
man, k a wealthy farmer in the shire of Ren.
frew, near Paisley, in Scut laud. She re
ceived a passably good education and we
have seen a letter written by her to her pa
rents since her arrival here, couched it>
sweet and affecting language, and written
in a practised pretty hand. About five years
ago, it appears, she lieingHtill in her ‘teens,’
she become acquainted with a young man
in the neighborhood by the name of Auder
son, and a mutual attachment sprung up be
tween them. Although of excellent char
acter, and of good moral conduct, he was in
humble life, being a gardener in the em
ployment ofa gent lonian in bis native pariah.
They made’ no secret of their attachment,,
but it was bitteily opposed by her parents,
particularly as her father and the father of
her future husband hod already decided that
she and the unfortunate John Gilmour wern
to be united. The great object of her pa
rents from the time of discovering her at
tachment to Anderson was to keep them
apart, and with this view she was at times
confined in the attic of her father’s dwelling,
und a most rigid system of coercion applied
to her with a view to compel an Abandon,
ment on her part of the object of her affec
tion, but without effect, although stripes,
and at times severe beatings, were resorted*
to. ‘Oh, father,’she exclaimed one day, ‘is
cannot, marry John Gilmour, I have nothing,
to say against him ; but 1 do not love him
permit me to marry John Anderson, who I
know is attached to me as 1 love him j and
I will go down mi my knees and bless you.
He and I can take the farm which is in s>
sboit time to be vacant, and my little sister
can live with me, and we shall all be happy
in each other’s society. John Gilmour can.
find another girl who will love him oud make
him a good wife ; but oh, father, 1 cannot
—cannot —marry him.’ The appeal was
unheeded, and served but to make her situ
ation worse, and she ( otermined upon es
cape, to wander she knew not
Watching an opportunity she fled, but was
soon pursued by her father and all the sot*
vants of his household.. She took shelter in
a thicket, wliere she remained for some thn#
undiscovered, although her pursuers often
passed the spot where she lay, till her little
favorite dog found out bis mistress and came
fondly upon her. This led to her detection,
she was taken back to the house and severe
ly beaten. Finally goaded almost to mad
ness, or to what has been claimed in regard
to her, • insanityshe gave a consent so far
as the law required to a union with Gilmour,,
and after being bedecked in bridal robe**
was brought as an ox to the slaughter, or
lamb to the sacrifice, from her place of con
finement, and her destiny interwoven for
life or death with that of John Gilmour.—
The parents hud given them 1,000 pounds,
or about §5,000 each, making SIO,OOO in all,
and they were settled on the farm at Ttichin
nan, whiqh became their property. In about
five weeks from the marriage the unhappy
husband, after a short illness, in which he
experienced severe torture, perirhed. Cir
cumstances came to light which afforded
but too much ground for suspicion that be
had been murdered, and that his unfortu
nate. but now, it is feared, guilty wife }tg|s
caused his death. The subsequent event*
are known ; ah* fled to this country in pr,,.
taction of a young roan, atid passing as bis