The Georgia weekly. (Greenville, Ga.) 1861-186?, February 06, 1861, Image 1

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VOL. I. Orijc (ScovQici llhckly, DKVOTED TO Literature and Gcncial Information, WM. HENRY PECK, " Editor mid Proprietor . PUBLISHED EVERY WEDNESDAY, UY PECK & EIN Es. TERMS, INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE : Single copy, per annum s 2 ' oo ' AilvV'f tieuu 1 uts inserted at $1 a square ••0f ,12 lines, for one insertion, and 50 cents for - each subsequent insertion. A liberal deduction nude to those who advertise by the year. The Churn. In the dairy, coo! and airy, Stands the farmer's daughter churning ; Her cheeks are all aglow, With health, from labor, burning j Her ruddy arms are bare, In a snood ber flaxen hair, Round her brimming pans of milk, And her gown—'tis not of silk Is tucked beneath her apron, Clean and snowy white : And while the staff is duelling Up and down, incessant splashing, In unison with band and foot She sings with spirit light. <l Come, Sally 1 take a torn’ At the oh) wooden churn. And quit your novel reading, Nor tbiuk yourself a queen ; You're more like .-illy Nancy, ■Who lived on airy fancy, An! (fled in single wretchedness, In poverty 1 ween. a Here. Mary! in the dairy Is \our proper place, toy bonny lass, An hoar and more you’ve stood before That flatterer false, me lo.iiiug-gia.-s.; So'couie 1 take a turn at the b g wooden churn ’Twill lend your face a glow and grace That paint cannot impart ; Ar.d while the staff is dashing Up and down, incessant splashing, ”1 vili set your eyes >■ flashing, fill ev< ry look's a dart You'll lose (flat sobbing, sighing, Tnai pallid look of dying, ’Twill send the ruddy current Heating time from out your heart. “Come, hasten, sister Anna! Slop a-pokiiding that pu.uu ! Poor broken-hearted instrument, ’Tis ever out ot tune: So cease your useless jiggin, Aid bring the can anti ptggm, To bold the. luscious butte, milk That a ill be ready soon ; lifjitfo: Asa ■ thrashing, . * And father’s witli_tfcw ploughs; Mother supper’s getting, And Kite’s the table setting, So h t us get the cburiiine 'lone Kre in Iking of the cor a. ' A'd we’ll take a turn At tlie b g wooden ebu'u : Tho' ’tis an ancient insiruno ut, Tis never out of time. And sing whil we’re dashing, Pia-h. plaati, plash, plashing, A 'ively lav, and bang awey, We ll bring the Imuertoou. The Poisoned Almond, BY WILLIAM HENRY PECK. The vaunting hosts of England had fled, smitten and shattered, from the fatal rifles of the Americans, blazing under the eagle eye of the immortal Andrew Jackson, and the glad tidings bad leaped from the red field of battle to the anxious hearts of the citizens of New Orleans ; and as night came down upon tlie rescued city, the glare of huge bonfires, the flashing of dancing torches and the glitter of innumerable lamps, with jubilant shouts, erics and exultant laughter, that met eye and ear at every turn, betokened the vic tor’s triumph. The humble home of the Artisan, and the proud mansion of the rich, alike shone with the light and resounded with sounds of joy.' But no home was so gay and resplendent as that of the wealthy and. hospitable Robert Dainemert; whose twin-born sons had that day, and ever since the landing of the foe, been foremost in tne battle, and who were now* fresh .from victory to see their only sister wedded to William Avert, a young and distinguished captain of the Ten nessee rifles. Long before Packenham gave his soldiers .the bandit watchword of “ Booty and Beauty,” William Avern and Clara Dainemert had pledged their vows; and their loves having gained the willing consent of Gen. Robert, the day that should see them united had been fbted upon, and that day was the Bth of January.— Tnough when the time was appointed, none dreamed that it was a day of bat tle. Honored and unscathed the young Tennesseean had ridden from the field as the enemy turned in defeat and dismay, and with old white-haired Dainemert and his warrior boys, had hastened to bear the happy news to mother, sister and betrothed. “ She shall be yours this night, my dear William,” said the old general, as they drew rein before his house on Toulouse street. “ What happier date for a marriage anniversary than that which shall be a matron’s pride. Ha! the good news is before us,” he con fined, as his wife and daughter sprang from the house to greet them. “ Thank Heaven you have all re turned safe in life and limb,” was the exclamation of the wife and mother, as she embraced her husband and sons. “ Thank the God ctf battles