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The Wilmingtonian. (Wilmington, Del.) 1823-1824, December 18, 1823, Image 1

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NO. 14.
VOL. 1.
PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY, BY MENDENHALL &f WALTERS, NO. 101, MARKET-STREET, at S$2 SO, per annum —payable half-yearly in advance.
Price of subscription *2 50 per anmim.paya
montl)8 in advance ; or, il not paid befoie
hie six «
^No^sti'bscripfion'wil^be discontinued until Ml
f Anvs^tTisxMKXTs not exceeding one
hree months $2 50-for six months $i 50 or for
me year $8. _
Scene on the Brandywine.
How oft along thy Banks I've stray'd,
Beneath the Willow'a cooling shade,
To cull the blooming Flower ;
Or view, 'mid rocks, the sparkling Stream
Illumin'd by the Sun's bright Beam,
In Summer's joyous hour.
But now thy Banks are sleeted o'er,
The leafless Willow shades no move,
And pale and dead the Flower;
The cold bleak winds have clos'd the Stream,
And powerless the Sun's pale Beam,
In Winter's joyless hour.
So o'er Time's Bank gay Youth will run;
In Hope's cool shade and Joy's warm Bun
Alternate—pluck Love's Flower,
View Folly's smooth deceitful Stream
Illum'd by Pleasure's fleeting Beam,
In this his Summer hour.
On Sorrow's Bank slow Age will creep.
And hear the leafless Willow weep
1 O'er Love's forgotten Flower;
[ View Folly's Stream forever closed,
And Pleasure's Beam all pale reposed,
In this his Winter hour.
slumber sweet dreams of my love
It, come to my
have hung the charm'd wreath my soft pillow
lie ruses are linked in a chain pure and white ;
.nd the rose leaves are wet with the dew drops
of night.
he moon was on high as Ï gather'd each flower ;
lie dew that then falls has a magical power,
he spirit of slumber those roses has blest;
.nd sweet are the visions they'll bring to my rest,
ic their spell on my soul, so they let me but sec
[is dark eyes flash in love and his smile glance
I on me.
Let sleep bring the image of him far away*,
Fris worth all the tears I shed for him by day.
I have hung the charm'd wreath my soft pillow
l above ;
■Then come to my slumber sweet dreams of my
ft lore.
A woman's and a mother'9 heart alone could
ave conceived, and possibly a woman's pen only
uuld have pourtraved, with such exquisite ien
erness and truth as in the following lines, the
tiousand nameless ties that bind a mother to her
hild. Immersed as men tortile most part are in
mainess or in pleasure, mingling in the active
icenes of life, and living as it
vorld, their affections, as well as their sorrows,
re controlled or diverted by many afflicting oc
currences—and when grief for some heart rend
pig privation seeks to indulge its holy and liai
pwing melancholy, cure is at hand, and the im
perative cull of duty to one's condition in life, to
Iheck the gushing tear. Not so with woman—
1er life is one of comparative seclusion —uome is
1er world—and there 9he is to be seen, such as
t happiest hours she is imaged forth, by " youth*
111 poets when they love." When sorrow intrudes
Ipon this scene, it becomes unbroken by other
■Hints, and dwells there alone and unmitigated.
I Hence it is, and from the early anxious but fond
»res which nature has exclusively allotted to the
■other towards her offspring» that the poet is
Istihed in saying,
•e abroad in the
til! I
There is none^
ï all this cold and hollow world no fount
f deep, strong, deathless love, save that within
mother's heurt.
rom the siege of Valencia, a Dramatic 1'oem, hy
Mrs. Hcmuns.
a bow the head in silence, when Heaven's voice
ills back the things we love.
Eimina. Love ! love !—there are soft smiles
and gentle words,
ltd there are faces skilful to put
lie look we trust in—and 'tis mockery all !
