NEW SEMES.
R. I. WYNNE, Publisher.
VOL. I NOJL
RALEIGH, FRIDAY, JANUARY 1G; 1852.
C. C. KABOTEAU, Editor.
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T II B.RO M Jt.N TIC-ARTIST.
From an article in Blackwood's Maga
zine of- June last, (reprint cf Leonard
Scott, Co. New York,) upon Houssaye's
Sketches and Essays, we extract the fol
lowing recount ofjacjues Callot, by which
jf our readers are as much amused as we
were, they. will spend a delightful half
hour. The a ut nor sketches the particulars
of a very singular life, and to the romance
writer, who should select Callot as a hero,
he would doubtless prove-- a mine of great
iatcrcs:
" In nh old fashioned house at Nancy
'was Oaliot born, in L'
His. giand-
' father, Ciaudc Ca'lot, a valiant -man at
.-iniis, was ennobled, fcr his good services,
,l;y "Charles' III. j duke of Lorraine, aud
j named a grand-niece of Jean of Arc-
Claude's son, Jean, married Rence Brune
lu;ut, 'daughter' of . the physician of the
- -Duchess '.. Christina of Denmark. Rence
was a good nnd simple-hearted woman,
formed for the -duties of a mother. She
had eleven children. Jacques, the young
est of the sons, was her Benjamin. The
death of all her daughters redoubled her
tenderness for him. Jean Ca Hot, the fa
ther, was - hcrald-at-arms to the duke of
I iCrraine, and was prouder of his post than
the duks of his duchy. His elder sons
having entered ether professions, he intend
ed Jacques to succeed-hkn, and began to
teach him, at (he age of eight years to
draw -and illuminate coats cf arms. The
child's passion for drawing was so ardent,
that, at school, when learning to write, he
made a picture of every letter of the Al
pliabot. A was the gable of his father's
liouse, B was the neighbor's weathercock,
and so on with the other letters. His moth
er encouraged him in his. pictorial caprices :
there had been artists in her family ,amcngst
chore an uncle, a pupil of Holbein. He
nce loved art, and had little sympathj' wiih
. her husband's dry genealogical investiga
tions. She:. had store cf tales and anec
dotes touching the old masters, and these
site loved to 'impart to her darling bey. as
he 'stood a!! mivcly and thoughtfully by
Iter chair, his l ands clasped in hers, the
sunbeams s' reaming through the deep em
brasures of the windows nd gilding bis
long fair hair. Ail she folihim sunk deep
into the child V retentive "memory, and he
would ponder it afunvards when alone,
and whilst gazing from his window; ever
the green meadows that surround Nancy,
or, move to his taste, v. atciiir.g the advent
of sumo detachment c f irregular sold ers,
or band of minstrels or' ropedancers, cr of"
some pi! grim" in tattered mantle' bedecked,
with scallop shells :;nd artificial flowers,
with boxwood rosaries emu ieaihn n;-dtd-.
lions. In France, and out of Pans, m 'he
year 1000, almost" all t!teairicaiperfoniKi-:
e.es were in the op; mi air. Those were the
pdmy days of jugglers, .bufibons and char
latans of all kinds, tmd these wi re young
Caliot's favorite siibiects. Born a master
of the grotesque, he would seat himself oil
the ground, produce paper and pencil from
his schoolboy's satchel, and jut down, in a
-few bold touches, the characteristic outline
of some bear-leader, morris dancer, or cup
ami-ball player, who was - pursuing Ids vo
cation at the street coiner. When., such
models were wanting,- he would pass long
hours in churches, before old frescoes, pain
ted windows and quaint carvings , ene
I rating, in tho ardour of his artistic curios
ity, into . monasteries and mansions, and
even into the palace of the dukes of Lc?
vaiiie his only passport his pretty face, set
of! by his waving curls, and by the rich
Inlanders lace with which Rence loved to
lidora his doublet. But, even at this early
ige, all went not smoothly with the child
artiet. Encouraged by his mother's smiles,
on the other hand he had to endure his
father's frowns and reproaches. The old
herald coidd not appreciate (he promise of
1 lis youngest born. "You are unworthy
of my name and office," Ire would say to
ihe boy, just returned from playing truant
in a gipsy's tent or before a stroller's plat
form. You are but a mountebank.;
How do you suppose the Grand-duke can
ever intrust you wiih his genealogical re
cords ? Instead of studying the heraldic
history of the nobility of our country, and
doing justice to each according to his arms
and deeds, you would illustrate the. history
pf juggling ; to you the greatest duke would
be the greatest ropedancer. . I despair of
you, rebellious child ! with your vagabond
Eropensities you will end amongst mounte
anks." And the venerable Jean Callot
walked solemnly into his study. Renee
wept whilst admonishing her son'diligently
to study the noble science of heraldry ; and
then she dressed him in his best suit, and
hurried him ofT to mass, for which he was
habitually late. And the boy wept too,
soon b,e dried his tears, and glanced at his
new clothes, and thought how well they
would do for the journey to Italy, of which
he had so often dreamed. ; He continued
to dream of it, until, one day, when he
was not yet quite twelve years old, he set
out, alone, on foot, without baggage, and
with a light purse, but hopeful and joyful,
iind confident that his resources sufficed for
a journey to the uttermost ends of the
earth.