that he has given our country the victory !” geboteb tor Southern literature, fto, anb general Information. GREENVILLE, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 6, 18CX. was the response of the stout old pa triot, who had seen the same foe flying from the muskets that rattled along Bunker Ililt many years before. The lovers uttered not a word, but the beaming of their eyes spoke volumes of mutual happiness. But if the joy of the lovers found no tongue, the clamorous and hearty shouts of the ebon-visaged servants, clustering around with eager faces, that shone in the torchlight, made am ple a mends, v “I have a promise to fulfil,” said the general, “ and we must invite our ! friends as fast as legs oan carry mes sages. “ William is to wed Clara this night. Come, wife, you are nimble with the pen—run, write to those who stand upon etiquette, and hurry ver bal invitations to the rest. Send for your brideinaids, Clara, my sons shall be your groomsmen, William. I would that your father were alive to see this happy day—but he fell like a patriot at Lundy’s Lane, as did your grandfather at Monmouth. You spring from a race of soldiers my dear boy, and this campaign has proved you worthy of your descent.” This was spoken us the general led the wav into his parlor, and every word was heard by* a dark faced and haugh ty young man, who rose from a sofa as they entered. “ Well, nephew, we won the fight, and Huron St. Maur was not there,” said tlie general, with a severe glance as the young man met his eye. “ Huron St. Maur when taken pris oner at Detroit,” replied his nephew, j “pledged his word not to bear arms against England during this war. But , my heart was with you all, Uncle.” “ If I had been at Detroit,” retorted the old patriot, “ Hull had died by my hand before he should have disgraced tlie name iie won in the Revolution ; and if 1 laid been Huron St. Maur id . remained a captive rather than accept liberty with my sword in limbo But make ready, my boys, for the wedding. Be happy while you can, for the Brit on is a tough dog, and may give us • So teir. : .g.'lii. nnoie old soldier has- tened to change his dress and scatter his orders, while his sous with William Avern hurried to their apartments to exchange their war staiqgd garb for garments befitting the occasion. Huron Bt. Maur, a coward in heart, villian in mind, had. as he said, given his parole at Detroit—given it before the dutaid Hull disgraced the Ameri can at tens, with a bloodless surrender, to an inferior force ; for .Huron St. Maur was traitor as well as poltroon. He had long loved his cousin Clara, both for the wealth that- would he hers, and for her lovely person. He was the son of the general’s youngest sis ter, and bis father had been a French officer, who served under Las ayette. Both father and mother sprung from a brave and warlike line, hut theofin had inherited none of their nobler traits. A shrewd schemer, a cowardly plotter, and a selfish, unscrupulous man, Hu ron St. Maur had lived thirty years, atid not done one worthy deed. The name Hud influence ot his uncle had obtained for him a captain’s commis sion, but the tap of the drum, and the fume of gunpowder always drove his watery blood from his cheeks. Glad to forsake the field for the carpet, he had returned to his uncle’s to push his suit for the heart and hand of Clara Dainemert. But he met blank repulse, for both were already pledged to the brave and handsome William Avern, a young man of noble character, good descent, apd rising fame. Had he dared, Huron St. Maur would have fought nis rival for the prize, but his craven soul instinctively shrank from a combat with the young Tennesseean: St. Maur had already enough wealth to content any but a mercenary spirit, but grasping eagerly for more, and in fatuated with the beauty of his cousin, he would have sold his salvation to call her and her fortune his own. When left by his uncle in the parlor, as I have related, he hurried from the house with a throbbing heart and burning brain. He had. not dreamed that the marriage was to be sosudden, and all that day he had prayed to the evil spirits he worshiped to guide lead and steel to the heart of his rival.