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"WE GO WHERE DEMOCRATIC PRINCIPLES POINT THE WAY; WK1N THEY CEASE TO LEAB, WE CEASE TO FOLLOW." i
BY JOHN G. GIVEN. EBENSBURG, THURSDAY, (JUNE 20, 1850. VOL. C. NO. 37.
. ' ' ' : - - ' " - - ; .:-.'. .. : . - ' .
3g pja at tin
From the Knickerbocker Magazine.
THE OLD MILL.
Don't you remember, Lily, dear,
Ttis milt bj the old hill aide, . .
Where wo used to go in the cummer time
And watch the foamy tide;
And toss the leave of the fragrant beech.
On its breast io smooth and bright.
Where they floated away like emeralds.
In a flood of golden light?
Lily, dear.
And llio miller, love, with his slouch y cap.
And eyes of mildest grey,
Plodding about his dusty work,
'Singing the live-long day?
And the coat that hung on the rusty nail.
With many a motley patch.
And the rude old door, with its broken sill,
And the striog, and the wooden latch?
Lily, dear.
And the water-wheel, with its giant arms,
Dashing by the beaded spray.
And the weeds it pulled from the sand below.
And tossed in scorn away;
And the sleepers, Lilly, with moss o'ergrown ,
Like sentinels, stood in pride.
Breasting the waves, where the chinks of time
Were made in the old mill's side
LHj', dear !
Lily, tho mill is torn away.
And a factory, dark and high.
Looms like a tower, and puffs its smoke
Over the clear blue sky;
And the Etream is turned away above,
And the bed of the river bare.
And the beech is withered, bough and trunk,
And stands like a spectre there
L'lly, dear!
And the miller, Lilly, is dead and gone !
lie sleeps in the vale below:
I saw his stone in winter time'
Under a drift of snow:
Cut now the willow is green again.
And the wind is soft and still:
I send you a sprig to remind you, love.
Of him and the dear old mill,
Lilly, dear !
MISOELLANE O IT S.
A TALE OFREAL LIFE.
BY MISS SEDGWICK.
"I am going round to Broad street to in
quire of Ross, the glover, about little Lucy
Wendall."
"Lucy Wendall! Who is she?"
"She is a pretty little Dutch girl, who
lived opposite to me in that bit of a little
dwelling, that looks like a crack or seam
between the two houses on each side of it.
She lived there with her grand -parents,
natives of this city, and once proprietors
of many a tot within it, but they had been
out-bargained and out-witted till they were
reduced to this little tenement some twen
ty feet by fifteen. Their only surviving
descendant was my little friend Lucy a
pretty, fair-skinned, fair-haired, blue eyed
girl, of a most modest, quiet, engaging de
meanor. For many months after we
moved to State street, I knew nothing of
the family; but from such observations as
the eye could take, neatness was the rul
ing passion of the household. The only
servant Minerva (the goddess of wisdom
should have known better) used to scrub
the house weekly from garret to cellar;
their only carpet was shook every Satur
day; the steps were scoured daily, and I
never in my life saw the old woman with
out a dusting-cloth in her hand. Such a
war of extermination did she carry on a
gainst intruding particles, that my friend
E. used to say, it must be hard to think of
turning to dust.
"Lucy had no visitors, no companion;
and of the only indulgence of the old peo
ple, which was sitting in the stoop, every
pleasant afternoon, according to the '. an
cient Dutch custom, she never partook.
She never went out, excepting on Sunday
to church, arid then she reminded me of
one of those bright, pretty flowers, that
hang on the cragged, bare stems of the
cactus. ' I pitied her; her spring of life
seemed passing away so drearily. My
pity was misapplied; and I felt it to be so
when I looked into her serene sweet coun
tenance, and saw there the impress of that
happiness which certainly flows from du
ties religiously performed. It is a great
matter,: Grace,' to have your desire bound
ed within your station; to be satisfied with
the quiet, ' unnoticed ; performance of the
duties Providence has allotted to you, and
not to waste your efforts or strength in
seeking to do good, or to obtain pleasure
beyond your sphere. ; This is true wis
dom; and this was Lucy ; Wcndall's. At
last there came to this" obscure - family,
what comes to all, death and its changes.