There exists bat imperfect records of Cal
iot's first journey. : Although grntl) nurtur
ed and accustomed to a mother's care, to a
Tood bed and a delicate table, he seems not
to have felt the hardships of ihe road, bat to
have readily contented himself with a truss
of straw for a couch, and, for a meal," with
a peasant's mess of beans and black biead.
Did he pass tn orchard he stayed his
stomach with fruit ; did he find a donkey in
a meadow, or a skiff moored to the river
side, he jumped on the one or into the other,
rode or rowed a league or two, and then re
leased his steed, or turned his boat adrift.
When detected in such irregular appropria
tions, his tender years and his good looks
soon obtained his pardon. In this manner
he got to Bale, in Switzerland. It was the
time of the hay-harvest ; every stroke of the
scythe madea fragrant bed for Callot. To
such a couch, upon a certain evening, he
was about to consign himself, when he heard
strains of music which" reminded him of his
friends the ropedancers. Following the
sound, he reached a neighbouring hamlet,
where a band of gipsies, attired iu spangled
rags and tawdry tatters, were performing a
grotesque dance before a gaping throng of
rustics. The red rays of the setting sun
lighted up the strange group. Callot was
particularly struck by the grace and beauty
of two young girls of fifteen or sixteen ; he
took out his paper and pencils, without
which he never stirred, and began to sketch
their portraits. Soon a number of peasants
stood round him, marvelling at his skill ;
then came some of the gipsies ; and, at lasf,
the subjects of his drawing. The gipsy
maidens terc enchanted both with picture
and artist, and asked the pretty boy whither
he was going. "To Rome," was Caliot's
unhesitating reply. "And we to Florence !
What a fortunate chance ! What a charm
ing fallow-trave'lcr !" " Yes," said Callot,
producing his meagre purse, "but here is all
I have for travelling expenses, and ray din
ner to-day was none of - the best." "Poor
child ! let us take him to the Suberge Rouge,
where supper and bed await us beans in
rnLTc, and a score sheaves of wheaten straw
on tho barn floor. Come, the sua is set,
our wallets are full."
Thenceforward Callot, solemnly admitted
into the gipsy family, travelled with them.
He' was to be escorted safely to Florence,
in consideration of what little money he had
left, and on condition of painting the por
traits of the entire band, both brute and hu
man, without any exception. In this strange
company he traversed Switzerland and the
Alps, and entered Italy, that land of promise
of every artist, after six weeks of strange and
r.ftcn perilous adventures. Whatever the
risk of the boy's moral contamination by his
lawless and licentious associates, as an ar
tist he greatly profited by that wild and ram
blinq journey, some of whose episodes af
terwards served as the first subjects of bis
graver. After dancing, fortuneteliing, and
begging in the towns, it was the gipsies'
cut-torn to retire into the forests, and there
pitch there tents for a few days, during
which they lived by rapine. The object of
these halts was to give rest to man and
beast, to mend theit clothes, wash lace and
linen, file spangles, coin money, and man
ufacturc.theru.de jewellery, necklaces, Tings
of lead and copper, buckles, medals, end the
like, which they sold to tho peasant women.
Callot soon found that life in the forest was !
at lenst as pleasant as in the hedge taverns,
which the gipsies at other times frequented.
Three of the gang were first-rate sportsmen,
B'nd contributed abnnthmce of game to the
al-frcsco kitchen. Whilst the elder women
remained at the bivouac, on household cares
intent, Callot wandered in the woods with
the two yotinggipsy girls, collecting feathers
for head-dresses, and berries for necklaces
gathering wild fruits for the dessert of the
band, and making fantastical sketches on
the b:irk of trees. At night a greatfire was
lighted to keep off prowling animals ; and
the gipsies sprawling around this or beneath
the tents, told each other grotesque stories
of ghosts and murders. The nights were
fresh in the forest, but Callot felt not the
c.oId, so great was the care taken of him
by his two protectresses, who carried their
tender solicitude for his welfare so far as
even to conceal from him the scandalous
scenes which were of frequent occurrence
in their disordeily camp.