— Now he saw him returned triumphant —a victor and a bridegroom. lie hastened to do what his wicked mind had long been plotting. Ere many minutes had passed he stood in the private office of an Italian apothecary and chemist, a dastard who would have taken a thousand human lives, for as many gold pieces, if no danger of de tection should menace him ; a lean and withered old miser, who looked upon all mankind as so many vermin, deem ing gold the only valuable thing on earth. So said report, and Huron be lieved it. Who can explain the insan ity of such avarice, for Carlo Berbi made no use of his wealth, save- to gloat over it in grim solitude ? “ I have come for the almond,” said Huron, as the chemist raised his small black eyes to his. “ Have you brought the price, young man ?” Huron threw a purse upon the ta ble. Carlo counted out the yellow coins, one by one, trying the weight and ring of each, until no had num bered a hundred. “Right,” said he, as he swept them into his pouch, and stowed that in his bosom. “ I only wish I <#uid sell a sack of double almoqds at that price, —ssoo a nut !” Carlo Berbi then produced a large almond, neatly halved, and containing twin kernels, one of which was chipped at eacii end. “ Whoever swallows this,” said the Italian holding up the marked alinond, “does himself.no harm ; but I would not be he who shall eat the other. — Do not make a mistake.” “ Never fear,*” said Huron, as the chemist glued the halves nicely to getlier. “ But how long does it take to effect its purpose?” “ Three hours—and leaves no trace, my young friend. You ordered this to he made ready three weefts ago, and as you have not called foi'it I began to think your courage had failed.” i “ The time had not arrived,” said Huron, as lie placed the almond iruJtS vest. “But tell me, old man, Lave, we not met before?” S j “Where? until three weeks si.n-cs?”j “In Italy, where I lived some five) years ago. There is an air —a tone in) your voice that reminds me of some j one 1 once knew in Rome,” said j Huron. “ All! I had a relative there; per-; haps you knew her,” said Carlo,- gaz ing sharply into his face. “ She was very beautiful, all said, and ber name was Bianca, the Flower Girl.” Huron St. Maur grew ashy pale;, but in a moment lie replied: “ I have seen her; what has become of her?” “ She is dead ! She gave her love to some young and heatless- villiun.— : He deserted her.; and ahe died- Bqmj "' veTiri-j 11 ITS? 1 Will; 1 " ane UiW troyer of her young life was a Gcni.au count, v I have heard. He had left Rome three or four'years before Bi anca died in ray arms. I wish I could find the scoundrel. So loug as Biam a lived she blessed him; but now that | she is no more. I think that I would j give all my gold to take an' Italian’s j vengeance.” “And justly, too,” said Huron— “the reprobate! Well trood, night.” “Good night, my young friend. Do not eat the unmarked aluiond.” “ Not I, indeed,” laughed the heartless Huron, as he turned and sped rapidly away. When he again stood in his uncle’s house it was thronged with guests, among whom he soon was scattering jest and compliment. ♦ ; “Ha !” said hjf old uncle, as he met him near tjje centre of the main parlor, “ you #e a»laggard again. — Absent from the jkld, and tardy at the wedding. Wifflam and Clara be came man and wife ju.vt five minutes, since.” “ I claim a kiss from the bride,” said Huron, as he saluted the new made wife s and then grasped the hand of the happy husband. “ I wish you a hundred years of mutual joy, Cousin Clara—and you, too, William,”,said he, with smiling lips and devil’s heart ; and all that jubilant evening—who so gay as Hu ron St. Maur? At length the festive rime came on, and sparkling wine and wit, over frosted cake and dainty viands,'ruled the hour. Theu said Huron St. Matfff as he filled a plate with almonds: “ Come, Cousin Will—since we are newly-made kinsmen, eat a Philopoe l na with me; and who loses shall for feit to the bride.” “ Agreed,” laughed the joyous bridegroom, “ Seek a double almond.” “ Ah ! I am sure I have one here,” said Huron, crushing the almond for which he had paid in gold. “This is yours—now ! we eat together and for feit singly.” All unsuspecting the gallant young warrior, nearer death than when Brit ish bullets had fanned his manly cheek that morn, ate the unmarked aluiond ; kernel, while the Judas betraying with : a kiss, half unconscious of the pet, -eo fierce- were the guilty throbbings' of his heart, swallowed tha other kera^l.. Two hours after, when Huron stood aloof watching the bride and her spouse as they moved in grace and joy. in the lively dance, a servant ap proached and told him someone wish' ed to see him at the street door, llu .ron impatiently followed the call, for' he hoped to see that handsome face grow deadly pale, that manly form re lax in sudden death, and to hear the crash of his rival’s fall, at the very feet of his blooming, blushing bride. He found Carlo Berbi at the door. “ You did not eat the unmarked kernel?” asked the old Italian ea gerly. “No—l ate the one chipped at the ends,” replied the traitor. “It is well,” said Carlo. “Now go read this,” and as he spoke, he placed a. billet in Huron’s hand, and hurried away. Carelessly, for his mind was upon the bridegroom, Huron St. Maur opened the door as he entered the par lors again, and read these words : .