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YOL. I.
sl)e (Georgia tDeeklg,
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t, , • ■ ■ ———_
Talk with the Sea.
I said with a rnoar, as 1 roamed alone,
By the side of the solemn sea—
-Jt Ob, cast Rt my feet, which the billows meet,
• Some token to comfort me.
’Mid the surges cold, a ring of gold
•{ have lost, vith an amethyst bright,
.Thou hitst locked it so long in thy casket strong,
That the rust must have quenched its light.
"Send a gift, I pray, on thy pheeti and spray,
To solace my drooping mind,
For I'm sad and grieve, and ere long must leave
This rolling globe behind.”
Then the sea answered, “ Spoils are mine -
From many an argosy,
The pearl-drops sleep in my bosom deep,
But nought have I there for thee.”
"When 1 mused before, on this rock-bound shore,
Ti e beautiful walked with me ;
She has gone to her rest in her hearing breast,
Since ( s*w thee last, thou Sea!
Be st«r*% restore, the smile site wore,
Wtaeti her to mine was press* and,
G ve »«ck th voice of the fervent soul
That could lighteu the darkest hreast 1”
But the haughty Sen, in it* majesty,
Swept onward as before,
Though a surge in wrath, from its rocky path,
Shrieked out to the sornding shore—
“ Thou hast asked of our king a harder thing
Than mortal eer claimed before.
For never the wealth of loving heart
Could ocean or earth restore.
THE HANDKERCHIEF.
BV BLANCHE BRANDON
“ If you please, miss, Dick has been
at it again.” It was the staid old
coachman who spoke, as, tightening
the reins, he turned his head slowly
uv«r his *4e#fc shoulder and- Addressed
the fair young occupant of the car
riage which he drove. “If you
please, miss, Dick has been at it again
—fighting with another youngster,
miss, and nearly knocking the breath
out of his body, if my eyes don’t de
ceive me.”
“Dick is incorrigible, I’m afraid,”
replied the young lady, as she leant
fiom the carriage window and glanced
in the direction indicated by the dri
ver’s fat forefinger. “Turn your
horses that way, David, and let us see
what is the matter.”
The man obeyed, nnd in a few mo
ments came to a stond tit an angle of
the road beside the boundary of a
wide field, where the following sight
presented itself:
“ A stout, round-faced boy, in his
Blurt-sleeves, and with plenty of brown
earth upon 'his bbots, stood with clench
ed fists above a smaller lad. whose tat
tered-and dusty garments, as well as
the bundle %luch lay upon the ground
beside Karo, .seemed to bespeak tit once
st wayfarer and one,belonging to the
ancient order of poverty. This last
biry held his hand to his temple, and a
tiny scarlet ffcfears. was trickling slow
ly through'hi's.T'ong thin fingers. His
disordered hair, flushed face, and
trembling frame told of a conflict
which had been too much for his
strength; yet the angry fire in his
black eye bespoke determination and (
defianee, which, had it been matched
by a robust frame, would have render
ed the hour a sore one for the round
faced conqueror. As it was, howev
er, the strong fists had gained the as
cendancy over true courage, and their
possessor stood, with a broad grin
which revealed every inch of his red
gums, and taunted his fallen foe in
terms expressive of derision.
“Do yon want any more, eh?” he
pried, “Would you like to try it
again ? I told you I’d lick three of
you with one hand tied behind me,
and I’d do it, too Beg your par
don, miss,” he interrupted himself, as
he, for the first time, perceived the
carriage, which had made little noise
upon the soft, dusty road. “Beg
yuur pardon, miss—l could’nt help
it.” \ *
The young lady was leaning from
the window of the carriage, with her
eyes fixed upon the countenance of
the wounded lad ; and as the round
faced boy spoke she signed to him to
open the door, and, stepping out upon
the road, put her hand upon the
shoulder of the young stranger, and
said, kindly : “ Are you much hurt ?”
“ Thank you,” was the half-whis
pered answer. “ I think I must be—
I am so very weak and cold.”
“ Where are you hurt?” asked the
girl, quickly as her eye marked the
growing paleness 'of the drooping
face. The boy removed his hand from
his forehead, and revealed a long and
deep gash upon the temple,' from
which the blood was trickling profuse-
IfeMcd iff §ont|ern fittratere, Jto, aitfo facial Information.
