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IP © E Y K Y .
. , For the Washingtonian.
To OctiTia.
BY MaRCCS.
Long, long before we ever met,
Thy form I oft heveeeen,
Thy marble brow—thine eye of jet,
Have passed me in my dream.
Thy avreet low voice has often rung
lipon my dreaming ear,
And songs to me has often sung
In murmurs soft and clear.
It seems as if in olden time,
Our souls as one had been,
Our hearts did ’round each other twine
In Love’s sweet blissful dream.
And that beneath some brighter sky
Than this sad world of our’s,
Our hearts with happiness beat high
Amid Love’s sunny bowers.
. If l could realize that dream—
If I could win thy smile—
If, while on Time’s deetructful stream
Thy cares I could beguile
Or soothe each grief that might oppress
If such thy fate should be,
I’d ask no more of happiness,
Thun share them all with the*.
Eve’s Banishment.
She knelt—the ever glorious sky
Spread its blue wings above,
And angel’s harps were breathing songs,
Os never dying love:
The stainless moon was glancing bright,
Upon the glittering robes of night.
She knelt—in its untrouble pride,
The waveloss stream rolled by,
And glittering in the beamy night,
Os an unclouded sky:
And onward passed with murmuring sweep
Unto the full and vastly deep.
She knelt—the myriad stars looked down,
In their untiring gaze,
Upon that green and sinless bower,
Her home in happier days:
And whispering winds and zephyrs bland,
Her pale and feverish temples fanned.
She wept —a curse was on her heart—
A curse that could not die,
For the deep sin that rested there,
Was registered on high:
And hope could lead no vision fair,
To the starless night of her despair!
She wept—to leave the cherished band,
That decked the sylvan scene,
And danced like fairy revellers,
Upon the glittering green:
And almost offered rivalry,
Unto the bright and glorious sky!
She wept—that all the shining host,
That gazed upon her then,
Should never light her step unto,
That sinless bower again:
But hence her heritage should be,
To toss on life’s wild billowy sea!
IT IE WEBS AMOS.
Military Execution.
The subject of this awful sentence,
says Mr. John Snipp, was a smart
youth, whom I myself first taught
the rudiments of his profession,—
Through the whole course of his
drills and military exercise, I ever
found him attentive, obedient, and
willing to learn, and he promised to
be an ornament to his profession.
But indulgence in intemperance led
him from one error to another, on
account of which he from time to
time incurred serious admonitions;
until, at length, for the commission
of a more agravated offence, he was
deservedly punished. Irritated by
the infliction of a supposed wrong,
inflamed with liquor, and smarting
under disgrace, the unhappy youth,
in a fatal moment, made an attempt
on the life of the officer, a quarter
master in the same troop, by whom,
as he supposed, he had been injured.
The shot did not take effect; but
the culprit was immediately dragged
to the guard-room, and there con
fined in irons. Imagine the feelings
of this unhappy wretch, when he
awoke from his intoxicating slum
bers, and the first objects that met
his eyes were the fetters by which he
was secured. I was sergeant of the
guard at the time, and had the mel
ancholy task of informing the offend
er of the dreadful crime for which he
was fettered and imprisoned. On
being made acquainted with the en
ormity of his attempt, his nature
seemed to recoil; his youthful coun
tenance turned a deathlike paleness;
he closed his eyes, clasped his hands,
and exclaimed, ‘‘o! what have I
done!”
He then called, in a most pathetic
manner, upon his mother, till he
r
sunk under the weight of his agotii- I
zed feelings, and fell to the cold
earth. It was a considerable time j
before we could rouse him from the j
stupor into which his miseries had,
in one short moment, plunged him.
He seemed as unconscious of every
intention of committing the crime he
was charged with, as the child still
unborn. Can any calamity on this
earth place a mortal in a more lam
entably and heart-rending situation j
than the above? Reader, pause
over this tale, with me drop the tear
of pity to the memory of this unfor
tunate youth!
The criminal was of course found
guilty. The sad news was commu
nicated to him by the chaplain of the
station. 1 have never seen so hor
rible a picture of woe as this wretch
ed man exhibited when he was made
acquainted with his approaching ig
nominious death ; but from the con
templation of the past and present,
he was beseeched to view the future,
and to seek refuge under the wings
of Him who alone could now guide
him to that peace of which he had by
crime bereft himself on earth. For
some time he was inconsolable, call
ing frequently on bis dear mother.