So long did the gipsies linger on their
way, that, afterpassing the Alps, they were
fain to hurry on to Florence, not to be too
late for the fair of the Madonna ; and Callot
had little time allowed him to examine the
palaces, columns, fountains, and statues of
Milan, Parma, and Bologna. He wasdrag
ged away, after a hasty glance, dazzled and
enchanted. At Florence, his delicate coun
tenance and U ble manners attracted . the
notice of a Piedmontese gentleman in the
service of the Grand-duke, who observed
him one day gazing earnestly at the sculp
ture of a fountain, whilst his gipsy compan
ions were executing one of their wild dan
ces, and doing their best to wheedle alms
from the spectators. The gentleman ques
tioned Callot, at first in Italian, afterwards
in bad French, but in a more paternal tone
than the boy had been accustomed to frori
the old herald at Nancy. Callot told him
his history how he had set out one fine
morning, with his joyous youth and his san
guine hopes for sole baggage ; and bow, by
the protection of Providence and of the kind
hearted gipsies, he bad got thus far oa his
way to Rome whither he was going to study
the great master himself. The boy's cour
age and strong will greatly interested the
Grand-duke's officer, who took hinv straight
to the stqdjo of a friend of his, the painter
Canta'Gallina There on his recommenda
tion, Callot was instantly admitted, and re
mained six weeks, at the end of which time
he declared his intention to proceed to
Rome. His protector began to think there
was more of the vagabond than of the artist
in his Composition. Seeing him resolute,
however, he did not oppose his design, but
bought him a mule, filled him a portman
teau, gave him good advice, promised to go
and see him at Rome, and bade him God
speed.
Without accident, Callot reached the
gates of the Eternal City, bis near approach
to which absorbed his every thought. So
engrossed was he by the contemplation of
the grand spectacle before him, that he drop
ped his rein and forgot to guide his mule.
The brute, thus left at liberty, closely at
tached itself to a jackass laden with vegeta
bles, in whose rear it paced slowly along,
munching a copious repast. Just then, as
fate would have it, some traders from Nan
cy, quitting Rome upon their homeward
journey, met Callot, perched upon his mule,
gazing at the city, aud completely unexpec
tant of the cudgelling he was cbout to re
ceive from the owner of the vegetables, who
had just perceived the theft of which he
wss victim. "Hallo 1 "Master Jacques Cal
lot, whither are you going ?" The young
traveller at once perceived the danger of
this meeting. He spurred his mule, but in
vain ; the greens were too attractive. The
worthy traders, who had witnessed the af
fliction of his family when he lied from Nan
cy took, "him prisoner, ..and vowed to restore
him to his parents. Tears of rage and pite
ous entreaties were alike in vnin. Callot
was compelled to bid adieu to Rome before
he entered it. -. ; .
After a month's journey, and several fruit
less attempts to escape, Callot reached
Nancy. His father received him with a lec
ture on playing, trunnt and a discourse on
heraldic science. But Cnliot w.is only pre
vented by his mother's tears from setting
out again immediately. As it was, no great
time elapsed before be wss again on his road
southwards, coasting the lake of GencVa
and reaching Italy through Savoy, Ther.
is no record of this second journey. All
that is.' positively known is that he led an
adventurous life, in low hostelries, often in
the company of pilgrims, bravoes, strclling
players, and vagabonds of all sorts. He
reached Turin in safety, but at Turin he un
luckily fell in with his eldest brother, an at
torney, who was traveling on business. ;
For the second time, poor Callot was con
ducted prisoner to Nancy. ,
At the age of fifteen, Callot set out on his
third journey to Rome, this time with his
father's sanction and blessing, and in the
suite of the ambassador deputed to inform
the Pope of the accession Of Henry II., duke
of Lorraine. His enthusiasm for the artistic
and antiquarian treasures of Rome was not.
however, of very long duration ; soon he
turned his attention to the living models
around him, and was better pleased when
sketching some picturesque beggar than
when copying Raphael's Madonna. "He
worked under several masters, but attended
only to the inspirations of his own gerius.
His taste being for slight sketches, and for
the accumulation of a multitude of objects
in a very small space, he soon became con
vinced that painting was not his forte.; He
applied himself ardently to engraving, and
entered the studio of Thomassin, an old
French engraver established at Rome.
Engraving was still in its infancy; Albert
Durer, Lucr.s of Leydon, and a few Gennc.n
artists, were all who had made any progress.
With very middling talent, Thomassin had
made a fortune at Rome. Callot proved a
treasure to him. Young though he was,
he had not only the hand to execute, but
the fancy to create. Soon he Wearied of
constantly engraving the heads of ecstatic
saints ; and when he had a little liberty, he
gave tho reins to his memory and imagina
tion, calling to mind the strollers, lute play
ers, punchinellos, and other eccentric so
cial varieties with whom he had at different
times consorted. In this manner he plan
ned, and perhaps commenced, some of his
fantastic designs ; but of the works he ac
tually executed under Thomassin, the Seven
Capital Sins, afier a Florentine painter, are
almost the only remarkable ones.