>•* With Ihb last iiLuca told Die the . •fcwut! of ties troyer., < bb'e knew noi what she said, for delirium ruled her speech. She said the true name of tlie pretended German Qount was Huron St. Maur, of New Orleans. 1 sought that villian—l found him in you— your likeness so long worn upon the bosom of j Bianca, guided me in my search—Bianca is ' avenged, tor Huron St. Maur shall not live to 3ee to-morrow’s sun. He has swallowed the poisoned almond 1 Bianca’s Father ” j Ilow pale, how ghastly looked Hu ron St. Maur then ! What sight so j pitiable iis the traitor strangled by nis own treachery. He said not a word, j % fled to the house of the chemist; tlie door was barred —he clamored in vain.. When the next day came, the • corpse of Huron St. Maur, lay cold 1 amPStark upon the ground, and the 1 lcUxg' icy hand grasped, revealed thflpiystery. Bianca's Yather was never seen more in the Crescent City. His task was Rohe. , (Written for the Georgia Weekly.) I- \ K ,TIS mkS. BY AQ£BUK V HAYS TALBOT. Where-i- K.itie—my beloved Who has shared my joys anti pain? Ab, I oiiss thee, -Ktktie De&s. Sli.dl i ne'er meet thee again ? Katife’s only gone"before. Oft I liflttfn'for ihy cojnrbg, For thy footsteps ‘mid the gloomy " Vainly tho’, for you are sleeping *»'' lu the lonely, silent tomb. Katie's only gone before. Thou, who know’st every sorrow Os lity’s dark and toilsome wrj, / Lead iu duty's furrow Onvv'ifrd to the.perfect day— With'.her who’s gone bofore. For mv breast is oft rehelJitmSj —•? Farther from the mount of God. * Kittie's only gone before. But I #ill onward press, and upward, \ 1 *iil turn 'aside no more, For K*;ie I>* ua Jjas not perished, Sh*' inis ouly go tup before,' Katie’s only gonthbefore. Mountain JUp- liH>l. Shrink’s Island, The ship which bore me from New Zealand, was tho smallest craft, 1 be believe, that had ever made the jour ney ; and the skipper, Abel Shrink, the smallest man that ever had com mand of a cockle-shell on the high seas. Whether he bud been made for the ship, or the ship for him, is a mat ter of uncertainty ; but they matched each other admirably well—were both uaubereaky in the joints, and black with tar. There was a very small crew—l don’t think half a-dozen alto gether—to the “Naiad,” as the ship was called, ami I was the only passen ger ou board. The “Nai’d” traded in iv variety of goods, and made no boast of its accommodation for passengers ; which was frank and open, and de ceived nobody. Skipper Shrink did not lay himself out for passengers, but I was' anxious to reach home, and Shrink never turned away a chance of a sixpence. Not having long enjoyed the pleas ure of that gentleman’s acquaintance, there was nothing remarkable iu being puzzled with him ; but when the crew began to be doubtful of the skipper’s movements, and the sailors to mutter “damnation” on their eyes and limbs "Ts they could make it out, it was time to grow curious concerning him. Pos sessing no knowledge of navigation, I i was perfectly content for a time with ! the consciousness of the ship’s move meat; but- when, after four or five ] week’s sail, one man swore we had been | exactly in the same latitude three - weeks, ray misgivings concerning Skip per Shrink's sanity began to strength -1 eu. i Having more time on my hands than | the small crew—though what they did ‘ to occupy their minds, save pulling a I rope, now and then, is doubtful—l set myself a task of keeping a quiet look out on skipper Shrink. I accustomed myself to read a great deal on dock, : and Shrink, who had long since set me down a milk-sop, took little notice Lp? me. I observed that he was al f’ways busy with a telescope: that ev ery spare moment of his time lie was . standing on a coil of rope, or on a pail turned bottom side upwards on deck, 1 or else curled up in the rigging, look ing out to sea. with great intentness. Sometimes he would exchange a few w.ords with the mate, a black-bearded, Blueskin kind of person, I had never taken kindly to ; but in most cases he prosecuted nis studies alone, looking through his telescope, or drawing ex : traordinary diagrams on the palm of his hand with