The old man and his wife died within a
day of each other, of the influenza that
then raged in the city. The hope of see
ing the pretty orphan induced, me to go to
the house. She received rae gratefully
and as an old friend; and though we had
never exchanged a word together, there
had been an interchange of kind looks and
friendly nods those little humanities that
bind even strangers together.
On inquiry into her affairs, I found that
she was left almost pcnniles- but a discreet
and kind female friend had procured a place
for her in Ross' glove factory. Lucy was
skilled in all the art and handicraft of the
needle. Ross, it seems, is a very thriv
ing tradesman; and to the warm recom
mendation of Lucy's friend he had prom
ised to board her in his own family, and
allow her sufficient compensation for her
labor.
"In a few days she removed to her new
home. It is now fifteen months since she
left our street. She came once to tell me
that she was perfectly satisfied with her
place, and since that I have heard nothing
of her. Do not look so reproving, ray
lady Mentor. I have been intending for
some time to call at Mr. Ross' to make
inquiries about her. My story has brought
us almost to the shop: "John Ross, glove
manufacturer." This must be the place.
Stop one moment, Grace, and look through
the window; that man, no doubt, is Ross
himself. What a fine head! You might
know such a man would succeed in the
world, let his lot be cast where it would.
He would have made a resolute general,
a safe statesman; but here he is, an honest
thriving glover, and that perhaps is just as
well; nothing truer than the trite old coup
let: 'Honor and fame from no condition rise;
Act well your part, there all the glory lies."
"The old man looks as though he might
be a little tyrannical. Heaven grant poor
Lucy may not have suffered from that trait
in his physiogomy."
"The only customer is coming out; now
we have a clear fielJ, let us go in."
"Mr. Ross, I believe?''
"The same, ma'am." j
"I came, Mr. Ross, to inquire after a j
young woman who came to live with you
last Christinas." j
"I have had a great many young wo
men living with me ma'am."
The old man's humor requires me to
be explicit. "Her name, Mr. Ross, was
Lucy Wendall." .
"Ay, Lucy Wendall did come into the
factory about that tiqfe."
There was an expression of Ross' face
at the mention of hei name, that might be
tide good, and it might betide evil to Lu
cy. "I merely wish to know Mr. Ross,
whether she still remains with you."
-Was you a friend to Lucy Wendall,
ma'am?"
"I should think it an honor to call my
self so, but I could hnrdly claiintfiat name.
She was my neighbor, and interested me
by her correct deportment and uncommon
dutifulness to her old parents." Ross
made no reply, but fumbled over some
gloves that were on the counter, then tied
up the bundle and laid it on the shelf.
"You seem, Mr. Ross, not disposed to
answer my inquiry. I'm afraid some ac
cident has happened the poor girl."
"Would you like to know ma'am, what
has happened to her?" He leaned his el
bow on his desk and seemed about to be
gin a story.
"Certainly, I would."
"Well, you know when Lucy Wendall
came to me, she was little demure thing
not a beauty, but so comely and so tidy
that she was a pretty resting place for the
eye of old or young. ' She was as great a
contrast to the other girls in the workshop
as white is to black. She just sat quiet
in one corner, and minded her work, and
took no part in their gabbling. You know
what a parcel of girls are, ma'am, dinging
away from morning till night like, forty
thousand chimney swallows. Lucy was
very different; she made herself neat and
tidy in the morning, and did not lose half
an hour at noon when the prentice boys
were coming to dinner, twitching out curl
papers and furbelowing her hair. The
boys and the girls used to have their joke
about her, and call her the little parson;
but she only preached in her actions, and
that is what I call practical preaching ma'
am. . one. was a littie master-workman at
her neeedle. I never had a match for her
since I began the business; but (you know
there's always a but in this life) she gave
me great offence. She crossed me where
I could least bear to be crossed."
"Not intentionally, I am sure, Mr.
Ross."
"You shall hear, ma'am. I have an
only son, John ltoss a fine, fresh look
ing, good-natured lad. I set my heart on
his marrying his cousin, Amy Bruce. She
is the daughter of my youngest sister, and
had a pretty fortune in hand, enough to
set John up in any business he fancied.
