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VOL. 2.
Terms of the Georgia Citizen.
THE Cash price of this Paper is $2, per annum,
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pany the order to ensure attention.
L. F. W ANDREWS, Editor and Prop'r.
Sty*
For the Georgia Citizen.
Rosalie Lee.
BY T. H. CIIIVERS, M. D.
“ Les Anges ne sont plus pures que le ccpur d’ un
joanehomme qui aime en vcrite.”— Madame Dude
want.
On the banks of the yellow lilies,
Where the cool ware wanders by,
All bedamasked with Daffodillies,
And the bee-beset Crowtie ;
More mild than the Paphian Luna
To her nude Nymphs on the sea,
There dwelt with her milk white Una,
My beautiful Rosalie Lee —
My highborn Rosalie Lee—
My childlike Rosalie Lee —
My beautiful, dutiful Rosalie Lee,
Many mellow Cydonian suckets,
Sweet apples, anthosminl. divine,
From the Ruby-rimmed Beryllinc buckets,
Star-gemmed, lily-shaped, hyaline--
Like that sweet golden goblet found growing
On the wild emerald Cucumber-tree-
Rich, brilliant, like Crysopraz blowing—-
I then brought to my Rosalie Lee
To my lamb-like Rosalie Lee —
To my dove-like Rosalie Lee —
To my beautiful, dutiful Rosalie Lee.
Warbling her woodnotes wild, she wended
Her way with the turtle doves,
And the wood-nymphs weird that attended
Her steps through the flowery groves.
In the light of her eyes of a/ure,
My soul seemed on earth to see
All that Heaven could give me of pleasure,
With my beautiful Rosalie Lee —
With my Heaven-born Rosalie Lee—
With my Christ-like Rosalie Lee —
With my beautiful, dutiful Rosalie Lee.
But my darling Ulpsyche sighing
Her soul out to give me delight,
Went away with the Great Undying
To the Courts of the Heavenly Light.
Through an arc made in the azure
Os God's azimuth, Heaven to see,
There to dwell with the Angels in pleasure—
Went my beautiful Rosalie Lee —
Went my fair-browed Rosalie Lee —
W ent my much-loved Rosalie Lee —
Went my beautiful, dutiful Rosalie Lee.
Through the Valley of Avalon lonely,
By the light of the argentine Moon,
From the presence that lived for her only
On the banks of the rivers of Rune—
Through the Star-Islands studding the Ether,
With the Angel that took her from me—
Though my soul in its sorrow went with her -
Soared my beautiful Rosalie Lee —
Soared my Christ-like Rosalie Lee—
Soared my God like Rosalie Lee—
Soared my beautiful, dutiful Rosalie Let.
From the International Magazine.
Martha Hopkins.
A BALLAD OF INDIANA.
From the kitchen, Martha llopkins, as she stood there
making pies,
Southsvard looks, along the turnpike, with her hand
above her eyes -,
And a little grass is growing in a mighty sight of
weeds.
All the air is full of noises, for there isn’t any school,
And the boys, with turned-up pantaloons, are wading in
the pool;
Blithely frisk, unnumbered chickens, cackling, for
they cannot laugh,
V here the airy summits brighten, nimbly leaps the lit
tle calf.
Gentle eyes of Martha Hopkins ! tell me wherefore do
ye gaze
On the ground that’s being furrowed for the planting
of the maize ?
Tel! mo wherefore, dowu the valley, ye have traced
the turnpike's way,
Far beyond the cattle pasture, and the brick-yard with
its day ?
Ah ! the dog-wood tree may blossom, and the door
yard grass may shine,
M ith the tears of amber dropping from the washing
of the line;
And the morning’s breath of balsam, lightly brush her
freckled cheek, —
Little reeketh Martha Hopkins of the tales of spring
they speak.
V hen the summer’s burning solstice on the scanty
harvest glowed,
She had watched a man on horseback riding down the
turnpike road -,
Many times she saw him turning, looking backward
quite forlorn,
V ill amid her tears she lost him, in the shadow of the
barn.
Ere the supper-time was over, he had passed the kiln
of brick,
Crossed the rushing Yellow River, and had forded
quite a creek.
And his flat-boat load was taken, and the time for pork
and beans,
V ith the traders of tho Wabash, to the wharf at New
Orleans.
Therefore watches Martha Hopkins—bolding in her
hand the pans,
V hen the sound of distant footsteps seems exactly like
a man’s;
Not a wind the stove-pipe rattles, nor a door behind
her jars,
But she seems to hear the rattle of his letting down
the bars.
Often sees she men on horseback, coming down the
turnpike rough,
But they come not as John Jackson, she can see it
w ell enough;
she knows the sober trottiug of the sorrel horse
be keeps,
As he jogs along at leisure, with his head down like a
sheep’s.
‘the would know him ’mid a thousand, by his home
made coat and vest;
By Lis socks which were blue woolen, such as farmers
wear out West;
B} the color of his trousers, and his saddle which was
spread
By a blanket which was taken for that purpose from
the bed.
B °ne like he the yoke of hickory, on the unbroken ox
can throw,
°ue amid his father’s corn-fields use like him the spade
*od hoe;
at *ll the apple cutting, few indeed the men are
seen,
can dance with him the polka, touch with him the
Vl&iiu,
Tl."-:. W-JI
He has said to Martha Hopkins, and thinks she hears
him now,
For she knows as well as can be, that he meant to keep
his vow,
M hen the buck-eye tree has blossomed, and your un
cle plants his corn,
Shall the bells of Indiana usher in the wedding morn.