■A faithless mist, a desert-vapour, wearing
lie brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat
hethirstthat semblancckindled!—There is none
I all this cold and hollow world, no fount
[■(leep, strong, deathless, love, save that within
[mother's heart. It is but pride, where with
b his fair son the father's eye doth turn,
latching his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks,
be bright glad creature springing in the path,
bit as the heir of his great name, the young
, stately tree, whose rising strength ere long
WltlB^l bear his trophies well.— And this is love 1
This is man's love !—What marvel ?—you ne'er
jur breast the pillow- of his infancy,
bile to the fullness of your hearts glad heaving's
15 fair cheek rose and fell ; and his bright hair
laved softly to your breath ! You ne'er watch'd
cside him, till the last pale star had set
rr8 «d morn, all dazzling, as in triumph, broke
. i n , y° u r dim weary eyes ; not yours the face
Jjoilli early faded through fond care for him,
o'er his sleep, and, duly as Heaven's fight,
Fort'S as there to greet his wakening ! You ne'er
BarWS sm °oth'd
tl ° 0llc *'> ne'er sung him to his rosy rest,
rel^R U $' 1 whisper when'his voice from your's
:quef c S 1 " team'd soft utterance : press'd your lip to his,
Tll6 ! '^ a l'en fever pareh'd it; hush'd his wayward cries,
™ patient, vigilant, never-wearied love !
1 1 jnese are women's tasks !—In these her youth
»d bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart,
eal from her all unmark'd ?—My boys! iny boys!
, 1 my »flection born with all for this !
culaWWiy were ye given me?"
We have but
nl |
corn* 1 '
note* »
Bank «'
Meditations on a Winter Storm.
Nothing transpires by chance—every event in
the kingdom of Nature, of l'rovidence, and of
Grace, is under the immediate direction of that
Being who is infinite in wisdom, omnipotent in
power, and eternal in duration. The Lord reign
wings an angel—guides a sparrow.'
Who is a Gnd like unto him ? fearful in praises,
doing wonders. How awfully grand, and impen
etrably mysterious are his dispensations ! How
unsearchable his judgments, and his ways past
finding out' Daily occurrences vibrate in our
Clouds and darkness are round about
him," while the page of Inspiration powerfully
inculcates. " Righteousness and judgment
the habitations of his throne." Few scenes illus
trate these ideas with more solemnity and gran
deur than Btormy winds, boisterous waves and
alarming shipwrecks. The season so fatal to pro
perty, lives, families, and nations, is now arrived.
«Thesounding squadrons or the sky," roused to
exertion, loosed from the gigantic grasp of him,
« who holdeth the winds in lus fist," and wrought
up to fury, fly forth with irresistable impetuosi
ty, scattering dread, ami menacing destruction.
All things feel the dreadful shock ; all things
tremble before the furious blast. The sea foams
with rage; the atmosphere is hurled into the most
tumultuous confusion ; and Nature faintly depicts
the horrors of the hurricane a "day ofjudg
a la
ment in miniature.
Barques and navies are now engtilphed in the
vast abyss of
whirled swift as the arrow, wild as the winds,
across the foaming sea, and buried in some migh
ty heap of sand, or dashed in ten thousand pieces
the summit of some ponderous rock, while
appalling horror sits threatening on every surge
Now the "King of Terrors" rides fortli in awful
majesty, with uumerous mandates from the
"King of Kings," certifying who, and when and
where his irresistable scythe is to be levelled.
Now the shrill cry of the infant, the loud shriek
of the terrified female, and the robust voice ot
the mariner, tottering on the mast, trembling in
the shrouds, or shuddering on the wreck, pierce
the skies. Now merciless seas rend the sweet
babe from its maternal bosom, and bear it to de
struction on yon distant mountain, or dash it to
atoms on that craggy precipice ; while a twofold
horror writhes the agonising heart of its dislrac
cd parent, who sinks, exclaiming "My child!
My child ! My child!" Now the stout arm of
Infidelity droops unnerved, into puny imbecility
—the adamantine heart trembles—the horrid
blasphemer who " mouthed it against heaven"—
the beastly drunkard who laughed at futurity—
the filthy libidinous wretch, whose throat was an
open sepulchre:" the Bible scoffer, whose "words
were sharp swords and spears." The Deist, the
Atheist —the moral, the immoral—the courage
ous, and the timid—all cry for mercy, mercy!—
l) Fear! how dost thou enfjrce the being of a
God, the guilt of man, the necessity of mercy,
and the duty of prayer.