There was no reason in the world why
he should not like Amy. I had kept my
wishes to myself, because I knew that
young folks' love is like an unbroken colt,
that will not mind spur nor bit. I never
mistrusted that any tiling was going wrong,
till one day I heard the girls making a
great wonderment about a canary bird that
they found when they went in the morning
into the workshop, in a cage hanging over
Lucy's seat; and then I remembered that
John asked me for five dollars the day
before, and when I asked him what he
wanted it for, he looked ; sheepish and
made no answer. I thought it prudent
before matters went any further, to tell
John my wishes about his cousin Amy.
My wishes ma'am, I have always made a
law to my children. To be sure, I have
taken care, for the most part that they
should be reasonable. I am a little wilful,
I own it; and "children obey your pa
rents" is the law both of scriptures and of
nature. So I told John. I did not hint
my suspicions about Lucy, but told him
this marriage with his cousin he could
have no objections to, and to set about it
without delay on peril of my displeasure.
He was silent and down-cast, but saw that
I was determined, and I believed he wo'd
not disobey me. A few evenings after, I
saw a light in the work-shop after the
usual time. I went to inquire into it. I
had on my slippers, and my steps made
little or no sound. The upper part of the
door was set with glass. I saw Lucy
finishing off a pair of gloves my son
was standing by her. It appears that they
were for him; and he insisted upon her
trying them on his hand. Her's, pool
thing, seemed to tremble. The glove
would not go on, but it came off, and their
hands met without gloves, and a nice fit
they were. I burst in upon them. I asked
John if this was his obedience to me, and
I told Lucy to quit my service immetliate
ly. Now the whole matter past, I must
do John the justice to say he stood by her
like a man. He had given his heart and
promised his hand to Lucy, and she own
ed she loved him him who was not
worthy of her love. He said, too, some
thing of my being a kind father, and a
kind man; and he would no: believe that
the first case of my doing a wrung would
be to the orphan girl whom Providence
had placed under our roof- Ma'am, you
will wonder that I hardened my heart to
all this, but you know that anger is a short
madness, and so it is; and besides, there is
nothing makes tis so deaf to reason and
true feeling as the strong sense we are
wilfully doing wrong. I was harsh and
John lost his temper, and poor Lucy
cried, and was too frightened to speak; it
ended by my telling Lucy she should not
stay another daj in my house, and John,
that if he did not obey me my curse should
be upon him.
"The next morning they had both clear
ed out, and everybody thought they had
gone off to get married, and so I believed
till night, when John came in like a dis
tracted man, and said he had been all day
seeking Lucy, but in vain that the only
friend she had in the city knew nothing
of her and when 1 answered "so much
the better," accused me of cruelty, and
then followed high words, such as never
should pass between father and son; and
it ended in my turning him from my door.
I do not wonder you turn away; but hear
me. Saturday night, three days after,
John came home an altered man. He
was as humble as if he only had been in
the wrong. He begged pardon, and pro
mised to obey me in all things but mar
rying Amy Bruce. I give up Lucy, fa
ther," said he, "but I cannot marry any
one else." I forgave him, from the bot
tom of .my heart 1 forgave him and I
longed to ask him to forgive me but I
have not come to that yet. I asked him
what had brought him back to duty. He
put into my hands a letter he hadreceived
from Lucy; she had persevered in not
seeing him but such a letter, ladies! If
ministers could speak so to the heart there
would be no sin in the world. She said
she had deserved to suffer for carrying
matters so far without my knowledge.
She spoke of me as the kindest of fathers,
and the kindest of masters. Then she
spoke of the duly a child owed a parent
said she never should have any peace
of mind till she heard we were reconciled;
and told him it would be in vain for him
to seek her, for she had solemnly resolved
never to see him again. The paper was
blistered with tears from the top to the
bottom; but saying and excepting nothing
from which you could guess what it cost
her to write the letter. -
I could not stand it; ray heart melted
within me; 1 found her that very night,
and without loss of time, brought her
back to my house ; and there," he added,
walking hastily to the farther end of tii6
shop and throwing open a door that led
into the back parlor, "there, madam, is
the long and the short of it."
And there, was one of the most touch
ing scenes of human life. My pretty,
dutiful friend become a wife and mother,
her infant in her arms, and her husband
srtting beside her, watching the first imi
tations of intelligence and love in its bright
little eyes. Such should be the summer
of happiness when the spring is consecra
ted in virtue.