GREENVILLE, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 27, 1861.
ly. “ Oh, Dick, Dick ! how could
you be so cruel ? See what a terrible
wound this is, and how it bleeds !”
“I’m sure, miss, I did’nt go to do
that,” said Dick, relenting; “ I only
meant to knock hitn down. He must
have hit himself agin suthin sharp.—
Oh Lord! how white he’s getting.”
“ This blood must be stopped,” said
the young lady, and drawing a hand
kerchief from her pocket as she spoke,
she put back the black tresses and
knotted it about the poor lad’s fore
head. He looked «p ai her when she
had finished, muttered a faint “ God
bless you !” and strove to press a rev
erential kiss upon her snowy fingers,
but in the very action fainted.
Poor Dick, beside himself with
horror, believed him to be dead, and
in a misery of fear and penitence
wallowed in the dust and groaned.
In obedience to his young mistress’
orders, David lifted the inanimate
form of the wounded boy to the soft
cushions of the carriage and drove
homeward—Dick running behind,
venting bis remorse in unearthly bel
lowing, while the beautiful lady bent
above the ragged wayfarer, and, with
her jeweled fingers, put back the
damp black tresses from his mouth
and listened for his breathing.
When the poor boy’s eyes were
opened in returning conciousness, he !
found himself upon a snowy couch, I
with the pure high-born face on which j
tliejT had last rested bending above
him still.
His name was Edmund Weldon, so ■
he said, when he bad strength to speak, j
and he could remember father
nor mother, for he had been picked up
from the fragments of a wreck, when
yet a little babe, by some poor fisher
men. He had travelled far in search
of employment, and was weary, dis
heartened, and penniless. This was
his tale, and glad he seemed to be
when good old Mr. Marshall, the
father of his young patroness, told him
that he should have a home and em
ployment in his service when he was
well and strong once more.
The young' lady, when once satis
fied of the boys safety, saw very little
of hitn. Their paths lay wide apart,
and it w r as only when he sprang for
ward to open the carriage door, or
doffed his liat when she passed him in
the garden path, that they ever met.—
Yet when the summer day was done,
and Clara Marshall sat singing and
playing in the twilight, the boy whom
she had picked from out the load side j
dust would often crouch beside the
window and listen, all unseen, to the
low voice which, to his ear, seemed
sweeter than an angel’s, arid every
night the handkerchief which she had
bound about his forehead lay folded to
his heart. And thus the time passed
on. Each day which brought the mai- j
den nearer to womanhood and made
her richer in beauty and accomplish- j
merits, removed her further from the
poor serving boy, while, as he gained
in yearsj the lowly admiration, the
reverence of his heart, grew to be
something very near akin to love. —
Upon love’s threshold ambition al
ways lingers, and soon poor Edmund,
felt a growing detestation of his posi
tion—a wish to tread some path lead
ing to fame and fortune —to he some
thing, to do something, he scarce
kngw what, which should bring him
nearer to the spot on which she stood,
shut oft' from him by the impassable
barriers of wealth and station. At
last this feeling grew to he so strong
that he could not bear it any longer.
He hade adieu to those who had been
so kind to him, tied his little bundle
upon his back once more, and set off
for the great city with a strange ming
ling of regret and hope within his bo
som, over which Clara’s soft, white
handkerchief lay fondly folded.
At first the boy’s departure made
some commotion m the household, and
even Clara missed the bright face and
: the quick hands ever so ready to do
her bidding; but in time all had for
gotten, or at least had ceased to men
tion him, and even the flowers which
he had planted and the vines which
he had trained withered and faded and
were replaced by others.
This is a world of change.
Eight years from that bright sum
mer day on which he turned his steps
away from the old garden gate, Ed
mund Weldon stood once more beside
it to learn from stranger lips that old
Mr. Marshall had long been laid be
neath the churchyard sod, that the
homestead was the dwelling place of
strangers, and that Clara Marshall had
been married years before and had
gone to some part of Europe with her
husband, who was a foreigner.