He has pictured his relations, each in Sunday hat and
gown,
And he thinks he’ll get a carriage, and they'll spend a
day in towu ;
That their love will newly kindle, and what comfort it
will give,
To sit down to the first Lreakfast, in the cabin where
they'll live.
Tender eyes of Martha Hopkins ! what has got you in
such scrape,
’lis a tear that falls to glitter on the ruffle of heE-cape,
Ah ! the eye of love may brighten, to be certain what
it sees, )
One man looks much like another, when half hidden
by the trees.
But her eager eyes rekindle, she forgets tho pies and
bread,
Now tie on another apron, get the comb and smooth
your hair,
’Tis the sorrel horse that gallops, ’tis John Jackson’s
self that's there!
The Fear of Being an Old Maid.
BY MRS. E. B. HAILE.
When I was a little girl, I was a fat, merry,
jolly dumpling, as happy as the day was long.
Every body pinched my red cheeks, and I wad
dled about with my doll in my plump arms,
finding fun in everything, and fully believing
that my doll was as sensible as myself, and per
haps she was, almost. But though I had a
natural antipathy to a spelling book, and had
no fondness for spending a long summer after
noon in poking a needle in and out of a bit of
calico; though I considered patchwork all fool
ishness, and gussets as utter superfluities;
though I was called a simpleton for asking my
mother why she cut cloth up and then sewed it
together again, still I was fond of picking up
ideas after my own fashion. When the wise
people around me supposed I was thinking of
nothing but my play, my two little ears were
opened to every word spoken in my hearing ;
and many were the words impressed on my
memory, which the speaker forgot the next mo
ment.
When 1 was ten years old, I had one sister
fifteen, and another seventeen ; and, as usual
with girls of that age, they had a set of cronies,
some very like, and some quite unlike them in
character. One afternoon, as I was tending
my doll, who was sick in bed, I heard a brisk
discussion amoung the girls, which I may al
most say, decided my fate for life.
lhe first words which caught rnv attention,
came, from a animated, romantic girl of sixteen,
scolding because the heroine of a novel she had
just read was left unmarried at the end of the
story.
One of the sisters did not seem to sympathize
with this burst of disapprobation,and then came
the pithy question—
“ What! would you be willing to die an old
maid ?”
Mary said very quietly, “Yes;’’ and sister El
len added, “So would I.”
Then such looks of amazementof incredulity.
“You can’t mean what you say,’’ cried one. “If
I did not know you to well to think you are a
hypocrite,” said another. “Why, it was meant
that all women should be married,’’ exclaimed
a third.
‘Then why are they not all married,’ asked
Mary, with simplicity.
Eager and hot grew the controversy, and I
lost not a word, while Ophelia lay flat on her
back, her stiff kid arms sticking out, and her
croup quite forgotten. Then first did I take
notice of that terrible combination of monosyl
lables, ‘Old Maid.’ In how many different
tones of contempt, dread and deprecation, did
1 hear it uttered by those juvenile voices! What
anecdotes came forth about cross old maids,
and fidgety old maids, and ugly, and dressy,
and learned, and pious, and flirting, and mis
chievous making old maids ! Never did a bevy
of regular fifty-year old spinsters utter so much
scandal in one afternoon, as was poured forth
by these blooming young creatures.
Two or three friends of my mother, whom I
had always cherished in mv innocent affections,
because they talked so pleasantly and were so
kind to me, now appeared like new personages.
“Miss Z. was so ugly, she never could have had
an offer.’’ “Miss Y. dressed so shabby, and
wore green spectacles to look literary.” And
“Miss A. was forever talking about Sunday
school and Exeter meetings,” and so on.
You may be sure that the next time these la
dies came to our house, I scanned very closely
the face of Miss Z., a face I had always loved
before ; but now I saw that it was exceedingly
plain. I looked hard at Miss Y.’s drab colored
bonnet and shawl, perceived that they were old
fashioned and ordinary, and, that iier green
spectacles looked pedantic. Then Miss X. be
side whom I had always squeezed in upon the
sofa, encouraged by her kindly smile and de
lighted with her conversation- how uninterest
ing she had become! They were all old
maids !
It must be observed that my sisters—right
good, sensible, domestic girls they were— had no
part in this bewilderment of my young ideas.
They were in the minority, so I took it for gran
ted that they were wrong. Besides, wliat chi 1-
dren are ever so much influenced by what is ut
tered in the familiar voices of their own family,
as by the words of comparative strangers ?
I learned my lesson thoroughly, for it came to
me in some shape every week. I read it in ev
ery novel and newspaper, and heard it from ev
ery lip. The very men who spoke truth and
sense on the subject, sometimes neutralized it
by an idle jest in some moment of lev
ity, and the jest drove out the truth from my
young heart.
At eighteen, I lived only for the ignoble pur
pose—l can not bear to say—of getting married ;
but what could have been the ruling wish of one
who had been taught by society to dread celiba
cy worse than death ? ‘ I dare say I betrayed it
in the ball room, in the street, every where. I
dare say I was duly laughed at.