Battle of Montebello.
Marshall I.aiiiic:
One of the most remarkable actions of
his life, illustrating best the iron will and
unsvrpassed bravery of the man, was his
batib with the Austrians at Montebello,
whuh gave him the title of Duke. Still
leading the van guard he had carried over
the St. Bernard, he came upon the Po,
and pon nearly eighteen thousand Aus
triana Admirably posted with their right
wing, resting npon the Appeuines, and
their left reaching off into the plain; while
the vhole field was swept by batteries
that lined the hillsides. When he beheld
this strong &xr&y, and discovered their
position, he saw at once that he must re
treat, or fight "with no hope, except to
maintain his ground till Victor, five or six
miles in the rear, should come up. Inde
pendent of the superior position of the
Austrians, they had between seventeen
and eighteen thousand, while Lanncs
could muster only about eight thousand
men, or less than half the number of the
enemy. But the rear rested on the Po,
and fearing the effect of a retreat in such
a disastrous position, he immediately re
solved to h?zard an attack. The cheer
fulness with which his soldiers advanced
to this unequal combat, shows the wonder
ful power he wielded over them. They
were not only ready to march on the ene
my, but advanced to the charge with
shouts of enthusiasm. There can scarcely
be a more striking instance of valor than
the behavior of Lanncs on this occasion.
There was no concealment of the danger,
no chance of sudden surprise, and no
waiting the effect of some other move
ment on which Ills OWIl would depend- It
was to be down right hard fighting, and
he knew it; fighting, too, against hopeless
odds for the first few hours. But all the
heroic in him was aroused, and his chiv
alric bearing before his army inspired
them with the highest ardor. Especially
after the battle was fairly set, and it was
necessary to make one man equal to three,
he seemed endowed with the spirit of. ten
men. He was everywhere present, now
heading a column in a charge, now rally
ing a shattered division, and now fighting
desperateljr, hand to hand with the enemy.
Without waiting the attack of the Aus
trians, he formed his troops en echelon,
and advanced to the charge. Two battal
ions marched straight on the murderous
artillery, which stationed in the road,
swept it as the cannon did the bridge of
Lodi. The third battalion endeavored to
carry the heights, while Watrin with his
remainder, marched full on the centre.
The battle at once became terrible. Before
the furious onset of the French, the Aus
trians were driven back, and seemed about
to break and fly, when a reserve of the
Imperialists came up, and six fresh regi
ments were hurled on their exhausted
ranks. The heights of Revelta had been
carried, but the fresh onset was too heavy
for the victorious troops, and-they were
driven in confusion down the hill. The
centre staggered back before the superior
numbers, and the heavy fire of the artil
lery; but still Lannes rallied them to an
other effort. Under one of. the most de
structive fires to which a division perhaps
was ever exposed, he supported his men
by almost superhuman efforts. " Standing
himself where the shot ploughed up the
ground in furrows about him, he not only
cooly surveyed the danger, but by his
commands and presence held his men for
a long time in the very face of death. But
it was impossible for any column, unless
all composed of such men as Lannes, long
to Withstand such, a fire; and they were on
the point of turning and fleeing, when one
of - the divisions of Victor's corps arrived
on the field and rushed with a shout into
the combat. This tcstored for a time the
fight. The Austrians were again repulsed,
when, bringing up a fresh reserve, the
French were forced to retire. Now ad
vancing and now retreating, the two ar
mies wavered to and fro, like mist when
it first meets the rising blast. As division
after division of Victor's corps came up,
the French rallied; till at length, -when
they had all arrived and the two armies
stood , twelve to eighteen thousand the
whole French force and the whole Aus
trian reserve in the field the combat be
came dreadful. Though pressed by such
superior numbers, and wasted by such
commanding and hotly worked batteries,
Lannes refused to yield one inch of the
ensanguined field. It is said that his ap
pearance in this battle was absolutely ter
rific. Besmeared with powder, blood and
smoke, he rode from division to division,
inspiring courage and daring in the ex
hausted ranks rallying again and again
the wasted columns to the charge, and
holding them by his personal - daring and
reckless exposure of his life, hour after
hour to the murderous fire. General
Rivaud, battling for the heights, and the
brave Watrin, charging like fire on the
centre cheered at every repulse by the
calm s'tern voice of Lannes fought as
Frenchmen had not fought before during
the war. The moral power which one
man may wield, was never more visible
than on this occasion. Lannes stood the
rock of that battle-field, around which his
men clung with a tenacity that nothing
could shake. Had he fallen, in five min
utes that battle would have been a rout.