All along the weary road which he
had traversed, poor Edmund had been
lighted by the hope of meeting once
more with the fair idol of. his boy
hood’s dreams —of proving to her that
he had grown worthy of her friend
ship, perhaps in time even of winning
her to be his own ; fbr his struggles
had not been in vain. Men spoke
highly of him in the profession which
he had adopted, and he was .already
on the road to fortune. Now this hope
was gone-—she was another’s! He
should nevertheless see her again. All
whiph he had done seemed well nigh
worthless. The boy of nineteen had
-Wept as he turned from that old stone
gateway; but the man of twenty-sev
en left it with a heart seared by the
burning tears he was too proud to
shed.
He went hack to hi* ******
the hope of his early life Was gone. —
Before, he had striven for the sake of
love; now, fame had grown to be his
only object—fame, when there were
no feet at which to lay his laurel
wreath, no loving eyes to smile appro
val on his efforts! Still he worked on
bravely, and three more years passed
slowly by, bringing few events or
changes to his quiet life.
Christmas Eve had come—a cold,
old-fashioned Christmas Eve. The
snow lay piled upon the ground, and
frost pictures were painted upon the
window panes.
Edmund Weldon sat alone in the
little parlor of a quiet dwelling which
he had called his own, beside a glow
ing fire, and thought upon the past —
of the hopes which had cheered him,
through so many toilsome hours—of
the bright face never to be forgotten;
though his eyes should rest on thou
sands far more beautiful. Her hand
kerchief—thaf white frail thing, which
had outlived so much—was in his bo
som still, and lie took it thence and
laid it tenderly against his cheek, as a
mother might the forehead of her
sleeping child. “ Clara, G' ara !” he
murmured. “To listen to your sweet
voice once more I would give years of
life, even though I only listened-un
seen, unc.ired, for, a* ia ;my humble
boyhood. Clara—Clara!”
Was he going mad ok had those
words evoked some spirit from the oth
er world?- Even as lie spoke, low,
clear, and distinctly fell upon his ears
a song Which he had often listened to
in those same words,
the same fnbe—Hyb, tn£ saiffe voice
which used to sing them.
! He sank upon his knees ;he listened
witn both hands pressed upon his heart
and from the. frosty stillness of the
outer air he heard the words again.—
Was she dead, and had her spirit
learned his lo.ve at last ? Or could
this be some other, voice whose mock
ing tones deceived him ?
With an effort—for a spell seemed
to be upon him—he arose, went to the
door, unbarred it, and looked out. —
There, in the midst of the softly fal
ling snow,.stood a woman’s form muf
fled in hood and shawl, and holding
a child by the hand. In the darkness
he could not see her features, but the
voice, when heard so near, was still the
same. It pierced his very soul; it
shook him from head to foot with wild
emotions, and almost without his will
the name forever at his heart rushed
to his lips, i.nd he cried, aloud i
“ Clara—Clara Marshall ?”
The woman turned anti looked at
him. “ Who calls me ?” she said,
“Who knows my dear old name ?"
He could not answer. He could
only utter over and over again that
worshipped name, as he lifted her
from the ground where she had fallen
in a death-like swoon. He bore her
to the warm fireside, and holding
that frail form still in his strong arms,
knelt down before the blaze and look
ed at her. The face was wan and
pale—its youth was gone, its beauty
failed ; but he would still have known
it for that of Clara Marshall, even
though the child’s face by her side had
not been so like that he first remem
bered bending over him when he lay
wayworn and bleeding by the road
side. How could she,nurtured in the
lap of luxury and shielded in her
childhood from the very winds of hea
ven, come to such destitution as her
garb bespoke ? By no wrong-doing
of her own, he knew well. There
were marks of suffering and of sorrow
on those features, but no sign of aught
save spotless worth and purity. As
the trembling sigh which rose upon
her lips told of returning concious
ness, he placed her in the great arm
chair, and stepping back, watched her
blue eyes open and turn upon him in
wonder.
“ You called me by my old name,"
she said, dreamily. “ You must be a
friend; and yet I cannot remember
you.”
“I am a friend,” he answered,
drawing nearer—“ one who will deem
himself only too deeply blest if he
has it in his power to serve you.”
“Yes,” she said, passing her hand
across her forehead ; “yes, I should
know you. That voice is familiar. I
have seen you before, but where I can
not tell.”