At last, quaking on the verge of six and twen
ty, I had an offer—a most absurd one. I was
six years older than my lover, had ten times as
much sense, probably, except on one point. I
knew that he was rather wild, as the gentle
phrase goes; in short, I neither loved nor re
spected him, but I was willing to marry him,
because then I should be Mrs. Somebody, and
should not be an old maid.
” ‘Mfjieniti'nt in nil fjjiitgs —MmM in not jpg.”
MACON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 13, 1851.
My parents said “No,” positively. Os course
I thought them unreasonable and cruel, and
made myself very miserable. Still, it wbs
something to have “an offer” of any kind, and
my lip* were not hermetically sealed. 1 had
several confidants, who took care that all my
acquaintance should know the comfortable fact
that I had refused Mr. S.
I went on with increasing uneasiness a few
years longer, not seeking how to be useful, or
trying to find out for what good purpose I was
made. Neither was I looking for a companion
who could sympathise with my better aspira
tions and elevate my whole character, for I had
no right views of marriage. I was simply gaz
ing about in anxious suspense upon every un
married man of rav acquaintance, for one who
wouldliftme outof that dismal Valley of Hu
miliation into which I felt myself descending.
Had I met Apollyon himself, there with the
question ou his lips, I believe I should have
said “Yes.”
At thirty-six I wore more pink ribands than
ever, was seen every where that a respectable
woman cound go, wondering why girls went in
to company so young—found I was growing
sharp faced and sharp spoken, and was becom
ing old maidish in the worst sense of the word,
because I was an old maid against my will. I
forgot that celibacy never affects the temper.
My sisters, be it remembered, were older than
I. They, too, were single. But they had lived
more domestic lives than I, had read fewer
works of fiction, had been cultivating their own
natures, and seeking to make every body around
them happy. And everybody reverenced
them, and loved to look upon their open pleas
ant countenances—l mean every body worth
pleasing—and they were very happy.
At last our good parents died, and left each
of us a little independence. Within a year I
was married.
I was married for my money. This was ten
years ago, and they have been ten years of pur
gatory.
I have had bad luck as a wife, for my hus
band and 1 scarcely have one taste in common.
He wishes to live in the country, which I hate.
I like the thermometer at seventy-five degrees
which he hates. He likes to have the children
brought up at home instead of at school which I
hate. 1 like music and like to go to concerts
which he hates. He likes roast pork, which I
hate; and I like minced veal, which he hates.
I here is but one thing which we both like, and
that is what we both cannot have, though we are
always trying for it—the last word.
I have had bad luck as a mother ; for two
such huge,selfish, unmanageable boys never tor
mented a feeble woman since boys began. I
wish 1 had called them both Cain. At this mo
ment they have just quarrelled over their mar
bles. Mortimer has torn off Orville’s collar, and
Orville has applied his colt like heels to Morti
mer’s ribs ; while the baby Zenobia, in one lap,
who never sleeps more than half an hour at a
time, and cries all The time she is awake, has
be*sn roused by their din to scream in chorus.
I Tavo had bad luck as a housekeeper; for I
never kept a housemaid more than three weeks.
And as to cooks, I look back bewildered on the
long phantasmagoria of faces flitting stormily
through my kitchen, as a mariner remembers a
rapid succession of thunder gusts and hurricanes
in the Gulf of Mexico. My new housemaid
bounced out of the room yesterday, flirting her
duster, and muttering “ Real old maid, after
all!” just because I showed her a table on which
I could write “slut,” with my finger in the dust.
I never see my plump, happy sisters, and
then glance into the mirror at my own cadaver
ous long, doleful visage, without wishing my
self an old maid. 1 do it every day of my life.
Yet half of my sex marry as 1 did ; not for
love but for fear !—for fear of dying old maids.
They have their reward. And those whose
idle tongues create this mischievous fear, and
thus make so much domestic misery, have their
responsibility.
Frankness.
Alice Rey was one of those beings whose
communications are an index to her heart—
whose conversation faithfully mirrored her in
most soul. She uttered a hundred things vou
would conceal, and spoke them with that digni
fied assurance that made you wonder that you
had ever hesitated to say them yourself. Nor
did this unreservedness appear like the weak
ness of one who could not conceal, or a deter
mination to make war on the forms of society—
it was rather a calm, well guarded integrity, reg
ulated by a just sense of propriety—knowing
when to be silent, but speaking the truth when
she spoke at all.
Her extraordinary frankness often beguiled
superficial observers into supposing themselves
fully acquainted with her real character before
they really were; as the beautiful transparency
of some lakes is said to deceive the eye as to
their depth ; yet the longer you knew her, the
mere variety and compass of character appeared
through the same transparent medium.
But you may just visit Miss Alice for half an
hour and judge for yourselves. You may walk
into the little parlor. There is Miss Alice on
the sofa, sewing a pair of lace sleeves into a satin
dress—in which peculiar angelic employment
she may persevere until we have finished anoth
er sketch.
See you that pretty little lady, with sparkling
little eyes, elastic form, and beautiful hand and
foot that is sitting opposite to her j She is a
belle:—the character is written in Her face—it
dimples in her smiles, and pervades the whole
woman.
But here—Miss Alice has risen, and is arrang
ing the finest auburn hair in the world, in the
most fashionable manner. The little lady
watches every motion as comically as a kitten
would a pink bell.