But whence all this confusion ? What invisible
waters under the heavens," or
" Hides upon these stormy winds
" Hides upon these stormy winds
** And manages these seas" ?
Inspiration points to Jehovah, and affirms, "He
commandeth and raiseth the stormy winds, which
lifteth up the waves thereof." What majestic
Being precedes his august approach with such
destructive harbingers ? " The Lord hath his
way in the whirlwind, and in the storm, and the
clouds are the dust of his feet." His breath rou
ses them into resistless fury, his nod controuls
them in the wildest career. " He holds the rapid
and raging hurricane in strengthened reins, and
walks serenely on the wings of the wind." Is
this a vain, ostentatious display of majesty, or
does he design to answer important ends by all
these terrific commotions ? The former query is
impious—the latter is correct and proper; for
"stormy wind," " always fulfil his word" of pow
er in the convulsion of nature ; of terror in the
fears of his enemies ; of delayed vengeance in the
destruction of his foes, and of grace to the pre
servation and deliverance of his friends.
Thus the Christian Philosopubu reads sacred
instruction from the "word" of Jehovah, inscribed
on the storm ; feels its energetic influence in the
hurricane, and witnesses its direful execution in
the wreck, with mingled feelings of dismay and
astonishment, fear and admiration. A solemn and
indescribable awe possesses his whole frame, not
daring to call in question the Eaurrr of the Di
vine government, or to arraign the awful dispen
sations of Jehovah, at the puny bar of human
son. He lays his hand upon heart, and with his
mouth in the dust, breathes forth " 1 was dumb
because thou didst it." Rising devoutly serious,
he breaks out in inspired language, with reve
rance, veneration and love, " Ü Lord, how mani
fold are thy works ! in wisdom hast thou made
them all ! The earth is full of thy riches ; so is
this capacious ocean, which thou hast made,
wherein are creeping things innumerable. There
go the ships, with all them that do business in
great waters. They see the works of the Lord,
and his wonders in the deep ; they mount up to
the heavens ; they go down to the depths ; their
*>uls are melted because of trouble; they reel
to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and
are at their wits end. Tuou hidest thy face, they
are troubled ; thou takest away their breath, they
die. The glory of the Lord shall endure forever,
and be seen in all his works. My Meditation ol
him shall be sweet; and the sinners are consu
med by the breath of his mouth, and the wicked
be no more; yet bless thou the Lord O my soul,
and be thou joyful in thy salvation.
I heard the hammer of a mechanic that owes
me, at four o'clock this morning.—I'll trust him
till April.
I saw another, yesterday afternoon, who has
plenty of work on hand, lounging at the corner.
I'll have him before the squire next week.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven;
What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what 1 should be."
Our circumstances here are indeed of little im
portance, except as they have a good or bad in
Httence over us. Happiness may be defined to tbat
consist in purity of heart The man who is pos- Mw
sessed of this, will find he has sources ot enjoy
ment unknown to him, whose " ways are evil "
ri'f gopd man, it is true, must sometimes bend ce(
under the weight of adversity, for human nature ,
is weak; hut he will endeavour at least to rise
above the enervating influence of indulging sor- 3ic j
row. Nothing is more conductive to submission
cheerfulness and gratitude, Ilian the practice ot aff(
referring the afflictions and blessings of hie to t|je
our Creator. When visited by pleasing hopes, set
* ', en .- a , I s ori S. lt anil joyous around ns, how de^ t | le
hghtful, how elevating to retient, and feel that the
our happiness proceeds from the affection ' inc ^
kindness of our heavenly lather From the pre • :
valence of sorrow it would seem, that we cannot
well bear a constant course of prosperity. We w j
should not then forget, even in the hours of trial, l fed
that he is mercitul. At such times let us search.
with more than usual care our hearts, and therej
are none, we fear, but will find they have n J e ded' cl)
correction. Even if under the influence of se|f-L v
love we should not see the necessity of P lln,s
ment, we should submit with humility to tlle
justice ot God. I hat wealth does not constitutek|
happiness is very certain, nor does it always con.|
tribute to it. It gives more power of domg good,
but to execute the trust with a 1 proper fidelity,
requires constant care and watchfulness. T in*
upright and industrious man, blessed with health t .
and a pure conscience where, in what state can w
we find greater happiness. He tears the face ot y
no one, because he is unconscious of wrong.
He has habits ot industry, therefore he is unac i|
quainted with the ennui and weary days of the dr
man who has no occupation. His hours ot leisure .
are few, and in this lies the secret ot enjoyment. t j
This contentment and cheerfulness are the natu- dj
ral result of a life ot innocence. It we are unhap- j
py, it is not of circumstances and events that we
should complain, but ot the condition u! our own t |
hearts. We should possess minds, not to b^they
changed by time or place. This state, the only j
one in which we can expect lasting happiness, t
does not suppose any want of sensibility to our ^
own or others' misfortune; but only that the
feelings and affections should be so regulated, as l
always, under all circumstances to place implicit
reliance and confidence in our creator.