“ I have altered since we met,” said
Edmund, softly; “ and even if I had
not, the poor lad to whom you were so
kind might well have escaped your
memory, although he never has for-
gotten you. Do you remember a boy
about whose wounded temple you
bound this handkerchief twelve long
years ago ?”
The lady started to her feet.
“Edmund!” she faltered. “Can
it be possible ?”
“ Yes,” he answered, “I am Ed
mund Weldon, the wanderer whom
you rescued from starvation.”
“ It is I who am the wanderer now,"
she murmured. “Oh ! the changes,
«jfc«t-*offering «w>d the Borrow which I
have seen since then ! To-night there
was neither fire nor food in our little
dwelling, nor had there been all day.
My child was perishing, and when I
heard a ballad singer in the street,
and remembered that it was Christ
mas Eve, I thought it possible that I
too might earn something by my
voice, and, little thinking any one
would recognize it, came forth into
the streets. The light in your window
caused me to pause here, and it was
my first'; fearful essay which you
heard.” - •*> *
“ I thank-’God, who led you hither !”
he said; and it was only by a strong
effort that he kept back his tears as
he spread food and wine upon the ta- ;
ble, and .thought of the luxury and :
plenty of that home where she once ;
dweit-as mistress.
In a little while she hAd told him
all."- It was a tale of an unhappy mar
riage, of squandered fortune, deser
tion, widowhood and beggary. She |
told it in a few words and with fewer |
reproaches ; but he comprehended ev
ery scene of that sad drama, and his
soul burned with indignation as he 1
listened.
When the tale was over, he spoke
to her-quietly and earnestly, and she
wept sweet tears of thankfulness to
learn that, one act of girlish kindness
to that forlorn and wandering boy had
won a friend for her whole life in the
good and noble man who sat beside
her.
Time passed on. Clara and her
child were dwelling in a quiet home
ehe had opened a little school, and
was prosperous in her little way and
very happy. The sunny beauty of
her girlhood was creeping back into
her face, and never was that face so
.beautiful as when it raised itself to
greet the coming step of Edmund
Weldon.
Christmas Eve had come again.—
This time, ’ a bright starlit evening,
dimmed by no falling snow ; and over 1
the crisp, frosty ground, Clara and ;
Edmund walked together, arm-in arm.
They had left the village where she
dwelt, and the road which I
wound away into the country. When
they had reached a spot where two
fields met, anil whence the lighted
windowsW an ancient homestead were
plainly visible, he paused, and said,
in aiww, trembling voice:
“ Do you know this spot ?”
“Do I know it!” she answered.—
“Oh! how can I ever forget it!—
Those lights fall from the windows of
my dea,.- old home. I have trod this
path many a time, when my childish
heart never dreamt of the woe which
lay before it.”
“Here,” he said—“here, beside
this very tree, I lay once a wounded
lad, poverty-stricken and unfriended ;
here an angel bent above me in tones
of kindness which I had never heard
before. Here I have often sat think*
ing of that angel, worshipping her
from afar as the fire-worshipper adores
the sun, loving the very ground her
feet had trodden, and treasuring a
cast-off faded flower once worn with
in het'bosom as a miser does his gold !
On this night sleeping ambition first
awoke within my bosom, and prompt
ed me to strive to mount fame’s lad
derftnd grow to be a little worthier of
her esteem. Here I bent my head in
anguish when I believed that I might
never more meet with that bright be
ing who had been the main spring of
every noble thought or action of my
life ; and here, dear Clara, I ask you
for a boon worth all the world beside.
Will you love me, Clara? Will you
give me the right to shield you from
the cold blasts of this bitter world ?
Will you be the wife of the poor boy
whom you first lifted from the road
side dust ?”
' ghe did not answer, but his arms
twined about her unreproved, and her
head sank lower and lower, until it
rested on the bosom where her hand
kerchief had been folded for so many
years.
The old church-bells rang out upon
the midnight air, telling that the holy
Christinas Day had come, and to those
lovers, as they parted from each other
in the quiet moonlight, they seemed
to shower a host of blessings on those
last bright moments of their betrothal
night.
There is said to be in London 80,000
serving women, who earn barely one
dollar a week, while working inoessant
ly sixteen or seven teen hours a day.
HEARTY SUPPERS.