It was with a heavy heart that he took
leave of the Eternal City, where ail the
dreams and hopes of his youth had center
ed; and, young though he was, the spring
time of his life, its romantic and adventurous
period, maybe said to have then terminal d.
The remaining twenty years of bis existence
were laborious, domestic, and devout.
At the gates of Florence, Callot, travel
ling without baggage, almost without re
sources, was arrested as a foreigner possi
bly as a suspicious character. He demand
ed to be taken before the Grand-duke, and
to him declared his name and quality. Cos
mo IL, who welcomed and royally protec
ted artists of all classes, was overjoyed at
his arrival anu offered him abundant employ
ment. Callot accepted, end passed ten
years at Florence ten years of severe toil,
during which he produced several of his
greatest works, and seriously injured his
heilth by unremitting application. Then he
returned to Nancy, " Cne night the old
herald-at-arms, seated at his window, saw a
coach stop at the house door, and asked his
wife if it were one of the court equipages.
The good darns Rence, whose heart and
eyes were sharper-sighted than her hus
band's exclaimed, as she fell half fainting on
the window-sill, 'It is Jacques 1 it is your
son !" The old herald hurried down stairs,
asking himself if it were possible that his
son, the mountebank engraver, had returned
homo in his own carriage. He gravely em
braced him, aud then hastened to see it tal
lot's arms were painted on the pannels.
By the aid of his spectacles, ana witn proud
joy, he distinguished his son's blazon, five
stars forming a cross.' the cross of labour
it hag been called, for the stars indicated
Caliot's vie'ds and his hopes of glory.
" Somewhat wearied of an unsettled ex
istence, Callot resolved to end his daj's at
Nancy. He bought a house there, and mar
ried Catherine Kuttinger, or whom nothing
is recorded, except that she was a widow
and had a daughter. It was probably a suit
able union rather than a love-match. No
sooner was he married than he became de
vout, going to mass every morning, and pas
sing an hour each night in prayer. Was it
to Thank God for having given him a good
wife?' Was it to console himself for an in
different marriage ? He again applied him
self to work, but farewell to fantastic inspi
ration, to satire rnd to gtety. If now and
then there appeared a gleam of bis good
days, it was but momentary. His graver
was restricted o serious or religious sub
jects." . - ' : -
0 A Lady has done m the honor and
favor of selecting the -fallowing Extract
from an old Novel by Harriet Martineau,
called Dcvrhnmk ; which struck her as
containing practical views of human life,
illustrative of tho heroism with which a
family sustained reverses of fortune, cheer
ful and ..happy,,' .-while- consoled by innate
courage and consciousness of virtuous rec
titude amid all their sufferings '
"What is poverty I not ccst'dvlioii ,
but poverty ? It has many shapes, as
pects almost as various as the minds and
circumstances of those whom it visits. It
is famine to the Savage in the wilds ; it is
hardship-to -the laborer in the cottage; it is
disgrace to the proud; and to the miser des
pair. It is a spectre, '-which, "with dread
of change," perplexes him who lives at
ease. - Such are its aspects -but 'what is it?
It is a deficiency of the comforts of life ; a
deficiency present and to come. It involves
many -other things ; but this is .what it is.
Is it," then, worth all the apprehension and
grief it occasions ? Is it nn adequate cause,
for the gloom of the merchant; the discon
tent of the artisan, the foreboding sighs of
the mother; the ghastly dreams which haunt
the avaricious; the conscious debasement
of the subservient; the humiliation of the
proud? These arc" .severe- sufferings ; -are
they authorised by the nature o'i poverty ?
Certainly not, if poverty induced no ad
ventitious evils, involved nothing but a de
ficiency of the comforts of life, leaving life
itself unimpaired." "The life is more than
food, and the body more than raiment ;"
and the untimely extinction of life itself
would not be worth the pangs which ap
prehended poverty excites. But poverty
involves woes which, in their sum, are far
greater than itself.
"To the multitude it is the loss of a pur
suit which they have yet to learn will be
certainly supplied. For such, alleviation
or compensation is in store in the rising up
of new objects, and the creation, of fresh
hopes. The impoverished merchant, who
may no longer look out for his argosies,
may yet be in glee when he finds it " a
rare dropping morning for the early cole
wort." To another multitude, poverty in-.
volves loss of rank a letting down among
strangers whose manners areungenial, and
their thoughts unfamiliar. For these,tli'cre
may be solace in retirement, or the evil
may fall short of its threats. The reduced
gentlewoman .may. live inpatient solitude,or
may grow into sympathy with her neigh
bors, by raising sonic of them up to her
self, and by warming her heart by the great
central fire of humanity whicli burn j on
under the crnst of manners as rough its the
storms of the tropics, oi as frigid as polar
snows. The avaricious are out of the pale
of peace already, and at all events.