The celebrated Poet Gray, is buried in the
Church Yard of Stoke Pogis, in Buckinghamshire,
the scene of his celebrated Elegy in a Country
Church Yard.
The church is a plain rustic edi
fice, of some antiquity, with a low tower, and co
nical-shaped spire ; but has few of those strongly
marked features by which it is so admirably cha
racterized in the poem ; and the " rugged elms,"
and "yew-tree shade," if ever they existed, are
now no more. Some of the surrounding scenery
however, finely corresponds, particularly where
the eye is directed over a large sheet of water to
the majestic Castle of Windsor. The burying
place of the Poet is without-side the church, a
spot which had been before consecrated by the
interment of two of his dearest relatives. Here
bis remains lay unhonored by even the slightest
memorial, until the year 1799, when Mr. Penn,
the proprietor of Stone Park, adjoining, with a
liberality which does him great credit, perform
ed the long neglected task. The monument e
rected by this gentleman, stands in a field next
the chuich, and forms the termination of one of
the views from Stone House. It consists of a large
, ( . 4 „
sacophagus ol stone, supported on a square pe
destal, with quotations on three sides, selected,^
trom tlie ode to Eaton College, and the kh*gy in
a Country Church Yard, and on the fourth *" e
following inscription :
In the county of Galway in Ireland, there lived
a young couple, the children of two neighbour
ing cottagers, who w'ere betrothed to each other
from the earliest period of infancy. They had in
been educated in the same rude retirement, had
partaken of the same fare, had shared in the same
amusements, and were now anxiously waiting the
period of their union. Their parents were of the
lowest class of the Irish peasantry, and possessed
no inconsiderable share of the natural virtues and
vices. With dispositions naturally good, their
passions had been inflamed by the civil dissen
tions of the period, and embittered by the pres
sure of acute poverty; and finally induced them
to join in the ill fated rebellion that terminated
in the death of poor Emmett, and his associates,
It happened one night that the father and mo
ther of the young girl, with the youth to whom
she was betrothed, were sitting round their little
fireside, gloomily awaiting an increase of poverty
and misery, when a sudden knock at the cottage
door roused them from their reverie,and induced.in
them to hasten to the gate. A tall, elegant stran
ger, closely muffled up in a miliinry cloak, enter-IThis
ed their humble dwelling, and without waiting
for the consent of the parly, seated himself in
chair opposite, and through the folds of his robe.
attentively surveyed the groupe, lie appeared
voung and noble, but wrapt in gloom, and wormmost
down with anxieties ; which, at the period to
which we allude, were felt more or less by al
most every Irish Patriot. After a long pause, he
relaxed somewhat in his scrutiny, and addressed
himself to the young man, and his intended father-as
in-law, and having insisted on the departure of
ihe females, shrouded his face more closely in
his mantle, andin blended accents of pity, shame
and indignation, commenced an animated recital
of the civil dissentions of Ireland, of its shameful a
subjugation by England, its decay of public spi
rit and private worth, and terminated his dis
course by solemnly conjuring them if they valu
ed their rights, their liberties and their principles,
to join with the constitutional warmth of Irish
men, in a rebellion that was yet in embryo, and
This Monument in honour of
Was erected A D. 1799,
Among the Scenery
Celebrated by that Lyric and Elegiac Poet.
He died in 1771,
And lies unnoticed in the adjoining Church Yard,
under the tomb stone on which he piously
and palhelically recorded tlie interment
of his Aunt and lamented Mother.
Stoke Pogis is a large scattered village, about
21 miles from the metropolis ; after passing
through various noble families, from the reign of
Edward III. till after the reign of Anne, it became
the seat of Anne Viscountess Cobiiam, on whose
death it was purchased by Mr. William Penn,
" chief proprietor of Pennsylvania, in America,"
whose grand-son, John Penn, Esq. (erector of the
monument alluded to,) has built on the scite of
the ancient mansion, one of the most eiegunt re
sidences in tliis part of the country.