‘lt is all in vain to deny it, Alice—you are re
ally desirous to look pretty this evenino- sa id
she.
‘I certainly am,’ said Alice quietly.
‘Ay, and you hope you shall please Mr. A.
and Mr. B.’ said the little accusing angel.
‘Certainly, I do,’ said Alice, as she twisted
her fingers in a beautiful curl.
‘Well, 1 would not tell it, Alice, if I did,’ said
the belle.
‘Then you should not ask me,’ said Alice.
‘I declare ! Alice.
’ ‘And what do you declare ?’
‘I never saw such a girl as you are.’
‘Very likely,’said Alice, stooping to pick up
a pin.
‘Well, for my part,’ said the little lady, ‘I
would never take any pains to make any body
like me, particularly a gentleman.’ ‘
‘I would,’ said Alice, ‘if they would not love
me without.’
‘Why Alice! I should pot think you were so
fond of admiration.’
‘I like to be remembered very much,’ said
Alice, -etuniing to the sofa, “and I suppose ev
ery else body does.’
‘I don’t care about admiration,’ said the little
lady, T would be as satisfied that they should.’
‘Then, cousin, I think it is a pity wt like you
so well,’ said Alice with a good humored smile.
IT Miss Alice had penetration, she never made
severe use of it.
‘But really, cousin,’ said the little lady, T
should not think such a girl as you would think
anything about dress or admiration, and all
that.’
‘I don’t know to hat kind of a girl you think 1
am,’said Alice; ‘but for iny own part, I only
pretend to be a common human being , and am
not ashamed of common human feelings. If
God has made 11s so that We love admiration,
why should we not, hopestir say so? I love it,
you love it, and every body else loves it; and
why should not every body say so ?
‘Why, yes,’ said the little lady, ‘I suppose
every body has a—has a —general love of admi
ration. lam willing to acknowledge that—that
I have; but—
‘But you have no love for it in particular,’
said Alice, ‘I suppose you meant to say; that is
just the way the matter is disposed of. Every
body is willing to acknowledge a general wish
for the good opinion of others; but half the
world are ashamed to own it when it comes to
a particular case. Now, I have made up my
mind, that if it is correct in general, it is correct
in particular, and I mean to own it both ways.’
‘But somehow, it seems mean !’ said the little
lady.
‘lt is mean to live for it, to be selfishly en
grossed in it; hut not mean to enjoy it when it
comes, or even to seek it if we neglect no high
er interest in doing so. All that God made us
to feel, is dignified and pure, unless we pervert
it.’
‘But, Alice, I never heard any one speak out
so frankly.’
‘Almost all that is innocent and natural may
be spoken out; and as for that which is not in
nocent and natural, it ought not even to be
thought.
‘No, we have an instinct which teaches us to
be silent sometimes ; but if we speak at all, let
it be done in simplicity and sincerity.’
‘Now, for instance, Alice,’ said the lady, ‘it
is very innocent and natural, as you say, to
think this, that, and the other thing of your
self, especially when every body is telling you
of it. Now would you speak the truth, if one
should ask you, on this point ?’
‘lf it were a person who had a right to ask.
and if it were a proper time and place, I would,’
said Alice.
‘Well, then,’ said the bright little lady, Task
you, Alice, in this very proper time and place,
do you think that you are handsome V
Now, I suppose you expect me to make a
courtesy to every chair in the room, before I an
swer, but dispensing with the ceremony, I will
tell you fairly—l think lam.’.
‘Do \ ou think that yot%tre good F
‘Not entirely.’ I
‘Well, but don’t you\hinkyou are better
than most people ?’
‘As far as I can tell, I think I am better than
some people ; but really, cousin, I don’t like to
trust my own judgment in this matter.’
‘Well, Alice, one more question—do you think
that James Martyrs likes you or me best ?’
‘I do not know.’
‘I did not ask you what you knew, but what
you thought ,’ said the lady ; ‘you must have
some thought about it.’
‘Well, then, I think he likes me best,’said
Alice.
Just then the’ door opened, and in walked
the identical James Martyrs. Alice blushed—
looked a little comical, and contined ov with her
sewing, while the lady began—
‘Really, Mr. James, I wish you had come in a
few minutes sooner, to hear Alice’s confes
sions.’
‘What has she confessed V said James.
‘Why, that she is handsomer and better than
most folks.’
‘That’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ said
James.
‘Oh, that’s not all—she wants to look pretty,
and loves to be admired, and all that.’
‘lt sounds very much like her,’ said James,
looking at Alice.
‘Oh, but besides that,’ said the lady, ‘she has
been preaching a discourse on justification of
vanity and self-love.’
‘And the next time you shall take notes when
I preach,’ said Alice, ‘for I don’t think your
memory is remarkably happy.’
‘You see, James,’ said the lady, ‘that Alice
makes it a point to say exactly the truth , when
she speaks at all; and I’ve been puzzling her
with questions. 1 really wish you would ask
her some, and see what she will say. But mer
cy ! there’s Uncle C come to make me a
ride. I must run.’ And off flew the little hum
mingbird, leaving James and Alice tele a tctc.
‘There is really one question,’ said James,
clearing his voice. Alise looked up.
‘There is one question which I wish 3*oll
would answer.’