"Poverty is most seriously an evil to sons
and daughters who see their parents stripped
of comfort at an age when comfort is almost,
one with life itself : aud to parents . who
watch the narrowing of the capacities of
their children by the pressure of poverty ;
the impairing of their promise; the blotting
out of their prospects. To such mourning
children, there is but little comfort but in
contemplating the easy life which' lies be
hind, and (it may be hopjil.) the happier
one w hich stret sites before their parents on
the other side the postern of life. If there
is sunshine on the two grand Teaches of
their path, the shadow which lies in the
midst is necessarily but a temporary gloom.
To grieving parents, it. should be a consol
ing truth , that, as the life is more th?.n food ,
so is the soul more than instruction and op
portunity, ttnd such aesomplishments as
man can administer: that, as the fowls are
fed, and lillies clothed by Him whose -hand
made the air musical with the one, and
dressed the fields with the other; so is the
human spirit nourished and adorned by
airs from Heaven which blow, over the
whole earth, and light from the skies which
no hand is permitted to intercept. Parents
know not but that Providence may be sub-,
slitufiiig the noblest education for the mis
teaching of intermediate guardiatia. It
may possibly, be so; or, if not, still there is
appointed to every human being much
training, many privileges, which capricious
fortune can. neither give nor take away.
The father may sigh to see his boy con
demned to the toil of the loom, or the gos
sip and drudgery of the shop, when he
would fain have beheld him the ornament
of a University; bat he knows not whether
a more simple integrity , a loftier disinter
estedness, may not come out of the hum
bler discipline than the higher privilege.
The 'mother's eyes may swim as she hears
her little daughter sing her baby brother to
sleep on the . cottage threshold her eyes
may swim at the thought how those. wild
and moving tones might have been, exalted
by art. Such art would have been in itself
a good ;but would this child then have been,
as now, about her father's business, which,
in ministering to one of His liule ones, she
is as surely as the archangel who suspends.
new systems of worlds in the farthest void?
Her occupation is now earnest and holy :
and what need the true mother wish for
more ?
What is poverty to those who are not
thus set in families? What is it to the sol
itary, or to the husband and 'wife' who have
faith in each other's strength ? If they
have the higher faith which usually origi
nates mutual trust, mere poverty is scarcely
worth a passing fear. If they have pluck
ed out the stings of pride and selfishness,
nnd nnrified their vision bv faith, what is
there to dread ? What is their care? They
have life, without certainty now it is to oe
nourished. They do without certainty,
like "the young ravens which cry," and
wbrkfora'nd enjoy the subsistence of the
day, leaving the morrow to take care of
what 'concerns it. If living in the dreariest
abodes of a town, the light from within
shines id the dark place, and, dispelling
the mists of worldly care, guides to the
blessing offending the sick, and sharing
the food of to-day with the orphan and him
who has no help but. in them. If the phil
osopher goes into such retreats with his lan
tern, there may he best find the generous
and the brave." If, instead of the alleys of
a citv. thev live under the or'n sky, -they-
are yet lighter under their poverty. There,
however blank the future may lie oeiore
them, they have to-day the living reality
nf lawns and woods, and flocks " in the
green pasture and beside the still waters,"
which" silently remind them oi the goott
.Shepherd; under whom they -shall not want
any real good thing. The quiet of the
shady lane is theirs, and the beauty of the
blossoming thorn above the pool. Delight
steals through them with the scent of the
violet, or the -new-mown '"-hay." If they
have "hushed the voices of complaint and
fear within them, there is the music of the
merry lark for them, or of the leaping
waterfall, or of a whole orchestra of harps
when the breeze sweeps through' a grove
of pines. While it is not for fortune .". to
rob thein of free nature's grace, " and
while she leaves them life and strength of
limb and soul, the certainty of a future.,,
though they cannot see what, and the as
surance of progression, though they cannot
see how, is poverty worth , for themselves,
more than a passing doubt ? Can it ever
be worth the torment of fear; the bondage
of subservience ; the compromise of free
thought ; the sacrifice of free speech ; the
bending of the erect head the veiling of
the open brow; the repression of the salient
soul? If, instead of this, poverty should
act as the liberator of the spirit, awakening
it to trust in God and sympathy for man,
and placing it aloft, fresh and free, like
mnrninor on the hill-ton. to survev the ex
panse of life, and recognise its realities from
beneath its mists, it should be greeted witn
that holy joy before which all sorrow and
sighing lice away."