The very soul of the condemned
seemed to linger on the dear author
of his being ; and not until complete- I
ly exhausted, did he cease to call on
her name, or to invoke heaven to
hide his tale from her knowledge.
On the fatal morning the clergy
men was eaily with his charge, and
whispered into his car sweet and
balmy words from holy writ. He
washed and dressed himself, and tied
a piece of black crape round his arm.
He took some pains in the adjust
ment of his clothes and hair, and
then went to prayer, in which every
one of the guard joined him, although
in a separate room. Ido not think
I ever witnessed more real commis
eration, in my life, than was dis
played on this occasion. When the
first trumpet sounded for the execu
tion parade, the notes seemed to lin
ger on the morning breeze, and
death-like ?tillness to predominate
over the atmosphere, which chilled
the blood of ail assembled. .Not a
voice was heard ; all was hushed and
quiet save the workings of the fond
bosoms of bis pitying comrades.—
These plainly bespoke the horror
they felt in the contemplation of the
approaching scene. The prisoner
seemed composed and calm, and af
fectionately took his final leave of all
the guard, warning them by his sad
fate to beware of that accursed liqu
or which had sealed his doom. The
soldiers turned out with evident re
luctance: the regiments, both of
which were European, formed three
sides of a square, of which the shoot
ing party with the coffin, formed the
other. Scarcely was this accom
plished, when we heard the dismal
sounds of the muffled drum, and the
doleful notes of the band playing the j
dead march in Saul. The proces
sion thus moved on: provost-ser
geant in front on horse-back, follow
ed by two files of soldiers; then the
clergymen, in his sombre garments,
with the prisoner, both in deep medi
tation and earnest prayer; after
them followed the shooting party —
one sergeant, one corporal, and
twelve privates, the twelve next men j
for general duty in the whole regi -
ment. From the spot where the
guard-room was situated, to the spot
of execution, was a good quarter of a
mile; and the reader may be assu
red that we did not drag the poor
| fellow to his last situation on earth.
He took his own time; he was slow,
but firm and steady. He entered
on the right flank of the square, and
passed along the front of the line to
the left, the soldiers resting upon
their arms reversed—that is, muz
zle down, with their two hands upon
the bottom of the butt. The sob
bing of many of the men could be
distinctly heard, and some could not
even look at him as be manfully
paced along the frtmt ofthe weeping
lines.
The poor fellow himself looked
like one long since dead, but he
evinced great fortitude and resigna
tion. When he brought round his
left shoulder on reaching the left of
the line, what a sight was before
him! His place of execution—his
coffin, or rough wrought shell—and
his executioners, in the persons of
his comrades! He knelt down by
the side of his coffin, and prayed for
a shott time; and then embraced
and bade farewell to his heavenly in
structor, who wept most piteously,
calling upon Divine mercy to re
ceive the soul of a penitent sinner.
The criiniflal’seyes were then bound,
and his death-warrant read. Du
j ring the reading of the fatal docu
| ment, he exhibited great and un
! shaken firmness, clasping his hands,
and holding them fixed against his
i heart. Scarcely had the last words
of his death-warrant vibrated on his
i ear, when the signal was given.—
i When the shooting party came to
the “present,” every eye was turn
ed from the dreadful scene ; but at
the well understood signal, six or
I more of the men fired, and he in
; stantly fell, fivfc of the shots having
| lodged in his heart. He struggled
but little; butwhen the vital spark
' was about to leave its earthly abode
he gathered hit knees up to his chin;
upon which some few involuntary
shrieks were heard from the ranks;
of his comrades, when the provost
marshal shot him through the head,'
that he might juffer no longer. A
whisper then went through the ranks.!
“ He’s dead ! le’sdead!” The ar
my broke into file, and every man
passed him at slow time. This was j
a ceremony more afflicting than most
people would imagine; and to add
to the melancholy exhibition, the
clothes of the poor fellow had taken
fire. When \te passed he was near
ly enveloped it smoke; but his last
breath had long since fled, ami he
suffered not. The last words he
utteied were, “protect my mother!”