Alice did not ask what the question was, but
began to look very solemn; and just theu I
went out of the room, and so I never knew
what it was that Alice's friend James wanted
to be enlightened about.
Count Pulaski.
AN INCIDENT AT HIS QUARTERS!
On the night of the battle of Brandywine, I
was sent with a message from Gen. Green, to
the Count Pulaski, a noble Polander, who took
a prominent part in our freedom. He was
quartered in a neat farm house near the up
per fords. As our business was finished, the
Count asked me to take some refreshments
and at the same time he called out, ‘Mary, my
lass—Mary !’ * J
In an instant a rosy-cheeked girl entered,
her face beaming with joy, it would seem, at
the very sound o( PulasKi’s voice.
‘Did you call me, Count?’ she said very
t im id ly.
‘How often have I told you, little love,’
he said, bending his tall form to kiss her cheek,
not to call rqe Count; call me your dear
Pulaski, —this is a republic, my little favorite.
We have no Counts, you know.’
‘But vou are a Count sir, when at home, and
they say you come a long way over the ocean
to fight for us.’
‘Yes, yes, Mary very true, I did come a long
way, but one reason why, was, I had tocome in
a measure. Now, cau you get for this gentle
man and myself a little refreshment? He has
a long way to ride to-night.’
‘Certainly, sir,” and she went out of the
room like a fairy.
‘A fine little pleasant girl,’ said Fulaski.—
‘Would that 1 had the wealth I once had I
would give her a portion that would send halt
the youths hereabouts after her sweet face.”
The girl soon returned with part of a fine
boiled ham, some delicious fresh lye bread
and butter, pickles, and a few little et celeras
that 1 relished exceedingly.
After refreshing myseltto mv satisfaction I
took my departure, and rode speedly to the
main camp.
On the morning of the 11th of September
1777, the British army advanced in full force
to Chadd’s ford, for the purpose of crossing
Brandywine Creek, and bringing on an ac
tion with Washington.
Ihe Hessian General Knyphausen with a
large force advancing up the side of the creek
and uniting with Lord Cornwallis, who com
manded the left wing of the army c tossed at
the upper forks of the river and creek.
It was late in the afternoon when the real
ity of the fight commenced, and as the action
raged from right to left, Green’s division, to
which 1 belonged, was brought into the midst of
the conflict, commanded by Washington in
person.
It so happened that during the raging of the
conflict, in carrying orders, 1 passed immedia
tel}’ in the direction of Pulaski's quarters that
1 had visited the night before. Situated as
the house was, in the midst of the battle, cur
iosity induced me to ride up. Suddenly a sheet
of flames burst forth. The house was on fire!
Near the door step lay the body of Mary,
her head cut open by a sabre and her brains
oozing out from the terrible wound! I had
not been there more than half a minute when
Pulaski, at the head of a troop of cavalry,
galloped rapidly to the house. Never shall I
forget the expression of this face, as he shouted
like a demon on seeing the inanimate form—
‘Who done this?’
A little boy, that I had not before noticed
who was laying amid the grass, his leg dread
fully mangled,said, ‘there they go.’ He pointed
to a company of Hessians, or Anspach grena
diers, then some distance off
Right Whe el, men—charge.
And they did charge; I do not think one
man of that Hessian corps ever left the field.
The last I saw of Pulaski on the battle
ground of Brandywine, he was bearing in his
annes the lifeless form of poor Mary.
A Mother’s Last Lesson.—“ Will you
please to teach me my verse, mamma, and kiss
me, ami bid me good night?” said little L
as he opened the door and peeped cautiously
into the chamber of his sick mother. “1 am
very sleepy, hut no one has heard me say mv
prayers.”
Mrs L was vary ill—indeed, her atten
dants believed her to be dying. She s
propped up with her pillows, and struggling fm
breath, her lips were white, her eyes were
growing dull and glazed. She was a widow,
and Rodger was her only, her darling child,
Every night he had been in the luibit of coming
into her room, and sitting in her lap or kneel
ing by her side, whilst she repeated passages
from God’s holy word, or related stories of
the wise and good men spoken of in its pages.
“Hush!” said a lady who was watching
beside her couch. “Your dear mother is too
ill to hear you to-night.” As she said this she
came forward, and laid her hand gently upon
his arm, as if she would lead him from the
room. Rodger began to sob us if his heart
would break.
“I cannot go to bed without saying mv
prayers indeed I cannot.’’
The car of the dying mother caught the
sound. Although she had been nearly in
sensible to everything transpiring around her,
the sob of her darling aroused iter from her
stupor, and turning to a friend she desired
her to bring her little son, and lay him on her
bosom. Her request was granted, and the
child’s rosy cheek and golden head nestled be
side the pale, cold face of his dying mother.
“Rodger, my son, my darling child, repeat
this verse after me and never forget it, ‘when
my father and mother forsake me, the Lord
will take me up.” The child repeated it two
or three times distinctly, and said his prayer.
Then he kissed tho cold almost rigid features
before him, and went quickly to his little couch.
The next morning, he sought as usual, his mo
ther, but he found her stiff and cold.
This was her last lesson. He has never
forgotten it, and probably never will. He has
grown to be a man, a good man, and now
occupies a post of honor and profit in Massachu
setts. I never could look upon him without
thinking about the faith so beautifully exhibit
ed by his dying mother.
Living on Laurels.