KOSSUTH. "
. The Providence Journal says: "There
is a melancholy tone in the latter speeches
of Kossuth that is most touching. lie sees,
what it does not require his wonderful pow
er to perceive, that his mission to this coun
try is a failure, that he can expect neither
the intervention of our';. Government, nor
any considerable sum of money ; and lie
t urns his eyes from this land of happy iree
dom to his own beloved and bleeding coun
iry, and is preparing to go back struggling
with the present hopelessness of the contest,
but still ready for any exertion, prepared
for any sacrifice, even though he can do
nothing more than attend as a mourner at
the "funeral of freedom." '
Kossuth is one of the roat men of the
age, one of the greM men of modern times,
ami. he'; possesses an element of , strength
that is tod often wanting in men of lofty
intellect, and of commanding abilities the
element of purity of character and single
ness r f purpose. -No selfish object enters
into his designs. He lives only for his coun
try and fur freedom. This it is, even more
than his marvellous ability, which wins the
'heart of the people, and makes even those
bless hi m who cannot aid him. Holding
firmly to the doctrine of non-intervention,
as delivered to us by Washington, and as
taught by the fathers of the Constitution,
we have stru?2r!ed against our sympathies,
and have followed the line of duty in op
posing the proposition which he advances
w ith so much eloquence, arid urges with
such" generous -fervor. For him, and for
(lie holy cause in which he is engaged, we
have on!v good wishes; and we fervently
hope that ho may live to see the leagued
despots of Europe driven from the lands
which thev have oppressed, and the people
restored to" the rights of which they have
been deprived. And yet we sometimes
doubt if much can be done to hasten the
event which, in the order of Providence,
we look upon as inevitable. The very ex
ertions of Kossuth' in this country have giv
en warning to the powers which he hopes to
overturn, and long before a ; single blow
can be struck against them, they are pre
pared to meet the rising of the people. A
revolution such as is desirable in Europe,
must be sudden, and its immediate cause
almost accidental. The rulers must have
no notice, and the people, prepared by long
hatred of the government, and impatient of
their wrongs, will start bv an electric sym
pathy, and turn with instinctive unanimity
to the common object. Then rises a pop
ular fnrv which nothincr can withstand.vet
which no organized effort can prepare.
Thrones and dominations will sink before
it, leaders will spring up to direct, and, if
wisdom be tound to control it alter us suc
cess, there will be a good hope for freedom
in Europe."
JOHN A. GILMER.
In connection with the formal nomina
tion of Mr. Gilmer for the office of Governor
by the recent meeting of the Whigs' of
Orange, there are other unmistakeable in
dications of a wish that he should be the
standard bearer of his party in the coming
campaign. No one in the State-would
bear our colors more worthily and gallant
ly; but it were well that we should state,
before any further action be taken by his
friends, we happened to be aware that it
would be out of the question for him to ac
cept the honor of a nomination, and conse
quently it is unnecessary to use his name
in this connection.
Mr. G. is generous as the sunshine, and
comes as near belonging to his friends and
to every body who asks his aid, as any man
we ever saw. It would be hard for him to
refuse any situation , either of honor or of
peril, which they might be disposed to as
sign him. No one would feel more sensi
bly the responsibility. of a race for high of
fice in North Carolina not for the sake of
his political party alone, however attached,
as all know, to its glorious principles but
for the honor and interest of his State. If
there is a devoted North Carolinian, he is
one. His affection for his native State
surpasseth the love of those who, favored
of fortune, have found the lap of the "good
old Mother" a lap of ease and luxury.
Fom early youth, with her humble but
independent and hardy sons, he mixed the
sweat of his brow with her soil; the scenes
of his unaided efforts to secure an educa
tion, of his increasing professional labors
find reputation, and tlie prospects of any
honorable ambition w hich he may cherish,
tdl lie within her borders, lie has a proper!-
in the State, made by the united. la
bor "of hands and head, which none but
those .'who have likewise toiled can appre
ciate. These, ii is true, are among the
best and highest qualifications for ofiice;
but they may be united in an individual
whose personal circumstances require that
he should, not attempt to test them before
the public. Such, w e conceive, is the case
with Mr. Gilmer. Inheriting little but an
unsullied name and habits of honest indus
try, his sole dependence, for the support
and education of a growing fami!)r, resting
upon a profession 'which has become pro
fitable, but which once abandoned can
never be resumed, it were too much to ask
him to hazard these personal prospects for
the service of his party and State. His
home duties require the flower of his years;
they are already divided by a devotion of
'much of his time and talent to the interests
of the State; he cannot sow do more for
In's friends and party, and at the same time
fulfil the obligations which he feels that he
owes to his household.
Thus much is due Mr. Gilmer's charac
ter and position before the public, in order
to prevent disappointment in any. quarter.
We w ould sooner risk the cause of bur par
ly and the interest of our State in his hands
than those of any other citizen, and deeply
regret the necessity which requires. him to
keep his name out of the list of those from
whom a selection of standard bearei is to
be made. And in saying this, we know
that we only echo the cordial sentiment of
his neighbors among whom he has lived
from hts youth up. Greensboro' Pa triot.