On his life hung the victory, and yet it
seemed not worth a hope, in the steady
fire through which he constantly galloped.
From eleven in the morning till eight at
night, for nine long hours did he press
with an army, first of six, then of twelve
thousand, on one of eighteen thousand
without intermission or relief. It was one
succession of onsets and repulses, till
darkness began to gather over the scene.
One fourth of his army had sunk on the
field where they fought. At length Rivaud
having carried the heights, came down
like an avalanche on the centre, while
Watrin led his intrepid column for the last
time on the artillery. Both were carried,
and the Austrians were compelled to re
treat. Bonaparte arrived just in time to
see the battle won. He rode up to Lannes,
surrounded by the remnants of his guard,
and found him drenched with blood his
sword dripping in his exhausted hand
his face blackened with powder and smoke
and his uniform looking more as if it
had been dragged under the wheels of ar
tillery during the day, than worn b' a
living man. But a smile of cxhultatiou
passed over his features, as he saw his
commander gazing with pride and affec
tion upon him; while the soldiers, weary
and exhausted as thev were, could not
restrain their joy at the victory they had
won ...
Such was the terrible battle of Monte
bello, and Lannes, in speaking of it after
wards, said in referring to the deadly fire
of the artillery," before which he held his
men with such unflinching firmness, "
could hear the bones in my division, like
hail stones against the windoicsJ" A
more terrific description of the effect of
cannon shot on a close column of men,
could not be given. 1 have heard of single
handed sea fights of frigates, where firing
was so close and hot that the combattants j
could hear the splitting of the timbers in
the enemy's ship at every broadside, but
never before heard of a battle where the
bones could be heard breaking in the hu
man body, as cannon balls smote through
them. Yet no one would ever have tho't
of that expression, had it not been sugges
ted to him by what he actually heard. At
all events, Lanncs never fought a more
desperate battle than this, and as evidence
that Napoleon took the same view of it,
he gave him the title of Duke of Monte
bello, which his family bear with just
pride to this day. Ileadly.
& Bit fairly Won.
It was some years prior to the Revolu
tion, when the good old laws for hanging
people for numbei less crimes (for which a
short imprisonment answers now-a-days)
were in full vogue, that a small party
were gathered one bright moon light night
in an eating cellar, in the city of New
York, around an old table, from which
the steam rose to the ceiling as it left the
surface of a large soup dish in the centre
The party appeared in a merry humor,
and as three noted charactersjhadtthatJay
swung from the scaffold, the topic of con
versation naturally turned upon the exe
cution.
"Old Jake died game at all events,"
said one of the men.
: "I'm afraid that's mor'n you'll do," re
torted another.
"I don't fear death "in any shape,' re
plied the first speaker.
"You don't hey?" suddenly chimed in
a third person.
,'No, I don't, nor I can't be scared, eith
er," was the bragging answer.
. "You can't. ! humph! allow me to doubt
ihot, will you?" sneered his opponent.
"If you don't" believe it, you are freely
privileged to test ine, but mind you, the
consequences be on your head, not
mine."
"Well, we'll see. You don't fear dead
people, do you?"
"Not so much as living ones."
"Very well. Now, then. I'll bet you
twenty dollars that you darn't go down to
the scaffold and feed one of the men hung
to-day, with some hot soup."
"Are you in earnest?"
"Never more so in my life; there.s the
money let's see you cover it."
The boaster put his hand in his pocket,
drew forth a well filled walltt.and placed
twenty more dollars upon the tabic.
"Then you take the bet!' excla;med
the opponent in a surprised voice.
"I do. Let George hold the stakes,"
The "nreliminnrlfs vrfl s.ion all ar-
4- - - - - -
ranged, and with a bowl of roud. and a
spoon the boaster took his way to the
sea noid.