Tlic following extract from the Albany State Regis
ter, though before published in our paper, will bear re
petition :
‘The Bar of New York numbers among its mem
bers men, who in intellectual training, forensic and oth
er accomplishments, and all the qualities requisite in
statesmen, are not surpassed in tin* Union. But few
of the most eminent among them ever enter into pub
lic life. ‘Why,’ said Bareut Gardinier, addressing
Elisha Williams, ‘why, with your brilliant eloquence,
do you not go to Congress?.’ ‘What for?’ asked
Williams, in turn. ‘To make yourself wider known ;
to win Intrfels,’ was the answer—‘Ay,’ said Williams,
‘abd When 1 return home, and my children say ‘Papa,
give us some bread,’ shall f give them a leaf of the
laurel ? i
Mr. Elisha Williams, who is referred to in this an
ecdote, was the Patrick tlenry of the State of New
York. He was of obscure origin, and was entirely a
self-made man. lie was the acknowledged head of the
orators of New York, and, like Patrick Henry, was
as remarkable for his profound insight into human na
ture, and for his strong common sense as for his great
oratory.
His answer to Mr. Gardinier indeed was charaet,er
istic of his strong understanding. He estimated at
their true value ephemeral distinctions of public life.
Although his political opinions were fixed, and his feel
ings ardent, he would have naught to do with those
baubles of office which set so many grown up children
mad with ambition. He has consequently been little
heard of out his own State, but he achieved the great
object of his life, and provided his children with a
stronger staff of support than the unsubstantial ghost
of their father’s fame.
We refer to this ease, as an example which deserves
to be imitated. The appetite for office is the besetting
sin, not only of lawveis, young and old, in this coun
try, but of all classes of men. The humblest post wii.h
in the gift of the people or the President is contended
for with a rivalry which enlists the strongest passions of
the aspirants aod their friends. The defeated pa ty
in these encounters is disheartened, as if he had suf
fered a severe loss, whereas he is the only real gainer.
In a government where the selaries of public officer*
are on the most economical scale, no man can expect to
make a fortune out of the government. It requires a
rich man to support public life 111 this country.
Unless a man possess other meuns, he will hud th.
public service a thankless one, and regret, in the end,
that he had not applied himself to his profession or
trade, and taken care of those who are dependent upon
his industry, instead of wasting his energies in taking
care of the public.— Rich. Ilep.
OCT A friend of ours otci heard the following
conversation in a livery stable not long since:
“I say, Jim ” “What!” “Take black Pete’s
harness and put it on Jenny Lind—give Napo
leon some oats, take Little Nell to water and
then rub down Fanny Elssler.” “Aye, uve,
sir.
Cnrrwpiilim
LETTERS FROM THE NORTH—M. !l.
Fair Haven, Aug. 26, 1851.
Dear Doctor :—Before I left New Haven, Mr Bab
cock presented me with anew work of great merit, to
which I wish now to call your attention. It is entitled
The New Testament ; or the Book of the Holy Gos
pel oj our Lord and our God, Jesus the Messiah.
A liberal translation from the Syriac Pashilo Ver
sion, by James Murdock, D. D.
W hat I w ish you to notice now is, the peculiarity
of the above title. It does not say, The Holy Gospel
of the Son of God , but the Holy Gospel of our Lord
and our God. This goes to prove that whatSwcdeu
burg says of our Lord is true.
This man spent five of the best years of his life in
studying the Syriac langugo. \V hat pleases me most
in this city is, not inertly like wilderness of vegetation
in which it is embowered, but the number of learned
men here. That spirit which would inspire a man of
liis age to toil so long for the gratification of others, is
God derived and above all Time.
In this translation he has taken great pains to adopt
the Saxon Phraseology, as better adapted to express the
Pashito original, than the Latin. I see that he Iras also
made use of the solemn obsolescent stylo of the old
English Bible. This is absolutely very beautifully
rendered, as I will proceed shortly to show you.
lie translates Meshihhah, Messiah, and not Christ.
Sheman he transktes Simon, and not Peter. He trans
lates the Syriac/word which signifies Apostle, Legate
He translates the Syriao word which means Saviour,
Vitifier , because the veib, from which the name is de
rived, more properly means to make alive—to vivify.
This is what I wish you to notice. Had I tiie space, I
would show you that this is the correct meaning of all
those passages which refer more particularly to the Mes
siah. Jn the Syriac language his name signifies Vtri
‘-r or Life giver. This is just what Swedenburg
teaches.
The heading of the Book of Matthew is as follows :
The Holy Gospf.l, the Announcement of Matthew
the Legate. To show you how’ beautifully ho has
imitated of the Old Testament, or, rather,
the solemn rhythm ot the New, 1 will now quote a pas
sage from the verses iu Matthew—wherein our Sa
viour answers the question propounded to him by the
Saducces in regard to the woman who had had seven
husbands, ‘le do err, from not knowing the Scrip
ture, nor the power of God. For in the resnirec
tion of the dead, they do not take wives, nor are
wires given to husbands; but they are as the An
gels of God in Heaven.’ The parallel passage to
this, in John, is beautifully rendered. What I want
you to observe here is, the nice affinity between this,
and the rendering from the Greek in our New Testa
ment. This translation will go very far to confirm, in
every candid iniud, Swedenburg’s exposition of the re
surrection. Dr. Murdock is Professor of Eclcsiasticad
History in Lie Goiiege, ami is now seventy-six serfs
old. I have also read his recently published edition
of Moshiem's Eclesiaetical History. It is an able
work.
lair Ilaven is a little Town situated on tbe Quinni
piaek river, East of New Haven. It is a beautiful
little town, containing several fine private dwellings—
Mr. Moltby s being the finest of all. I passed bv one
house yesterday, the yard of which was ornamented
with no other kind of tree but the Sumac. It is a
great place for Oysters—perhaps the greatest in the
world. The people, generally, are very industrious,
but very poor.