which was raised for the preservation of their'cy,
country. [denied
portunately his discourse was not lost upon his
audience. The iron of slavery had entered into tears
their souls, they had felt the stiug of poverty, and tnory
the sense of their national degradation, and were en
ready to embrace any prospect of emancipating He
themselves, however desperate it might appear tear
They had hearts too that could feel, and bunds stole
tbat could widd a swor d ; and as the stranger
Mw the tearg c0UlVmg down the cheeks ,,f the
cottager, and the crimson fire of indigna
&, 6|led f rom tl , eeye3 oftlle e | der , he embi a
ce( , tllem hoth with ,f ansporti and promised to
, neet them on the ensuing evening, on the bleak
that adjoined the village where they re
3ic j e ^ J
The ni ht soon arrived and having taken ar ,
aff( . ctionate leave the uneo rhis betrothed bride,
t|je 0 , her ()f wife and daughter , t | le couple
set forw „ d on their march—As the clock from
t | le v i|l a g e church struck eight, they entered on
the pIac £ appointed for lhe f r Meeting. At the
remo t e st corner of the moor they observed a man
: folded in a night-mantie hastening to join them
wag t j, e Granger—he hailed their appearance
w j d) tl . ans p 0r t j an d taking a hand of each, desi
l fed dlem to accompany him in silence. The par
soon quitted the moor, and as they cut rapidh
ucross tbe b ;„ti roadi discovered a numerous
cl) Q f horse patrol scouring along the path
v ; tb their swords drawn, and their steel helmets
*'"ifiashing through the darkness of the night. By
creeping under the hedges they were easily ena
ed tu av0 ; d them, and when the sound of tlteii
rece(li t cou]d he heard no longer, they
cauli0U sly stole from their hiding place, and pur
sued th( / r midnight marc h.
They had now entered on a dark mountain pass
t . nr lo S ed on either side by enormous precipices,
w i,i c h rose t0 an aw ful distance above them ; be
y 0n( j, towered a gloomy forest of pines, and to
the ri ~ ht ot * the road , j n t h e distance, appeared
i| ie bleak hills of Wicklow. The dead of night
dr ew on _ and as the holiow wind roared dismal
. through the opening cliff's in the mountains,
t j ie S pj r jt s of the travellers assumed acorrespon
dj n g tone of dejection. They moved on in si
j ence — no t f however, without an occasional mur
the cottager and his son-in-iaw, as to
t | ie direction of the road they were pursuing—
b^they had already commenced an angry expostu
j at j on> w hen the waning moon peeped through
t j lc dark moving mass of clouds in which she had
^ een buried, and revealed the whole expanse ot
,b e deep blue ocean, which roared at the base of
as l j ie mounla j n ; along whose bleak summits they
were winding. In a few minutes they had gain
ed the further side of the pass, and could distinct
jly hear the hum of human voices, die echoing
clash of arms, and seeing the dim flickerings of
an hundred torches, revealing to their surprise a
yawning cavern that seemed opening to receive
them. They advanced towards the entrance,
where an Irishman in the native dress of hi*
country, was pacing to and fro, with a pike in
his hand, and a heavy broad-sword by his side.—
" Who goes there?" he exclaimed, levelling hi>
weapon at the approaching party. " Friends,"
The watchword ?"—" The Em
was the reply,
erald Isle, returned the other, and hastening on
briskly, accompanied by his two astonished com
After winding through a narrow passage that
admitted but one at a time, their eyes were dai
zleil hy the glittering radiance of torch-lights,
that illumined the dark vaults of the cavern they
had just entered. A large charcoal fire burned
in the middle of the cave, and threw a sulphurous
glare on the rugged features of the group that
surrounded it. From the centre of the vaulted
ceiling, a lamp was suspended, and on every side
hung broadswords, pistols, and other instruments
of war. On the entrance of the stranger and his
[companions, the rebels advanced to meet him,
and paid him that involuntary respect, which true
pe- ji^ n * ltv neV er fails of extorting from the vulgar,
thrown off his mantle, but his features
in were care fully concealed in a mask anil rendered
*" e jdetection impossible, lie was habited inasim
p| e >uit of green, with a white plume of feathers
waving in his cap, and with firm 9tep advanced
towards his two companions, and recommended
them to the rest of the groupe, as friends to tin
liberty of Ireland, and who had resolved to risk
their lives in her service. They were both re
ceived with shouts of applause, the fearful oath
of allegiance was taken, and they were instantly
equipped with arms to be used in the ensuing
rolled and with hour the rebels
D.iys rolled on, and with every hour the rebels
received a formidable addition to their fumilies
during the morning, and assembled each night in
the cavtM*n we have just described, but with such