a lead pencil, and lick ing' them carefully out again, when they did not seem to please him. So weeks went on at this game, and the ship, as I learned afterward, wander ed about the high seas in a very ec centric fashion, and went every way but the right. The secret came out at last in an odd manner. We had been two months away frojn New Zealand, and I was still reflecting on the littleness ' of humanity, compared with that im j mensity of sea and sky which shuts us 1 in between' thfcm, a tiriy speck to be blotted out at any instant, and nobody the wiser. It was mid-day, and I had been indulging in one of my old naps, when the harsh voice of skipper Shrink woke me with a start. “By the Lud, there’s one at last, Marks! By the Lud, we’ve got it! Take the bearings —hold the glass— look at the compass —by the Lud, our blessed fortune’s made!” “ Hush!” cried Marks, looking quic klf around, I had presence of mind to shut my eyes again, and snore on peacefully. “It’s all right,” said Shrink, iri a husky whisper, “he’s sound asleep ; he always goes to sleep about this time, the fool! Bang in the sun, blis ter him !” lie ran to the compass pored over it some time, scrawled out some hierog lyphics in a dog’s-eared note-book, sprung at Marks, snatched the teles cope from his hands, danced frantical ly about the deck, ran to the hold and listened, and came back to Marks again. “ Sixty thousand pounds, Marks— nearly a hundred thousand, perhaps — you and I gentlemen for life, when we come back this way ! A real seal is land ! I can see them flipping abaut like mad, hundreds of seals. And there they’ll be till we fetch them, and weigh all the heavier and increase their blessed blubber, and their blessed families, and all for you and me Marks.” “ Ah!” said Marks, drawing a deep breath, and rubbing one hand bverjflm > iwl ini,i <mm»> mm . ii" < “Old Bones made his fortune Hot* way, Marks ; he looked the' latitude and longitude quietly as we might, (fid his voyage, and came back with every thing suitable, and made heaps of money, and we’re as lucky as Bones, and that’s Shrink’s Island, by “ The less said about it the better, now,” growled Marks, who was of a taciturn nature, and able to master his emotions. “ You’re right, Marks ; you’re al ways right. Mum’s the word.” Two of the men came on deck at this juucture; the skipper and the mate separated, and, a few minutes af terwards, Shrink was ordering all sail up, and taking advantage of a stiff breeze, away we went, and left the is and many miles behind us. Time passed on, and there was no more idling it; Shi ink cursed every slackness of wind, and every intensity of wiild that blew u3 the wrong way, and prayed for fine weather and a quick journey, like an angel as he wasu’t. Time upset one man’s calcu lations too, very strangely. Marks was taken ill and died. A queer ill ness, with lots of queer pains, that made me rather suspicious of foul play from Shrink. Still, Shrink was very much cut up at his loss, and perhaps I am doing the man an injustice in that respect, remembering ail that hap pened afterwards. So Marks was sewed up in canvass and pitched over board, and the fate of him and his hopes strongly reminded me of foul dealing, as he sank in the deep wa ter. So Shrink read the burial service over him, and cursed all the hard words. We had been three months at sea, and I had wearied and addled my brain by thinking of the skipper’s luck, and how some men come to grief, and others to seal-islands. Ponder ing on the same topic one breezy morn ing, when the ship was suffering from staggers, 1 came upon the skipper fighting against the wind, and deep in calculation. Shrink had the advantage I of me in tlie matter of sea legs, and I : was compelled to hang by ropes, and hold by the side of the vessel, to keep ion my legs at all. Consequently, as I slowly made my way along the deck, I might have presented rather a skulk ing appearance had the skipper glanced in my direction. But Shrink had his note-book onen, and his hands were full of which the wind rustled and blew about. His old hat was wedg ed on his forehead, while the ship was lurching frightfully, and the salt water was splashing over the deck, and he had several things upon his mind that kept his thoughts distracted. Now and then I observed that he crumpled the papers in one hand, and scrawled on them as well as he could with a lead pencil; that he swore occasion ally and stamped with his feet, and once burst into a screeching laugh of triumph that curdled every drop of blood in my body. I might have