Thus ended tfjc short and sad career
of one who, but for a passion for
drink, might Inve lived to be a bright
ornament to his profession.
From tile Massachusetts Cataract.
A Temperate Sketch oi a Temperance
Man: or Mr. J. 11. Gough iu Phila
delphia.
I was sitting one evening looking
into the stove and building anthracite i
castles, which did no honor to the ar
chitect hecaiisotliey didn’t last, when
an idea came across me about Mr.
Gough. Now, I had seen Father
Matthew, with bis bland persuasive
face stilling the tumult of an Irish
mob, no easy matter that! and be
ing anxious to see a second edition
of human grentness bound in broad
cloth, 1 went to n Baptist Church in
Philadelphia. As I left the parlor
of my boardinghouse, I asked a very
sedate looking roung man to accotn
pany me. Hejjeclined, alleging as
his reason, that “it was not a sub
ject for Sunday evenings.” I es
chewed his Sabbath notions by ta
king a quiet sett in the gallery.
It was a large Church with a well
appointed Choir. The ladies struck
off, and bass, ttnor, treble and all
the little shrilliiesses in the shape of
children sang with heart and voice.
Pew after pew got fuller, and at last
you might see anxious people linger
ing by the doors, waiting to see if
there was not room for one more.
Gentlemen, with a desperate polite
ness flung their capes over their
arms, bowed to the ladies, who had
besieged them and surrendered with
a calm countenance, seats, which
they in some wild dream fancied they
had secuied.
The Church is crowded, —and
there is a stir. “ Look ! there he
is” say the little children, —“that’s
him”—no, it is only the sexton going
to regulate the gas. Silence again
—and another person goes up the
steps towards the pulpit:
He is a sharp looking man, with hair
“ Half way
On the road from grizzle to gray,”
he wears spectacles, and looks like a
practiced speaker. “That’s him,”
whispers one to another. No it is
not him. The speaker of the cause
—the lion of the day—the Sampson
of his time with unshorn locks is fol
lowing the gentleman who was mis
taken by many, for Mr. Gough.
I confess I was somewhat surpris
ed as I saw a young man quietly,
and thoughtfully following the gen
tleman in the spectacles. This
young man had a great coat on of a
modest subdued hue, and it was but
toned closely round his throat, just
as if the wearer felt that a great deal
depended on his uvula, which be
came intenrperately anxious some
times and so, to rest itself, relaxed.
Mr. Gough—for it was he—sat
down for a moment on the sofa, then
rose took off the top coat, —was in
troduced to some Ministers, and
then quietly surveyed the people,
who were very attentively looking at
him.
After a judicious description of the
aim and objects of the temperance
cause by Rev. Mr. Marsh of New
York, Mr. Gough came forward.—
He was pale, and bad the anxious
look, which people who a re in earnest
generally wear. I could see lines on
his cheek, which had heed furrowed
by thought,—the mental plough.—
He commenced by admitting his de
ficiences, and pleasantly alluding to
Daniel Webster the finished orator; and
then he went on to detail dreadfully pa
thetic tales, —home tales—every day
stories, which are the more frightful from
their very reality. Domestic tragedies,
he enacted so pathetically that it seemed
the finest monopolylogia I had ever heard
or witnessed, and yet, simple, beautiful
truth was the only excitement! Oh !
how he depicted the drunkard's miseries!
—how he demonstrated the fatal sliding
scale—how he told 11s of the “one strug- j
gle more, and I am free,” which he felt
himself when he lay on his bed fancying '
snakes on the wall and seeing every face
but that of a friend! how he endured
and how he broke his chains! he told us
all that!,
As he illustrated delirium tremens, I
saw the book-binder driving at work, yet
unable to work, and I beheld a kind good
man come in and I heard him say. “ come
and sec." Oh! my heart leaped to hear
this spoken of. How must it have fallen
like heavens own dew on the lacerated
heart of the narrator?
I heard Mr. Gough afterwards, and in
other churches, and how I envied him,—
yes envied him, because he was doing j
good in the right way! I envied him I
his glorious work, and hailed him as one
of the regenerators of his kind,—when the
social fabric is about “ tottering to its j
fall.” Such men as him, and such only
as him, are wanted to repair and re-adorn
it. Learning may set silently in her re
nowned scats, and not further that which
it proposes to admire—Temperance with
out which, to use the eloquent words of
Edmund Burke, “knowledge is useless—
wit is ridiculous, and genius contempti
ble.” R.
