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In the evening, the bugles at Clarence sounded an alarm, in consequence of the flames of some burning brush-wood accidentally communicating with one of the huts. It was fortunately soon extinguished, without any serious injury having been sustained. Monday, Dec. 17.
But my noble patron, eternal as the heroic swell of magnanimity, and the generous throb of benevolence, shall look on with princely eye at "the war of elements, the wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds." XXXIII.-To SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. EDINBURGH, 1st Dec. 1786. SIR, Mr.
The whole scheme disappeared when the surplus vanished; but from year to year small appropriations were made for the Cumberland road, so that up to 1812 more than $200,000 had been expended upon it. Calhoun, therefore, came forward, Dec. 23, 1816 with a bill proposing that this sum be employed as a fund "for constructing roads and canals and improving the navigation of watercourses."
These documents coupled with the decree of Dec. 1822, awarding the above confiscations to the captors shew so clearly the right of the squadron's claim, and the injustice of the course pursued by the prize tribunal at Rio de Janeiro, in refusing to adjudge Portuguese property to the captors, that further comment is unnecessary.
He is 26 years of age, 5 feet 10 inches high, has a scar on his forehead, caused by a blow, and one on his back, MADE BY A SHOT FROM A PISTOL." In the "New Orleans Bee," Dec. 21, 1838, Mrs. BURVANT, whose residence is at the corner of Chartres and Toulouse streets, advertises a woman as follows: "Ranaway, a negro woman named Rachel has lost all her toes except the large one."
"Kill them, sir! kill every man!" was the reply of the stern soldier who but just now, with words of tender sympathy and Christian hope, had bade farewell to his dying comrade. Dec. 14. But on December 14, as on the morrow of Sharpsburg, the Confederates were doomed to disappointment.
You come out of the dust and the stench of melinite, not knowing where you were, hardly knowing whether you were hit only knowing that the next was rushing on its way. No eyes to see it, no limbs to escape, no bulwark to protect, no army to avenge. You squirm between iron fingers. Nothing to do but endure. LADYSMITH, Dec. 6. "There goes that stinker on Gun Hill," said the captain.
Here, then, after a long and tedious search I have no doubt the fellow earned his money is what he got from New York, this morning." The Hon. Mr. Snivel, fixing his eye steadily upon her, hands her a letter which reads thus: "NEW YORK, Dec. 14th, 18 .
Thus far I have given the historical outline of the story; but if we look into Victor Hugo's "Histoire d'un Crime," and disentangle its facts from its hysterics, we may receive from his personal narrative a vivid idea of what passed in Paris from the night of Dec. 1, 1851, to the evening of December 4, when all was over.
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