It was with feelings of painful dis
appointment, with perhaps some vexa
tion, that we recently read of the
death of a brother editor, whose ex
cellent monthly seldom failed of some
extract from, or kindly notice of this
Journal. He died in the very prime
of life—-not thirty-one—in the midst
of usefulness, and in the enjoyment of
usual gopd health, until within twenty
four hours of his decease. He was
an able preacher, and a fine belief let
tres scholar. He was on a journey, on
the Master's business, and died from
home. He had made up the copy for
his September issue. Two of the ar
ticles were from our August Number;
one a plea for women, the other for 1
children. So many good people loved 1
him and looked up to him ! In less
than three lines the whole story is told.
“ He travelled all day, ate in the ev
ening a hearty supper, waked up in
the morning with a headache, became
unconscious, and died at five o'clock
in the afternoon, of apoplectic dis
ease!”
Eating heartily in an exhausted, or
even in a greatly debilitated bodily
condition, is dangerous at any hour.
Many a man has fallen apoplectic, at
the close of a hearty dinner; but the
danger is greatly increased by going
to bed soon after; for the weight of
the meal, a pound or two, rests stead- j
ily on the great’veins of the body, ar
rests the flow of the blood, as a con
tinuons pressure of the foot on a hose
pipe will more or less completely stop
the flow of water along it. This ar
restment causes a damming up of blood
in the vessels of the brain, which at
length cannot longer bear the disten
sion, and burst, causing effusion there,
which is instant, sometimes, and cer
tain death always.
There is scarcely a reader, of middle
life, who has not more than once been |
nearer death than he imagined, from
this very cause. A man feels in his
sleep as if some terrible calamity was
impending, some horrible beast .UL«&a
mil'
to overwhelm him ; but, spite of evwry
effort, he cannot remove himself suffi
ciently fast; the enemy behind as in
creasing upon him ; and at length, in
an agony of sweat, he is able by a
desperate effort, to set the stream of
life in motion by uttering some'Sound,
fearful to be heard, or only saves him
self from falling into some fathomless
abyss, by a convulsive and desperate
effort. In cases where there is no
power to cry out, or no effort can be
made, the person is overtaken, or
falls and dies! Eating a hearty meal
at the close of the day, is like giving
a laboring man a full day’s wo*-k to
do, just as night sets in, although he
has been toiling all day. The whole
body is fatigued when night comes,
the stomach takes its due share, and
to eat heartily at supper, and then go
to bed, is giving all the other portions
and functions of the body repose,
while the stomach has thrown upon it
five hours more of additional labor,
after having already worked four or
five hours to dispose of breakfast, and
a still longer time for dinner. This
ten or tVelve hours of almost incessant
labor has nearly exhausted its power ;
it cannot promptly digest another full
meal, but labors at it for long hours
together, like an exhausted galley
slave at a newly-imposed task. The
rest is, that by the unnatural length ”f
time in which the food is kept in the
stomach, and the imperfect manner in
which the exhausted organ manages it,
it becomes more or less acid; this
generates wind; this distends the
stomach ; this presses itself up against
the more yielding lung.-*, confining
them to a largely diminished space;
hence every breath taken is insuffi
cient for the wants of the system, the
blood becomes foul, black and thick,
refuses to flow, and the man dies, or
in delirium or fright, leaps from a
window or commits suicide, as did
Hugh Miller, and multitudes of others
of whom the coroner’s jury has re
turned the non-committal verdict,
“ Died from causes unknown,” if not
more impiously stating, “ Died by the
visitation of God.”
Let any reader who follows an inac
tive life for the most past, try the ex
periment for a week, of eating abso
lutely nothing after a two o’clock din
ner, and see if a sounder sleep and a
more vigorous appetite for breakfast
and a hearty dinner, are not the pleas
urable results, to say nothing of the
happy deliverance from that disagree
able fulness, weight, oppression, or
acidity, which attends over-eating.—
The greater renovation and vivacity
which a long, delicious, and connected
sleep imparts, both to mind and body,
will of themselves more than compen
sate for the certainly short and rather
dubious pleasure, of eating a supper
with no special relish.— Halt s Journal
of Health.
A judge ignorant of grammar is
apt to pronounce incorrect sentence*.