precaution, that they were enabled to baffle the
peneiration of the soldiers who were stationed in
companies throughout the country. The trou
bles of Ireland in the meanwhile raged with una
bated energy ; proscriptions followed proscrip
tions, the sentiments of liberty were tortured in
to the language of treason, and the English mili
tary oppressed the unfortunate Irish with the
most unexampled tyranny. The whole of the
lower classes, on whom the yoke fell the heaviest,
determined at last to struggle for the recovery oi
their freedom, and wisely resolved to take the
first opportunity of exerting their energies,
On a gloomy night in Autumn, they assembled
in Thomus-street, Dublin, where they had previ
nusly deposited their arms and awaited in anxious
expectation the signal that was to announce then*
rising. As the hell from the castle clock struck
the hour of six, lights were seen burning on the
summits of the neighbouring hills, the roar ol
musquetry was heard, and a fearful contest took
place in the crowded streets of the city. The
alarm bell was rung, the riot act read, and the
drums of the military called to action. At this
instant a party of rebels well armed with pikes
and hroad swords, with the young stranger at
their head moved towards the castle. A regi
ment of soldiers was ordered to attack them, but
such was the fury of their charge, and so amma*
ted the conduct of the hero who commanded
them that they were dispersed on the first onset,
They had now gained the castle wall, and sword
hand, the stranger, followed closely by the cot
tager and his son-in-law, mounted the ramparts,
last was shot dead at the first onset, and the
other two separated trom each other by the vio
agence of the struggle. Numbers at length pre
vailed, Hie rebels were eventually subdued, their
deader taken prisoner while the cottager was al
the only one who escaped. For days sub
sequent to the battle, he continued wandering
about the streets, in hopes of encountering the
gallant and interesting stranger, with whose im
prisonment he was yet unacquainted. At length
the hour of trial approached and he fancied
himself free from all chance of detection, lie re
solved to enter the hall of justice, and boldly en
Jeavour to address him. The conviction of the
rebels had in part commenced when he entered;
deep silence prevailed, and a young man was
busy in his defence. He was ot a noble and
manding aspect, with a countenance shaded by
the deepest—the gentlest melancholy. But his
voice—it struck immediately to tlie agonised teel
ings of the cottager, and convinced him that the
person he now beheld was the atrauger of his fan.
the F.mmett, the patriot of his country- lie
[denied the charge of treason with the most im
passioned eloquence ; he spoke warmly— and the
tears sprang to his eyes, as he recalled the me
tnory of the girl he loved, anil whom he had giv.
en up, in his superior attachment to his country,
He wept—but he went not for himself, and the
tear that had never fallen for his own misfortunes,
stole down his laded cheek, when he reflected on
the miseries he had entailed on the poor associ
ates of his rebellion. For himself he sought not
pardon, but he supplicated the mercy of the judge
for the wretched he had misled, and concluded
w th that affecting appeal to posterity which can
never be forgotten : " Let no man write my ep'u
taph ; for as no man who knows my motives dare
vindicate them, let no prejudice or ignorance as
perse them i hut let them and me repose in ob
scurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscri
bed, till other times and other men can do jus
tice to my character" F.ven this appeal failed
of its effect, he was condemned as a traitor, and
his execution was ordered on the ensuing Mon
day. Many a bright eye was dimmed, and many
a gay heart felt a pang of commiseration, for the
gallant patriot.
The evening before his death, while the work
men were busy with the scaffold, and the din ot
their hammers sounded like a solemn dirge for
the dead, a young lady was ushered into his dun
geon. It was the girl whom he had so fondly
loved, and who had now come to bid her eternal
farewell. He was leaning in a melancholy mood,
us she entered, against a window frame of his pri
son, and the heavy clanking of his chains smote
dismally on her heart. The interview was bit
terly affecting, and melted even the callous
soul of the jailor i as for Emmett himself he
wept and spoke little; butas he pressed his be
loved in silence to his bosom, his countenance be
trayed his emotions. In a low voice half choaked
by anguish, he besought her not to forget him ;
he reminded her of their former happiness, ot
their love, of the day longpast of their childhood;
and concluded by requesting her sometimes to
visit the grave w here his ashes mouldered, and
though the world might repeat his name with
scorn, to cling to his memory w ith affection.