Now it so happened thai the person
with whom he had bet was a ventrilo
quist, and no sooner had tie left the house,
than his nnnonent also'denarted. takinn- a
-ri i ' i
short by-way to the scaffold, by which
means he reached the place three or lour
minutes in advance of the soun-feeder.
and getting under it, took his station- be
hind one of the posts and awaited his
cominp-. In a few moments the brafffrer
appeared, and when at the steps he looked.
1 , I .1. J J
cautiously arouna mm, men asccnaea
quickly and stood beside one of the
corpses. The wind moaned and the
chains creaked, as the bodies swung to
and fro, but without hesitation the boast
er seized the spoon and Taised it to the
man's lips. Now was the ventriloquist
time. . As the handle of the spoon was
raised, the corpse suddenly exclaimed in
a sepulchral tono:
"It's hot!"
"Well, confound you, blow it, then!"
was the instant retort of the feeder, as he
coolly lowered the spoon, descended the
scaffold, and took his way back to the cel
lar
The ventrilcouist made tracks for the
same place, aud fully testified that the
bet had been fairly won, and swearing
that after what had taken place that night
his opponent might brag as much as he
pleased, but he wouldn't get another wa
ger out of him.
Milton ShaKspcere ropf
Neither of these great poets has any
living representative. Sbukspeare was
the first man of letters, Pope the second,
and Sir Walter Scott the third, who, in
Great Britain, ever realized a largR for
tune by literature or in Christendom, if
we except Voltaire, and two dubious ca
ses in Italy.
Mihon was thrice married, and left three
daughters, all by his first wife (Mary
Powell.). Anne, the eldest, married a
master builder, and died soon'afterwards;
Mary, the second, died in a single tate;
and Deborah, the youngest, married Abra
ham Clarke, a weaver in Spitalfields, by
whom she had seven sons and threo
daughters. The distress into which she
fell in consequence of this imprudent mar
riage, experienced some late and' partial
rchef from the liberality of Addison, and
the less splendid munificence of Queen
Caroline. Of her ten children two only
left offspring; Caleb, who, maTfying it:
the East Indies, had two sons, whose his
tory cannot now be traced; and Eliza
beth, who married Thomas Foster, a
weaver, by whom she had three sons and
four daughters, who all died young and
without issue. In old age and in pen
ury, Mrs. Foster was discovered in a
small chandler's shop, and brought into
public notice by Dr Birch and Dr. New
ton. Attention being thus awakened to
the grand-daughter of .Milton, Comus was
performed for her benefit in 1750; and
Johnson, associated as he then was in the
labors of the infamous Lauder, did not
hesitate to'supply theoccasional prologue.
The profits of tiie night were only .130
sterling; yet this was the greatest benefac
tion that the Paradise Lost ever procured
the author's descendants. Mrs. Foster
died on the 9th of May. 1754, and with
her expired the last descendant of the im
mortal poet. Milton realized fifteen
pounds only for the copyright nnd extra
sale of Paradise Lost.
Shakspeare married Anne Hathaway in
1582, in his nineteenth year. He had
two daughters. Susanna married, onjhe
5th June, llU7, Dr. Hall, a physician m
Stratfor The doctor died in Novem
ber, 1C35, aged CO his wife died at the
age (6f sixty-six, on July 11th, 1640. They
ha;! one child, a daughter named Eliza
beth, born in 1603, married April 22.
1626, to Thomas Nashe, Esq.; left a wid
ow in 1647, and subsequently re-married
to Sir John Barnard, the sole grand-daughter
of the poet, had no children by either
marriage. The second daughter, Judith,
in Februar)', 1610 (about ten weeks be
fore her father's death,) married Thomas
Quincy, of Stratford, by whom she had
three sons, Sharkspeare, Richard and
Thomas. Judith was about thirty-one
years old at the time of her marriage; and
living just forty-six years afterwards, she
died in February, 1662, at the age of seventy-seven.
Her three sons died with
out issue; and thus, in the direct lineal
descent, it is certain that no representatit e
has survived of this transcendant poet,
the most august amongst created intel
lects. Pope was born on 21st of May, 16S8,
and died on the 30th of May, 1744, in th
fiftyseventh year of hjs age, so quietlv
that hii attendants could not distinguish
i