MARSHALL OX CLAY.
Hon. T. F. Marshall, a name not un
known to a certain sort of fume, addresses
a long iettej to the Louisville'. Journal, in
answer to charges of his having been the
"..author of the breach in the Whig party,"
or at least '"die irritating cause which has
rendered that breach incurable." In the
course of this letter we find Mr. Clay char
acterized, hi the genuine Marshall vein of
eloquence, as follows :
I risk offending Mr. Clay's friends, or
seek to add that influence, that comman
ding influence, to give consistency, direc
tion dignity and force to the beggarly ele
ments at work to ruin that man to whom
I am known to be devoted on personal as
well as political 'grounds, to love as though
he.-were my elder brother. I said that the
Adams administration had fallen, and that
Kentucky among others struck a fatal blov.
Is not this historically true? Was this
statement, under the explanations I have
o-iven in the House and here, aimed as a
saicasm at Mr. Clay, or can it be wrested
into an assertion that Mr. Crittenden was
the author of his greatness? Mr. Clay did
fall in 183S and from a lofty height ; but
sprang as he always springs, like the an
tique wrestler, the stronger from his fall,
more terrible on the rebound, than he was
ere shaken nam his feet. I have' studied
his life his' speeches', his actions, his' char
acter. 1 have hoard him at the bar and in
the Senate. I have seen him in his con
tests with other men, when all the stormy
passions of his tempestuous soul were lash
ed by disappointment and opposition lo the
foaming rage of the ocean, when all the
winds are unchained, and sweep in full
caieer over the free and bounding bosom
of the deep. He owes less of his greatness
to education or to art than any man living.
He owes less of his commanding influ
ence to other men, than any great leader
I have eyer known, or of whom I have
ever read. He consults nobody, he leans
innr. nnVinrlv- ho fe.ars nobodv. He wears
nature's patent of nobility forever upon his
brow. lie statKs among men wkuuu uu-nnm-orahl
anH never doubtin?r air of com-
UUOn VyJ.V-'iv vvm
mand. His sweeping and impartial pride,
his indomitable will, his unquailing cour
age, challenge from all submission or com
bat. With him there can be no neutrality.
Death, tribute or the koran, is his motto
Great in speech, gYoat in action, his great
ness is all his own. He is independent,
alike of history or the schools ; he knows
little of either and despises both. His am
bition, his spirit, and his eloquence are all
great, natural, and entirely his own. If
he is like any-body, he does not know it.
He has never studied models, and if he had
his pride would rescue him from (be fault,
of imitation. He stands among men in
towering and barbaric grandeur, in all the
hardihood and rudeness of perfect originali
ty, independent of the polish and beyond
the reach of art. His vast outline and
grand but wild undefined proportions, liken
him to a huge mass of granite torn' in soinn
convulsion of nature from a mountain'.
t-:de, which any effort of the chisel would
only disfigure, and which no instniment in
the sculptor's studio could grasp or com
prehend. - j
History of Alcohol. Alcohol was in
vented 950 years nyo in Arsbi;, at which tiai.;
ladies used it as a powder to paint, them
selves with. . During the reign of Wi!ii;-m
and Mary an act wa pissed encouraging tin
manufacture of spirits. In the loth century
distilled spirits rpread over the continent of
Europe, and was also introduced in the Col
onies, as the United States were then called.
The first notice we have: of its use in public
life was amon the laborers in the II'i!ig;:ri:'ii
mines in the 1.3 th century.. In 17.31, it wls
used by the English soldiers as a cordial.
The Alcohol in Europe was made of grapes,
and sold in Italy and Spain as a .medicine.
The Genoese afterwards made it from grain,
and sold it as medicines in bottler , under ih i
rame of the water of lite. Until the sixteenth
century it had only been kept by npoths-carh-a
rs medicine. During the reign of j Henry
V.H., brandy was unknown in Ire!:: rid Si.d
soon its alarmingclFect induced the govern
ment to pass a law prohibiting lis nianuf;:: -r
ture.
l'ltOSrlllTtS
FOR A TAPER TO Eli 1'CBI.ISIIED IN BALPISt:, TO DR CALI.LD
THIS LIVE GIRAFFE.