At this instant the evening bell pealed from the
neighbouring church—Emmett started at the
sound, and us he felt that this was the last time
he should ever hear its dismal echoes, he folded
his beloved still closer to his heart, and bent over
her sinking form, with eyes streaming with aflec
T'lie turnkey entered at the moment; asha
med of his weakness,he dashed the starting drops
from his eyes, and a frown again lowered on his
countenance. The man meanwhile, approached
to tear t lie lady from his embraces. Overpower
ed by his feelings he could make no resistance,
out as he gloomily released her from his hold,
gave her a little miniature of himself; and with
this parting token of attachment, imprinted the
last kiss of a dying man upon her lips. On gain
ing the door, she turned round, as if to gaze
the object of her widowed love,
caught her eye as she retired—it was but for a
moment, the dungeon door swung back again on
ita rusty hinges, and as it closed suddenly after
her, informed him too surely that they had met
for the last time on earth.
With the earliest peep of dawn, numerous de
tachments of cavalry were seen parading the
streets ofDubhn, and a file of soldiers guarded
the scaffold erected for the execution. As the
heavy bell from the prison tolled out the appoint
ed hour, the criminal arrayed in a deep suit of
black, made his appearance on the platform. Ho
bowed to the populace with serenity, but smiled
with ineffable contempt, while the executioner
approached to draw the cover over his face.—•
" Away with your insulting mockery !" he pas
sionately exclaimed—" Do you think that the
warrior who has braved death in the field, fears
to meet it on the scaffold !" The man terrified by
his indignant countenance, hesitated to perform
the office, but dashing the cap from him, trem
blingly threw the cord around the neck of his
victim. A deep silence in the mean time reign
ed throughout the mighty multitude that assem
bled to witness the execution, broken at intervals
by the muffled drums of the soldiers, the dull
sound of the death bell, or the distant roar of ar
tillery that announced the commencement of the
tragedy. At this moment the eyes of the suffer
er rested on the cottager, who by dint of persua
sion and artifice, had contrived to force himself
opposite the scaffold. Emmett sighed as he be
held him, smiled faintly in token of recognition,
and pointing upwards, signified that it would not
be long before they should meet again in hea
more on
All was now ready for the massacre ; the rope
was adjusted, the sinking platform prepared, and
the execution waited only the fatal signal. It was
given by the officer stationed on the scaffold,
md soon the heavy trampling of the horse guards
and the double roll of the war drums, announced
that Emmett, the noble minded, but misguided
Emmett, had at last met with the fate of tlie
brave. Peace be with his ashes, and eternal so
licitude to the spot where he slumbers.
Translated from the Spanish.
The horrors of that tribunal called the Inqui
sition, the black and hellish offspring of super
stition have, more than any other transactions ei
ther political or religious, excited the terror and
disgust of mankind. The Christian world had
hoped for its extermination. A short interval of
peaceful toleration suspended the work of death,
gave the people of God a respite from the fears
of being proscribed by a tribunal unauthorised by
God himself, and shed a pleasing hope that those
awful scenes would return no more. The late re
versal ofliberal efforts in the cause of freedom
on the theatre of Europe, seems no longer doubt
ful : and with it the consequent establishment of
the Holy Office. To have but a faint idea of its
executive proceedings, read the tale subjoined.—
During the prosperous slaughters of the late es
tablishment, Cornelia Borroquia was a striking
sufferer. For refusing to comply with the unlaw
ful desires of an Archbishop, she was through his
intrigues and revengeful influence imprisoned,
and finally under the charge of heresy, burnt in
the public square of Seville. What follows is an
account of her awful end, by a friend and eye
—, to Count —-.
SEVILLE, June 6th, 178—
SIR, —The virtuous Cornelia suffered all the
pain imaginable in obtaining permission of the
priests for an hour's time to be devoted in writing
unmolested according to her anxious wishes
but it appears that in consequence of some pre
texts and by dint of questions and supplications,
they have conceded to her request ; after which
concession, she was very tranquil and pacified.—
Of the rest you can have no doubt, yes, Miss Cor
nelia perished yesterday by the bloodhounds of
her ferocious enemies. What horror has her pun
ishment occasioned in me ! I had neither courage
strength of miiul suliicient to behold so
painful a spectacle. My sight was disturbed, my
blood chilled in my veins. At ten in the morn
Senou M

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