been watching him, and yet I was thinking of my heritage and my sister in Eng land, and had no felonious thoughts in mind, when an oath of uncommon vol ume, followed by a madman’s yell, made me execute a nervous leap in the air. The wind had blown half a dozen papers out of Shrink’s hands, and they were whisking about the deck in half a dozen different directions, with Shrink leaping and tumbling after them, and trying to catch them all at once. But the skipper was not übi quitous, and one paper was blown be hind him, another into the boat, one was stopped by my feet, and two whirled out to sea and were never heard of more. Instinctively I stop ped and picked up a paper for the skipper, almost unconsciously glancing at the one line written on it—“Shrink’s Island. Lat. 12 deg. 4 min. 17 sec. N., Long. 97 deg. 37 min. 30 sec. E.” I mention these figures to make up. my story. lam certain that they are in correct, hut they are as near the mark as my memory will allow. At the time of which I write the true figures sank at once into my brain, and be came fixed there as for some wise pur pose. I had not time to take a second glance before the skipper’s hand had snatched the paper from me, and the skipper, with eyes like balls of fire, was dancing round me and gesticula ting violently. “ What have you seen ? What have you read ? What did you touch the paper for ? I’ll murder you ! I’ll heave you overboard, by !” And then followed a string of the fiercest expletives I had even heard him in dulge in; and his great, bony hands opened and shut, and came nearer iny throat every moment. “ Keep back, Mr. Shrink,” I cried. “ I don’t know what reason you have for this conduct; there’s nothing I have seen in your papers that’s com prehensible to me. I can’t under stand your conduct sir.” This was not strictly the truth, hut [when a man’s within an ace of being Tule. At least, 1 was'Tor tlilire was little of the hero in me. “You’ve seen the figures !” “ I certainly saw some figures—a string of figures. What of, that ?” “ Nothing,” he grunted, thrashing the paper into his trousers pocket, wheeling round, scuttling oft’ after the rest, and threatening to split my fool’s head open if I moved, llecove' ng the majority of his papers, he came tqu, my side with quite a bland expression of countenance. “A man’s a bit_, rough whet, he's riled,” said he, half apologetic.illy. “ Y'ou mustn’t mind a row in those times. The papers are worth nothing—only old washing bills, hut they might have been bank-notes, for that matter. I did’nt know at the moment, o’ course. Y'ou couldn’t ha" read the figures in the time, if they had been worth anything, eh?” “ Not very likely.” Shrink walked away relieved in mind, and I was left to mutter to my self, “ Lat. 12 deg. 4 min. 17 sec. N., Long. 97 deg. 37 min. 30 sec. E.” Still the skipper had his suspicions of me ; they could not be shaken off by a man who was born suspicious of his mother, and who would possibly die distrustful of the doctor. The way that man dogged me about, and har rassed me to death with questions, and put one or two of the figures to me suddenly, in an attempt to throw me off my guard, was wearisome and try ing to my nerves. I knew Shrink was doubtful of me, and knowing more myself than he perhaps gave me it for, I felt rather insecure on the high seas beneath that man’s murder ous glances. I took the trouble to load an old pistol of mine, and sleep with it under my pillow, in the ragged old hammock where every night I fought so hard for sleep. 1 felt 1 was in danger, and that un&wares, some day or night, skipper Shrisk.-might make an end of me. I thou&ht -of Marks, and the sudden manner in which he took his leave of society, : and I was very careful in my food and i drink, and made advances to the crew, and offered wondrous treats in rum when the journey was over, and my native land was under my feet. I on ly wanted to reach home; I did not care for seal islands, o? believe in their existence; I would be content with the little shop and the forty gold en pounds that were to set me up in life. Shrink was a great visionary; let him be even the most practical of men, his business was not my business, and I had no right to interfere with it. How well I remember the night I thought of this most, and lay in my hammock, tossing from one side to an other, till I tossed my brains into con fusion, and confounded things hope lessly. How the seal island mixed it self with home matters, and Shrink was married to*my sister, and selling seal-skins in Seven Dials j and how NO. 1.