i
COME folks think it a great thiug. wIkii i'iv
can say that thy i;e "seen tlie e'epliai.t ;"
and it is true that tho sight of t his 'twi tailed i xy
ster' has cost many a green '"!, a rifc'htfPiHit (i!e;
but what is the sight of his huge aiihtialshiji,
derous, clum.y and uncouth, compared i'h Hie
(loan litiibs, erect form nliJ model pr.'ionic.'iis f
The Giraffe And 'tis not every one thai ( it n
boast of -having ever seen one of our royal family
we mean a real lice one. Home may have se-u
an effigy of our graceful self, Uuf'cd a rid even
for tha-, "they had to pay a quarter or a halfj This
advertisement, then, is to let "a ihe world, and h i : f
Nantucket" know, that a Simon pure, Hi e Girn:h ,
intends to locate himself in the "City of Uak'
where he hopes to rear a mini rou progeny, and
submit them for inspection lo ihe- "gaze of an ad
miring world." j
The undersigned propo'es to puMUh a wee k'y
paprr in this city, on a medium sheet, with new
lypes, press and Ink! of the above title rV:,
rare and Sjricij," lo be what its name Lcimte ,
"lofty" in its atlitude and proud and noble in i;-t
bearing. No vulgarftrariHs of a "John Donkey,"
or the Feme'css chattering of a "Baboon," or th-
shrill disagreer.ble noise of ihe rough, nngallant
"elephant," cr tlie fence-rail peregrination of a,
poisonous "Scorpion," or tlie back-biting i-lang of
a 'fattier," shall find a place in its coluiriiis.-i-The
Giraffe shall fetand '-tail," above the grovel
lings of vulgarity, abuse an ) cl tunny ", its "Jiih"
aim shall be to elevate, edify and amuse and in
endeavoring to accomplish these pretensions, hi!-'
we shall si mMimes be very "sharp" ami "pointed"
in our remarks, yet so "keeii"iiiiiJ''polislieil'Im!l
I e the "b'ade" with which we make the incision,
that the -patient" shi.l! not feel the '-knife" in
a word, where we find ihe use of the '-steel" ne
cess i ry, the subject shall be so com pi tcdy lu'.ltd
under the Cholirofurm of good bropding and: inof
fensive, humorous wit, that he shall arise from ihe
operation in a delirium of delight. 1
And Ihe Ladi.'s (Heaven save 'em!) need art
fear us. L-t them look at our graceful, delicaie
form, and Ihey will at once see a firm, fast friend,
with an "ankle," so neat and can. that any cf
them might envy; a '-neck and shoulders" that put
to the b'ush any ball mom goddess, and a '-dress, '
which for beauty of spots, colors and glossiness of
texture, far outshining all your ilk, brilliancies.
&c. They need not be ashamed to be found in our
company. Nothing that can call the crimson tinge
to the most modest cheek, shall disgrace our un
sullied name, but sparkling wit, lively repartee,
ihe innocent jest and amusing story, sli: ll form an
agreeable compound. And being something of a
"star-gazer," and possessing a propensity to "soar
into the clouds," we shall, from our near proximity
to their' sphere, woo the -'gentle Nine" for some of
their sweet strains, with which to captivate; h ml
entertain our fair readers. In a word, we shall al
ways cause a fluttering of "riha nds" a;i! a snap
pingof "coroct-striugs," at each regular woekly
visi". ' i
' The Giraffe" shall be made a graceful and
welcome visitor, lo all who "aspiie".lo cultivate
its acquainlance, and though carryirg a "high
hrad"and rather "aristocratic" demeanor, it will
not get "above itself," but will always remcniU r
that its home is on this 'muudame sphere," and
shape its courseaccordingly ; and though so"l"fiy "
as to scenl the pure IrePBcs a Uiey first cone down
from heaven, yet it will even endeavor to gather
around it the cents which gives it life and vi'or .
And on no occasion shall we "come the Giraffe"
over our patrons, by doing more or less than we
here promlao. -
To drop imile The Gin afFe is to he a lively ,
sparkling innocent family paper devoted to(f:er
ilig things ;igil) Ihe cultivation of mora lit', irtue
ami ail "the social qualities tl at adorn the hear),
and give zest, piquancy and happiness to life
Vice in all its form., shall icceive from its column-,
a stern rebuke and an unyielding frown, whilst
mirth, jovially and genteel and innocent amuse
ment, will find an unflinching advocate. As; we
said at ihe onset, it shall be rich, rare and spicy ;
seeking to secure the smiles nnd p. nonage ol the
virtuo;i9 and the good, aud to tear from the path of
morosenoss and fanaticism, the hydra-headed m-r-stera
of 'enthusiasm," and encourace the lively ex
ercise of the gay and jovial propensiiief with which
nature's god has endowed his creatures. j
We shall present every week, an original 'en.
graving, or caricature, rresh from the pencil of iht
Artist, to illustrate some tale, or expose the dtiing.
about our town, or that ol our sister town. j
First number will appear in January. j
Terms. Two Dollars per annum, payable, i.-i
adrao. Post inaslers will biise el a cur
Agent, and solicit subscribers when concciiienl
for which service, we will furwarJ Ihe paper, nnd
allow 10 per cent, on all vmwijs thev may collect.
V. WHITAKER, Editor and' Proprietor,
Ral3t -h, Dec. 1851.