East Haven, where I now am, is about two miles
from the former place. This is a pretty place for a
tow n, but the houses generally are in a very dilapidated
slate. People may talk about slavery as much as they
please, but I never saw it niitil ] earne here. Tho liv
ing here is just as poor as h can be—the people mak
ing use of little or no meat. The farming consists most
ly in raising small patches of corn and Irish potatoes.
Very little wheat is raised—although I perceiie that
the people use flower instead of corn bread.
I went yestyrday to see the modus operandt of the
Paper Mill, owned by Mr. Ilenriques, in this place.
The operation is quite a beautiful one—the Mill turn
ing out about seventy reams of fine writing paper eve
ry day. At the end of the Red <? which the paper
is deposited as it is made|isa Clock whose hand, indi
cate how many quires and reams are made in a duyt
Every time a quire is finished, one of the hands move;
and the other the instant these quires arc sufficient in
number to make a ream. This Mill is turned by ft
pellucid litile stream made by the confluence of lesser
streams born in the surrounding Mountains. In fact, it
is the outlet of one of the most b-atiful Lakes in A rner
ca—eaHed Saltonthal Lake. I went from the Mill
yesterday to see this beautiful pond of water—if it may
be so called. It is replenished by springs which are
the fountains of the waters which percolate through
the surrounding mountains. These mountain:, wind
like great Titanic Serpents about this Lake, as if to
guaru :t iront all intrusion. The water is as clear as
crystal. On the border of this Lake is one of the larg
est Ice houses lever saw. This Ice is not only taken
to New Haven, but to New York. The Railroad,
from I air Haven to New London, crosses this Lake.
At the point of the embankment, from the weight of the
dirt that is thrown in, may be perceived the nature of
the soil at the bottom of this Lake—for it has been
crowded up in surge like mounds all around each of the
ponds. From the nature of this—it being a kind of
vegetable loam, like the bogs of Ireland—l am induced
to believe tLrit at ono time this Jake was a beautiful
verdant valleys
There are on the borders of this Lake, many of the
most beautiful building sites I ever saw in the Union.
It is, I am told, amply supplied with various kinds of)
fishes. Ducks and milk white Swans many may be seen ;
sailing on itsplaied surface every day.
My only reply to ‘One of the People is,' —* To the j
pure all things are pure .’
‘I hate thy want of truth and Jove, —
How, then, can I bate theeV
P. S. I never wrote any such sentence in any of;
nay letters, as nothing more or less, <fee.; but nothing i
more nor less, (fee. I merely mention this to coreect ;
the error.
i
East Haven, Aug. 28, 1851.
Dear Doctor ;—I have just returned from a delight
ful eicurs.on ever the undulating bills which circum
v*nt the Sultanthal Lake, about which I wrote you in
my last. These lii'ls which are of various heights, and
adorned with coronals of Cypress, Pine & Cedar, run the
whole length of this most delightful Lake. It is a beau
tiful inland Sea.and, generally, very placid, but, to-day,
the winds being high, it rolled like the troubled ocean.
Its blue mirror, now ruffled, yet reflecting back the face
ol the all-beholding Heavens, burst upon us at inter
vals, through the open vistas of emerald foliage, like
the pleasant glimpses of the azure sky through the dis
solving darkness of the overhanging clouds at noon
day. Ihe air in its vicinity, is very salubrious, and I
have wondered, many a time, why people do not build
on the shore, as there are many beautiful sites for
dwellings near it. The air on the hills is also very pur
Some of the finest cattle I ever saw stood grazing
the loftiest peaks of the beautiful hills, as we pa ed
along. Nothing can look finer than this Lake trout the
top of one of these lofty hills.
This Lake is formed by the perennial springs which
are replenished by the percolations of the rains • ■ :
the surrounding mountains. On a windier da V.
looks as crystaline as clearness, and in the spring time
of the year is much,'deeper than in summer. NV-:r ;•
is situated one u/the largest Ice Houses m
This iceia Lot only carried to New York a: a New
Haven, but shipped in large vessels to various remote
parts of the worid. It is cut out in large flake,-, and
pulkd up, piece by piece, on an inclined plain, by . -so
power, and pitched down through a high window .ato
the Ice house. We saw beautiful milk white Swans
as white as Leda’s love, swimming all about on its
surface.
Alter taking dinner at the very hospitable mansion
ot the mother of the gentleman who accompanied me,
we drove down to a little tow i, three miles off, called
Bradford; where they manufacture locks and many
other useful articles. Here we saw the skeleton of a
new Church, whose architecture could boast of no<
parallel upon earth. The country from Bradford to-
East Haven is very hilly—the formation being princi
pally primary.