CONTROL THE AFEECTIONS.
A GREAT MAN’S ADVICE TO A LADY.
It was it) the year 1758, long be
fore the War of Indepence, that Col.
Washington—as he who was to be the
founder of the American Republic
was then called—crossing on military
business a ferry of Pamunka, a branch
of the York lliver, was stopped by a
- to partake of the hospitality
oC a. Mr. GhmnVerluyne, the owner of
a domain in Virginia, where the Col’s
name was honored. The strict Wash
ington insisted on pressing forward,
but the Virginia Amphitryon would
take no denial, urging, among other
temptations, that he would introduce
his friend to a young and charming
widow, then beneath his roof. This
was a Mas. Custis, (nee Dandridge,)
aged twenty-six, who had married a
gentleman who was both a Colonel
and an eminently-successful planter.
By his premature death, Mrs. CuStis
“ found herself at once a very young,
and among the very wealthiest widows
in the colony.”
Col. Washington came to dine, and
remained to woo. He was fascinated
by the widow, and marrying her, nev
er lived to repent the step. The new
Mrs. Washington had a step-son,
whose son, Mr. George Washington
Parke Custis, is the author of certain
“ Memoirs” of the great man, just is
sued, and he and his sister were adopt
ed by Washington. This young lady,
“Nelly Custis,” when sixteen, and af
ter her first ball, had told her revered
guardian that she cared nothing for
“the youth of the present day.” The
sound and sensible advice then given
by Washington, at that time President
of the United States, to his adopted
daughter, is of universal application
to those who, as she then was, are un
engaged :
“ Love is said to be an involuntary
passion, and it is therefore contended
that it cannot be resisted. This is
true in part only, for, like all things
aiiiiKifrfrflflii .iiiffl ru to}i aDi * v* it ' 1 vd
"’’m its progress; but let these he with
j drawn, and it may be stifled in its
I birth or much stinted in its growth.—
For example, a woman (the same may
be said of the other sex,) all beautiful
; and accomplished, will, while her hand
and heart are undisposed of, turn the
I heads and set the circle in which she
moves on fire. Let her marry, anti
what is the consequence ? The mad
ness ceases and all is quiet again.—
Why ? Not because there is any dim
inution in the charms of the lady, but
because there is an end of hope.—
Hence it follows that love may, and
therefore ought to be, under the gui
dance of reason ; for although we can
not avoid first impressions, we may
assuredly place them under guard ; and
my motives for treating on the sub
ject, are to show you while you remain
Eleanor Parke Custis, spinster, and
retain the resolution to love with mod
eration—the propriety of adhering to
the latter resolution, at least until you
have secured your game, and the way
by which it may be accomplished.
“When the fire is beginning to kin
dle, and your heart growing warm,
propound these questions to it: ‘Who
is the invader ? Have Ia competent
knowledge of him ? Is he a man of
good character, a men of sense ? For,
be assured, a sensible woman can never
be happy with a fool. What has been
his walk of life? Is he a gambler,
a spendthrift, or a drunkard ? Is his
fortune sufficient to maintain me in
the manner I have been accustomed to
live, and my sisters do live; and is be
one to whom my friends can have no
reasonable objection ? If these inter
rogations can be satisfactorily answer
ed, there will be but one more to be
asked. That, however, is an impor
tant one: Have I sufficient ground to
conclude that his affections are engaged
by me ? Without this the heal tof sen
sibility will struggle against a passion
that is not reciprocated—delicacy, cus
tom, or call it by what epithet you
will, having precluded all advances on
your part. The declaration, without
the most indirect invitation by yours,
must proceed from the man to
reader it permanent and valuable; and
nothing short of good sense and an
easy, unaffected conduct, can draw the
line between prudery and coquetry.
It would be no great departure from
the truth to say that it rarely happens
otherwise than that a thorough-paced
coquette dies in celibacy, a5 a punish
ment for her attempts to mislead oth
ers, by encouraging looks, words or
actions, given for no other purpose
than to draw men on to make over
tures, that they may be rejected.”
A mother, who had brought up a
large family of children with eminent
success, was once asked by a younger
son what she would recommend in the
case of his children, who were too
carefully educated. “I think, my
dear, a little wholesome neglect,” she
replied.
NO. 4.