Philadelphia, Jan. 1845.
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OP THE
American Phrenological Journal .
To reform and perfect man—to bring cut by
culture the original beauties and capabilities of
bis nature, are objects the most exalted that can
possibly engross humanity. But, to do this either
effectually or correctly, that nature must be known
—and as Phrenology is the science of human
nature, and especially of man’s intellectual and
moral constitution, it evolves all the elementary
■principle* of his nature —thereby embodying ail
the laws of his being, all the conditions "of hap
piness, and all the causes of all his sufferings, as
well as of all the evils that afflict society ; and
all this so plainly that “ he that runs may read,”
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question ot ethics, of myrals, of logic, ot equity,
and even of religious creeds and practices; for.
by developing fully and clearly the primitive na
ture and constitution of man,"and that in all its
ramifications, it arranges, before the tribunal of
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densing whatever conflicts therewith.
'1 htr accompanying number of this periodical
as well as its three last volumes, will serve as
sample* of its future course, excepting that the
foi,owing important departments will I e added.
Ist. That of Physiology'. Though, for several
years, the Journal has contaimii aio'e or less
physiological fact and information, yet its space
has been too much occupied otherwise to give
that lull attention tothe ex;>osition and enforcing
of the laws of animal life, including the value of
health and the means of regaining and preserv
ing it, which their importance demands. To
know and obey these laws, lies at the basis of all
human improvemi nt and happiness; for, be it
remembered, that life and health depend thereon,
and on them depend ell our pleasures, whether
mental or physiea'. Even intellectual attain
ments and moral progression must be accompani
ed by physiological, especially cerebral, improve
ment. 'I he connexion of Piiysio.ogy with men
tality—the different states ot body as inducing
their cotresponding states of ndnd—have been
almost completely overlooked, even hv Phvsiolo
gists themselves. Our talents, our virtues, our
vices, our mental and moral progicssion. depend
more upon what, how, and when, we eat, drink,
sleep, laboi, bathe, &c.— upon our physical hab
its and physiological condition—than most people
suppose. The pain fact is, few people know
how to eat! or sleep! or breathe! or live! If
they did, sickness would he unknown, and sin
comparatively banished from our world. Those
physiological conditions, therefore which affect
mind and morals, will be freely discussed in this
volume.
2nd. That of Animal Magnetism, or the vital
principle. So indissolubly is this science con
nected with both Phrenology and Physiology,
that neither should ever be pursued without the
other. At least, every student of the latter sci
ences who prosecutes his invt stigations unguidrd
by the light of this new star of human science,
but gropes bis way in romparitive darkness.
Surprisingly beautiful ami philosophical, as well
as rich in lessons of health and happiness, irethe
discoveries evolved by applying magnetism to
phrenological and physiological investigations.
And surely, as a remedial agent, this application
exceeds, a; d will eventually supersede all others.
Aware of no work or periodical which covers this
most interesting, most important field ot human
inquiry, the Editor intends to occupy it, at least
partially, in this volume.
3rd. A department devoted to woman. To
improve her. is to benefit our race, whilst her de
generacy deteriorates it. Female education—-
nearly every thing appertaining to her—is now
effecting her ruin as fast as the rapid flight of
time will allow. Long onough has her vanity
been inflated with the gaudy, the artificial, and
the fashionable. Too long already, have her ex
quisite sensibilities been [>ervertedj and the beau
ties and gract s of her nature been converted ei
ther intu play-things mere toys for man to sport
with—or else prostituted at the shrine of the
worst of humsu passions Infinitely more per
fect, more prolific, than anything ever yet beheld
by mortals, are the natural charms and beauties
of the female character. But, they have yet to be
brought out. To do this effectually, her nature
and capabilities must be knoxrn. These, her
Phrenology and Physiology will reveal; in doing
which they will also disclose her true sphere, and
her consrquentduties. To this eventlul subject
and none can be more prolific of good toman—
will a portion of this volume be dedicated. Nor
will mothers, in their distinctive relations as
mothers, be neglected.
Those at all acquainted with the Editor’s style
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