Yesterday we took a ride down to the grove house,
from which we went to the Light House on the Sea
shore. This is a lofty tower, built of Granite, from tho
top of which ships may be seen at a great distance at
Sea. flic wind was blowing very violently, and the
Sea roared desperately—the giant waves beating against
the rocks with such fury that the spray was dashed
high up into the air and there sifted by tho invisible
sing. at of the winds into a gentle rain which was sown
at a/considerable distance on the shore. The very
of nature seemed to be boiling over with a great
agony, the waves ran so high—the sound of which was
heard several miles in the country.
1 am now enjoying the hospitalities of a friend in the
country, where the air is very pure. I go out every day
to see them mow the hay—both salt and fresh. The
sea water, troin the salt meadow’, is shut out by &
dyke in the summer and let in, through a gate, upon
tlu-rn in the winter. This hay is worth from eight to
ten dollars per ton. I am going down to South Eud
to-morrow, where I expect to ees many wonderful
tilings.
In the North American Review, for July, is a re
view of The Bords nf the Bible, by Mr. Gilfiflan
of England,in winch it is stated that the Hebrew lan
guage is not only not poetey, but totally destitute of
any rhythm. Tb sis said by the Reviewer , who is
the completes! Donkey that ever wasted ink on paper
for his owwn damnation, not because be knows any
thing at all about the matter, but because he knew of
no better way to find fault with the idea that the Bible
is its own best interpreter. To show yon what a con
summate goo-e he is, 1 will merely state that in this
same Review, he says that poetry has not only not the
same power of prose to express cor ideas, but that all
poetry had its birth in the minds ofctf people in a rud.
state of civilization. What ouglrfTo be thought of the
who would admit such an article as this into
the columns of what he and other Frogpondiana of
Boston are pleased to call a retpeetable Magazine ?
How such a mock Crow could ever l.a*e gotten his
head under the up is wings of that ineffable buzzard,*
beyond all conjecture. His caw , I should think, ought
to be enough to startle the deafest ears of the stupid
est buzzard in all Christendom. But perhaps 1 am
speaking of the Editor himself. If I am, I hope ho
will take a timely hint from what I now say, and nev
er offend any body’s good taste again with such ridicu
lous ignorance. Tile Hebrew language has not only a
rhythm of its own—poeuliar to iiself—but a parallel
iism, similar, in its nature, to the rhyming responses of
the English. The truth is, there never was any lan
guage that did not possess rhythm. Bat, as this Mag a.
zine is published in Boston, why should any body won
derat any thing that is said in it ? It will no doubt,
beeme the bedlam-repository of all the craekbraim
nonsense of that lunatary people! An Altar ought to
be erected by some modern Jeroboam in honor to this
Northern calf.
; Mr. Albs has just engaged anew 811 Waiter, (o
| Ni gg er ) 'ho is so green that grass looks white by t !t .
side of Irtin. About two hours ago, the bell, in
0, was rang for him to answer it. A few mr-me- -
ago, I found him standing before tlu/door of a W,
robe closet gently tapping for admitUf ce— where he ‘■:
been all the time. His hair stands out in a . ri
tions on bis head, like the ‘qu>ils upon the fre- p ro
cHpine.’
Mr. Balxcock, who is one ot the po’it< • k-ss
iu tli.s city, he*> just handed me anew *’
entitled The Plantation Teacher, or, Vs >r ; s, rg .
tide Book of First lessons for Childre the Al
phabet and in Spelling. By a Souther.-,
The alphabetical and spelling part- • Tir- -
wi.l do well enough, but the reading f , . r
abominable. J tl my opinion no S-utr< n ‘
dy ever had any thing to do with it. ~
take in getting up this Book was. the M.- rL
the Southern people ever had aDy
their children ‘Nigger language out of ab J
when they can hear it spoken all the time without
any. The following is a good specimen of the read
ing to be found in it: Maum Beck , toko could not
bear to see her darling crossed in any thing, said, nct
cr mind. Missy, to morrow you go to the Store room
with Missus and ask for a pipe, and J will teach
Amy to blow up bubbles for youd
Is not this beautiful ? Js it not a perfect sample of
the Dark Ages-? If the publisher of this Book, who,
I understend/is .Mr. Babcock of Charleston, wishes it
to take with/he Southern people, the best thing that
he can do iaf to expunge the whole of this absurd read
ing matter, and substitute in its stead Mrs. Childs’
Rainbows for Children, or Watts’ Ditine Songs
The typography is good,but the Engravings are a perfect
nebulosity.
There is a Mountebank here at this time, lecturing
on Psychology, who pretends to be a veritable Clair
vojante. The ladies flock to see him from all direc
tions, like Pilgrims to the hallowed shrine at Mecca
as though lie were the real fountain of youth incarnat
ed. By a men pas d’ ez fuse, he leaps from life into
death—crossing the Dark River of the Valley of the
jffiadow of death, without ever getting his feet wet
then back again into fife, without suffering the less’
metamorphosis, or ever changing his position. All
this goes to prove that what Swedenburg says of Hea*
ven is true. By this Black Art ho professes to be able
Dotoniy to make lucid the abstruse Mysteries of life,
but to solve the dark JEaigma of the grave. But what
ifallthis ‘vaulting ambition’should turn out to be noth
ing more nor ] a fattx pas ? T. H. Q.
NO. 2d.